pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader
synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?
words ; 6.6k
themes ; action, angst, slowburn, the beginnings of romance
warnings / includes ; violence, talks of mental health, mention of jacking off, human experimentation, child abuse, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), foul language, oh no i made the void sexy!
a/n ; sorry for the wait! this was meant to be a longer part but i honestly didn't want to wait to post HAHA, but i really hope you guys like it !!! guys i've gotten so attached to xerox as an oc you have nooo idea
main masterlist. read on ao3!
listen to a xerox playlist on spotify / youtube music!
xerox's face claim :) xerox's letterboxd profile!
John’s morning started off as routinely as ever. Get out of bed at six-thirty AM sharp. Brush teeth. Stretches. Jogging. Muscle training at the gym. Scroll through hate tweets as he cools down. Shower. Then, finally, breakfast.
He made his way to the kitchen. To none of his surprise, you were already there—or a copy of you was—sitting at the farthest end of the island, completing a page of that ridiculously thick puzzle book of yours and nursing a mug of hot tea. Bob was beside you, hunched over what John spotted to be a Rubix cube. It was nearly solved.
John only grunted in response when Bob said, “Morning, Walker.”
He grabbed a box of raisin bran from the pantry (shoving aside multiple Avengers Wheaties boxes for it) and served himself a bowl. Then, when he made his way to the fridge—
“Where is the milk?” he asked, immediately turning to you two.
You didn’t bother to peer up from your book. “There was barely any left. We gave the last of it to Alpine.”
“You assholes,” John snarked. “You gave the last of my milk to the stupid cat?”
“It’s not yours,” Bob replied, defensive. “It’s for the entire team.”
“Well, what am I supposed to have with my cereal, then?” John hissed, much akin to a toddler.
“Yogurt?” Bob volunteered. “There’s Greek on the second shelf—”
“I don’t want yogurt,” Walker bit back as if Bob had just offered him mouse droppings.
This time, you looked up from your book to shoot him an unimpressed glare. “You won’t die if you skip cereal for a day. Make some toast, or something. Besides—Bob and I are going grocery shopping in a bit. We’re low on eggs, and Ava wants cucumbers. If you ask nicely… we can get you some more milk, too.”
John muttered something under his breath.
“Sorry, what was that?” you asked with a pointed look, exaggeratingly cupping a hand behind your ear. “Couldn’t quite hear you.”
“Yes, yeah, get me some milk. Jesus.”
“Magic word?” Bob asked, looking all too smug.
John scowled. The two of you were so annoying together. “Please,” he gritted out.
Both you and Bob exchanged amused glances, then returned to your devices, leaving John to pour his dry cereal back into the box and grab two slices of whole wheat bread to toast, grumbling about his ruined routine all the way.
Bob felt a little swell of pride at the bottom of his chest every time you accepted one of the fruits he’d offered you. It wasn’t like he could tell which apples were better than the rest—he was honestly just picking at random—but the ones you rejected and put back onto the piles were said to be bruised, misshapen, or squishy. All things he thought were quite normal qualities for fruit, but he trusted your fruit judgment.
“What’s wrong with the squishy ones?” Bob asked, picking up an apple you tossed to the side and inspecting its waxy red peel. He felt bad for the fruits discarded for seemingly asinine reasons.
The sour face you pulled made Bob’s heart trip over itself. “Just trust me. I had to have a lot of squishy fruit during my time in Madripoor. It either means they’re rotten, rotting, or they’ve got worms wriggling around inside.”
Bob blanched. Suddenly he didn’t feel all that bad anymore.
After all the fruits, vegetables, proteins, and generally healthier options were tossed into the cart, the two of you went on a frenzy grabbing junk food to your heart’s content: chips and sweets and frozen fried foods galore. The two of you stood in front of the vast refrigerated section full to the brim with dozens of options for ice cream.
“Raspberry s’more swirl?” Bob ventured.
You wrinkled your nose in distaste.
“What?” he asked.
“That sounds so American. And, yes, I do mean that as an insult.”
The two of you toddled out of the aisle juggling half a dozen tubs of varying flavors, none of which being the Swirly S'mores or whatever it was.
After picking up the last of what was on the list, Bob began to unload the groceries onto the conveyor belt. The cashier asked for your autograph with a nervous grin, brandishing a pen and notepad for you to scribble on. You never really bothered to come up with an autograph—you didn’t need one for the first three decades of your life, and now all of a sudden everyone around each corner of the street was asking for one. Just the other day, you gingerly signed a sweaty guy’s forehead, and the ink was already running down his face before he could turn and jog away. Ava called him a pig, and you could only pray that he was far enough not to hear.
You haphazardly scribbled XEROX in large capitol letters across the paper, hoping it would suffice. The cashier made no complaint and pocketed the autograph with a giddy air about her.
“Sorry if this is weird to ask—can you split? I’ve always wanted to see it in person.”
You blinked. Then, with a small, relenting smile, you duplicated, and your copy waved awkwardly. The cashier snapped a quick photo of you and your copy without even bothering to ask—you hadn’t even seen her whip out her phone—and you could feel Bob’s concerned eyes bore into you. You didn’t want to make it a big deal, so you silently paid for the groceries (with one of Valentina’s credit cards), bumped Bob’s shoulders with yours, and stuffed the goods into the reusable Avengers bags Alexei insisted you take with you. It was embarrassing using your own merch, but you tried not to think about it too much.
“Are you okay?” Bob asked once the two of you slipped back into the car, having loaded the food into the back. “That was…”
“Our new normal,” you sighed, pinching the space between your brows. “I mean—it’s fine, I guess. They’re just excited. I get it. My face is never getting scrubbed from the internet now, though.”
“Yeah,” Bob said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel you.”
Yesterday, Walker showed him a tiktok of the Void in the sky, crashing helicopters into buildings. Bob watched the screen with a small, shameful frown, until you tugged him away insisting that he helped you reach for a cup too high for you to reach. Of course, he knew that you were more than capable of getting it yourself, but he liked how you made him feel useful. Plus—he liked how your hand cuffed his shoulder in gratitude once he handed the cup to you.
“I love grabbing groceries with you,” he blurted out.
You glanced over at him, drumming your hands along the steering wheel. Then, you looked back at the road and smiled—the particular smile that made Bob’s insides melt like putty. “I love spending time with you too, Pal.”
Bucky Barnes didn’t care for many things. Flashy trends the new generation kept cycling through. Texting etiquette, or his lack thereof. The dozens of settings on washing machines nowadays. Ava’s propensity to phase straight through his room because it was a “short cut” to the gym.
But one thing he did care about—a considerable amount more than anything else, honestly—was his cat, Alpine.
So it took a great amount of reluctance to hand her over to you and Bob for the weekend. He had to fly out for a last minute undercover mission, and he couldn’t leave Alpine all alone in his apartment for days in a row. Usually he would leave Alpine with Sam, but the two were in a weird funk as of late.
“I don’t give her more than three pieces of Whiskers’ Delights a day,” Bucky warned, having a nagging suspicion that you weren’t really listening to him. “I don’t want to spoil her.”
Your fingers curled beneath Alpine’s chin, cooing unintelligible noises. Bucky rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.
“Just don’t overfeed her. Make sure you leave out a bowl of water for her, okay? And if she starts scratching stuff up, just pick her up and put her in front of the scratching post. I’ve been trying to train her to stop ruining my furniture.”
“Got it,” Bob said, before joining you in your hums and coos to the purring feline.
“See you later, Alpine,” said Bucky, a rare sort of warmth seeping into his tone.
Alpine flicked her tail at her father, then rubbed her fuzzy white head against Bob’s sweatshirt.
Bucky grunted out something that sounded suspiciously similar to, “Traitor.” He stalked towards the elevator with a deep-set scowl. Though, once he turned to press the button, he caught sight of you tugging Alpine into your lap, pressed up right beside Bob, your head resting on his. The man beside you was as red as a beetroot.
And Bucky wasn’t stupid. Despite his callous nature to the rest of the new “Avengers”, he found that he was rooting for the two of you. You would be good for each other. He wouldn’t be caught dead ever admitting it, though.
“Where’s Bob? You two are usually glued to the hip.” Ava asked out of the blue, startling you so much that you immediately split into two copies. Two pairs of your shocked eyes glared at her.
“Ava!” you snapped crossly, before reabsorbing your copy. “You gotta stop phasing into our rooms without knocking first. And Bob went out with Yelena—apparently she needed him for something.”
The woman plopped down onto the couch beside you, languidly crossing her arms. “Right.”
You let the silence settle between the two of you, picking up the book you’d been reading and carrying on. Then, feeling her fidget beside you, you asked, “Is there a reason you’re here or do you just want to spend time with me? Because you could’ve just asked.”
The face she pulled was dour, but fleeting. “Well, I just—I had a question. It’s stupid.”
“Mhm.”
“You know how the both of us were… raised in labs our whole lives, y’know the entire schtick.”
“... Yes?”
Now visibly uncomfortable, Ava tugged at the collar of her suit. “I just—I wanted to know… how you deal with it. The memories of it all. It’s just that you make it look so easy. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Me?” you said in utter disbelief, bookmarking your page and setting the book aside. “I make it look easy? Are you sure about that?” You thought about your near panic attack two days ago in the training room that left you breathless and spiraling, over nothing in particular.
This made Ava scoff. “Okay, relatively speaking. In general, you’re still pretty fucked up.”
You rolled your eyes. “Thanks.” Then, after a moment of thinking about it, you told her, “I think it helps that I can talk about it now. Not only to a therapist but to—friends.” The word felt foreign on your tongue, but it left a warm, homey feeling there, as well. “The puzzles help, too. Reminders that I’m safe and in control now.”
As she listened, Ava drew her knees up to her chest, chin resting over them. “I keep getting these memories. It’s like they attack me, and I—physically can’t breathe or move. Do you get those?”
“All the time,” you whispered.
“How do you stop it?”
You shook your head with a sad smile. “I don’t. I can’t just forget it all and push it away. I just… learn to live with it, learn to manage it. All the pain I’ve experienced.” You hesitated. “And inflicted.”
Pensive, Ava asked, “So you just—ride it out?”
“Not really. The past isn’t something that’ll just go away one day. It’s more of an acceptance, forgiveness, and moving on sort of thing. At least that’s what Janice tells me.”
“Who the hell’s Janice?”
“My therapist,” you said, giving Ava a nudge. “I can ask her if she can refer you to someone? Or we can just… talk to each other if that’s too much for now. I’m a good listener.”
With a brow raised, Ava retorted, “No, you’re not. You didn’t listen to a single thing Bucky said at last week’s meeting.”
“It’s the same shit he says every week.”
“Doesn’t help when you and Bob are whispering and giggling in each other’s ears, too,” she deadpanned, making your cheeks flush with heat. “You two are like little schoolgirls.”
Which was funny of her to say, considering neither of you ever really went to a proper school.
You wrinkled your nose and stuck your tongue out at her, to which she only flipped you off with both her middle fingers. “You’re deflecting!”
“That something your therapist taught you, as well?”
“Yes, actually. Apparently I do it a lot, too.”
Ava grunted in irritation. Then, finally, she said with great reluctance, “I think that sounds nice. The talking thing. With you.”
You smiled an awfully wide smile. “Yeah?”
“Don’t expect it to happen all the time.”
“Sure.”
“I’m a busy woman.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I don’t want it to be a sobfest or a pity party. I just want to—talk.”
“I know, Ava. I got you.”
“And if you tell anyone, I’ll gouge your eyes out with a hot spoon.”
“Mhm. Wait—not even Bob?”
Ava glared at you.
“I’m joking!” you exclaimed, hands raised, though the idea of not debriefing every minute detail of your day to Bob seemed less than appealing. But, as hard as it was to admit to yourself, you cared for Ava, and you wanted her to feel safe to speak to you in confidence. “We can talk whenever you want, Ava. Real casual.”
“Will you tell me about your… feelings and shit, too? So it won’t feel like—”
“A therapy session?” you finished for her, smothering a laugh. “Yeah, definitely. Trust me, I’m not qualified to be a therapist. The nurses at my facility sure liked to trauma dump on me whenever they drew my blood, though…”
And as you dove into the stories of your past, Ava could feel the weight on her chest lighten. Not completely, not even a lot—but just a little. And maybe that was enough for now.
—
In all honesty, Bob wasn’t even supposed to be here. Yelena could’ve brought just about any of the Avengers along with her—but now that all of them were ultra famous—save for Bob—he was simply the safest bet. Plus it helped to factor in that he was practically indestructible. It was meant to be a very quick and easy stealth mission, anyway. Bob was going to create a diversion with the scientists, who were then going to alert the guards, and Yelena would sneak into the underground lab, grab a vial or two of the poisonous drug, and high-tail back to headquarters for some nerdy guy in a labcoat to start fixing up an antidote in case someone decided to commit some casual bioterrorism.
Of course, she should’ve known that not everything would go according to plan.
It was partially both of their fault. Bob fucked up by taking the wrong turn and swinging straight into the lab Yelena was currently swiping from, and Yelena fucked up by trying to push him out the way he came instead of helping him up the vent she had busted in with. She wasn’t very used to working with others—particularly those who had virtually no prior training in the field.
There was a loud crash as Bob careened into a metal cart with her crowding motions, and a few vials precariously wobbled in their holders, before toppling to the ground. Glass shards rained all over the floor, and a puff of green smoke filled the air between the two. Yelena danced back several steps, grabbing Bob by the shoulder and yanking him away, as well. She covered her nose and mouth with her palm, and Bob copied her motions with a slight delay.
Panic settled in Yelena’s chest. She thought, at first, that it had been the poison. She was going to die in a lab choking on her own vomit, and Bob would just be forced to watch.
But then—Yelena smelled it before Bob did. Familiar. It was sweet, almost. Like the free peppermint candies you would get at a nice restaurant after a pricey meal, or those flavored flossing picks Yelena liked to buy from the pharmacy three blocks away from her old apartment.
In the case file she read, it was said that the poison was gaseous and was instantaneous in its harm. But Yelena felt completely fine. She glanced over at Bob, who also looked to be alright, if not a little wide-eyed and sweaty. Which was normal for him.
If that wasn’t poison, what was it? Yelena cautiously removed her hand from her face.
“I don’t think we’re going to die,” she said. “Which is good, because I really don’t want to die before finishing the new season of this crappy reality show where hot people try not to mash their groins together. Seriously, I cannot believe non-asexual people are real.”
There was a moment of silence. Yelena and Bob blinked at each other.
“Oh, wow. I did not mean to say any of that. Weird. What we broke must be some sort of gaseous version of a truth serum. No wonder it smelled familiar—we used to use a liquid version in the Red Room. Are you okay, Bob? How are you feeling? Sorry I pushed you into the cart.”
Bob glanced over at himself, as if checking to make sure he wasn’t actually impaled or stabbed or on fire. “I’m, uh—I think so? I’m feeling really thirsty.”
“You know what, if we get out of here alive, I’ll buy you whatever drink you want from K-Mart.”
“Okay. God, I knew I shouldn’t have come. I fucked it all up. Literally anyone would have been a better pick. Xerox or Ava or, hell, even Walker—”
“Okay, well, first of all, it’s not all your fault. We both fucked up. Second, I picked you, so—nothing we can do about it now,” said Yelena matter-of-factly. She strode across the lab to grab a stool for Bob to climb on so he could shimmy into the vents. “And Walker is too busy doing Buzzfeed puppy interviews to join me, which was a shock to me—I didn’t even know they still did those. Ava claimed a break day, and Xerox had a therapy—”
At the sound of your name, Bob suddenly blurted out the first thought that came to mind, “I think I’m in love with Xerox.”
One second. Then two.
Bob slapped his hands over his mouth with wide eyes when he registered what he’d just said. “Oh, God. What the fuck? I didn’t want to say that! Why did I say that? Truth serum, I know! But I—Wh—? I didn’t want you to know that yet?! Please don’t tell Xerox!” With each and every word he said, the tone of his voice grew increasingly squeakier.
The blonde assassin eyed her friend with an incredulous look. “... Yeah, Bob, we all knew that. You aren’t subtle at all.” With a scoff, Yelena gestured to the stool. “Now get on, Mr. Lovebird. The guards will be here any second.”
Bob’s expression was cemented into a horrified twist. As he clambered onto the chair with wobbly legs, he began to pull himself up into the vents. “Does Xerox know?” he called out, wincing when he heard his voice echo back through the cavernous metal tunnels now encompassing him.
“I don’t think so,” Yelena said from below, following his lead and slipping into the vents. “But, honestly, you should say something as soon as possible—unless you want Alexei to blurt it out on live television to appease the fans.”
“What—?!”
Before he could finish, the lab burst open, crawling with armed guards in gas masks. The lone stool sitting just beneath an open vent was more obvious than a flashing neon sign saying: IN HERE!
Gunfire began to ring out below. Yelena and Bob scrambled onto their hands and knees and shuffled off as quickly as they could. Honestly, Yelena wasn’t too worried for Bob—after all, he was just about invincible. She, however, wasn’t the least bit bulletproof. So when Bob tugged her to move up in front of him so he could act as shield between her and the bullets, Yelena neither complained nor protested.
“Hey, Bob?” she called over the gunfire, which was beginning to fade to faint plinks behind them as they put more distance between them and the soldiers.
Bob flinched at a particularly loud gunshot. “Yeah?”
“I’m really happy for you.”
Creased confusion. “For—for being shot at?”
“What? No! For Xerox. You deserve to be happy. Both of you.”
And Bob, even though he was quite literally being hunted and gunned down, couldn’t help but feel a small spark of happiness in his chest, even if it was accompanied with the putrid stink of shame. He would be thinking of Yelena’s words the whole way out of the lab, the brief fight with the soldiers once exiting the vents, and in the car ride back to base. When you greeted him at the door, he didn’t hesitate to return the hug you had flung at him, running his warm palms over your cold forearms. He met Yelena’s knowing eyes over your shoulder.
He wanted to tell you. He did, of course he did. But—there was fear, puppeteered by the Void. Paralyzing. Stinging. Biting.
Time. That’s what he needed. So he wouldn’t tell you, at least not for now, when everything was so good. He didn’t want to fuck up one of the few good things he’d just got in his life yet. Even if it felt like his chest was about to cleave itself into two at the thought of not telling you the truth about his feelings.
There was hardly a night that Bob spent where he wasn’t tossing and turning when trying to go to sleep. Shirt shirked off because he was so hot, and then promptly put back on because the feeling of the silk sheets against his bare skin irked him. Pacing across his room one second, then curled up in the center of his bed the next. Hands in his hair, then balled by his sides. Tried counting sheep, but they would always end up mutilated and bleating sad noises, so he stopped doing that. Pillows, no pillows. Rain noises, lofi beats, whale sounds, complete silence. Reading, scrolling through his phone, hell—even trying to jack off.
Nothing worked.
And so, exhausted beyond relief and near the brink of tears, Bob swiftly left his room and without thinking, he found himself automatically heading towards yours down the hall. He stood in front of your closed door, swaying on the spot. Too tired to think straight, but still had enough sense not to barge into your room unannounced.
He did this often. Would stand in front of your room like a forlorn dog that had been kicked out—listening for signs of life in there. He would sometimes hear music softly playing, your soft murmurs to yourself, or, his favorite tinkering peals of laughter. More often than not, he would turn right back around and go back to his room, smacking himself in the head and thinking himself a loser for needing someone else to go to sleep. Because that was exactly who Bob was—a loser.
The few times he brought himself to knock on your door, however—he didn’t exactly feel like a loser when you smiled at him, hands immediately tugging him in, excited to show him a painting you’d been working on or Alpine curled up in the corner of your room. You made him feel wanted. Like he wasn’t a complete nuisance to be bothering you this late at night. The two of you would often accidentally fall asleep together. On the bed, on the floor—once even in the kitchen when you both meandered your way there for some midnight snacks and never left.
This time, Bob felt the shame weigh extra heavy as he knocked on your door. What if you were busy? Or you were tired, and not in the mood to see him? Or you didn’t want to have company? Or that he was invading your privacy? Or you—
The door swung open, and you were rubbing one of your eyes with a fist, blinking at him with an adorable sort of grogginess that only came with—
Oh, God, you’d been sleeping, Bob realized with complete mortification and embarrassment. Ugh, he was such an idiot.
“Palindrome,” you said, voice slightly hoarse from your rest. Despite Bob’s stiff demeanor, you pushed the door open wider. “Come in. I’m glad you came. I was having a really bad dream.”
“Oh,” he said, all soft and troubled. He stepped in, immediately hit with the jasmine-scented air. You’d bought the diffusor a few days ago and the aroma was just heavenly. Bob could immediately feel his tense shoulders loosen a smidge. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, waving your hands dismissively. One of them fell on his arm, guiding him to the bed.
Bob could feel his heart jump to his chest. If you noticed his eyes roaming all over you, you didn’t say anything. To that, he was grateful. He was already flustered enough. With your cheeks blown out into a sigh, you fell face-first into your pillows.
“Lie down with me. I’m so cold,” you said once you turned back around to face him, making a show of curling in on yourself and shivering.
Bob spied the thick blanket you were lying on top of. The easy solution would’ve been to peel it back and drape it over you. But the other solution sounded far more appealing to him.
With a hum, Bob settled beside you, looping his arms around you, your back flush against his chest. The two of you slotted together like puzzle pieces sliding into place.
“You’re so warm.”
“Yeah, sorry, I—”
“Run hot. I know. It’s so nice. You’re like my personal heater.”
Bob liked the feeling of your cold nose pressing against his overheating bicep. “And you’re my personal, er, ice block? AC unit? Whichever sounds nicer, that’s what you are.”
You let out an amused huff at that. “Back in Madripoor, it’s almost always terribly hot. But when it reaches a certain hour at nighttime, it gets all windy and cold. We don’t have heaters in Southeast Asia like we do here—they’re impractical. So back then I would multiply and hold myself to get warm. Problem was that I’m always cold, so it felt like hugging—just like you said—an ice block. But I kept doing it. It felt nice to be held… even if it was just me.”
Bob squeezed you tighter. “Sorry,” he whispered into your hair. He wished he was better at comforting you.
“Don’t be,” you replied, sounding perfectly content. “I’ve got you now, don’t I?”
Beneath his ribs, he could feel his heart swell. Of course you could make the most useless man in the world feel like he was worth something.
“When I was a kid…” Bob began, always nervous to speak about his past, “I would get so hot that I would get out of bed and take a pillow with me and sleep by the window.”
“That’s so cute,” you crooned. He could feel you smile into his arm.
“Mmh. My dad wasn’t very happy about it. Said I was wasting all the house’s heating by keeping the windows open.”
“Yeah, well, your dad’s an asshole. Fuck him.”
“Hah. Yeah… fuck h—yeah.”
There was a comfortable silence for a while. Bob could feel himself rocking in and out of the sweet realm of slumber. Your voice reeled him out like a fish being pulled on a hook.
“Hmhng?” was the strange noise he made, having not heard what you said.
“Sorry. Did you fall asleep?”
“Yeah.” Bob sounded sheepish. “But I want to hear it. What you said.”
“Sorry,” you needlessly apologized again, even though Bob would rather be awake so he could spend more time with you. “I was just… I said that I don’t remember my name. My actual one. Or if I ever had one in the first place.”
Bob blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think they—the scientists that experimented on me—ever gave me a name. I had a number. Patient 080. But I didn’t have a name.”
Now, Bob was nodding. “Xerox was just—a terrible nickname. It wasn’t your actual name.”
“Yeah.” You shifted in his hold so that your hand could intertwine with one of his, toying with his fingers. “But I do like Xerox now. It’s mine—I’ve made it mine. I just wonder if I ever had a real name before that. I don’t remember much from back then. It always feels like I’m missing a big piece of the puzzle.”
“Maybe…” Bob trailed off, muttering.
“What?”
“Nah, no—it’s probably a stupid idea.”
“Nothing you could say to me would be a stupid idea, Pal. Please tell me. I wanna hear it.”
Bob, wincing, suggested, “Maybe you could try to do some research? See if they have any databases anywhere or something?”
“I did. The lab is an illegal operation, so they’re wiped clean. If there are records, it would be encrypted, and in Madripoor.” You were silent for several moments. “I could go back, in theory. Look for something. Anything.”
Bob’s brows furrowed, a queer sort of dread settling in the pits of his stomach. “You wanna leave?”
Silence prickled the air like needles through silk.
“I don’t. Going back has always been the last thing I’ve ever wanted to do. I’ve spent years running away. But—it would be closure, in a way. Maybe I need to do this. You know?”
Bob hugged you close to him, breathing you and the jasmine-tasting air in. “Would you come back?”
“Of course I would. I would miss you too much to stay away. Plus—the news will go insane if one of the New Avengers suddenly disappears. Or maybe they would move on in two or three days. Just another faded headline.”
The frown wouldn’t leave his face, no matter how hard he tried. He was grateful you were facing away from him. “I’ll miss you, too. A lot.”
He could hear you smile this time. “I’ll be back before you know it. I'll only need a few days. A week at most.” You made a few noises as you thought things through, and Bob felt the inexplicable, sudden urge to kiss your very soft-looking shoulder. He managed to restrain himself, albeit barely.
“I guess it’s settled, then,” you said, completely oblivious to his embarrassing thoughts of kissing you. “I’m going back to Madripoor.”
With you in his arms, Bob fell asleep in no time. The problem now, however, were the debilitating nightmares that haunted him whenever he was unconscious. Some days it wasn’t so bad—something embarrassing at his old school, or his nights high on meth… when he definitely should’ve been doing something better with his life. But most of the time, they were really bad nightmares. His father, red-faced, belt in hand. Or his mother, bleeding and crying. His friend he would do drugs with—who he couldn’t even remember the name of—foaming at the mouth and convulsing as he overdosed.
Tonight it was a strange combination of all three. And whilst Bob could try to keep the Void controlled and at bay when he was awake—it didn’t ever occur to him that it could take advantage of his unconscious self.
The darkness began to consume the bed as he twitched and shivered from his nightmares. You, sleeping away a very long day, didn’t notice. Typically, you were a very light sleeper—a habit you had since your hospital and mercenary days—but you’d grown accustomed to Bob’s regular movement during sleep.
And that was how the Void came to you in your dreams, dark as night, standing a full head taller than you. You blinked up at him, wondering if he was always this… big.
“Xerox,” he greeted, turning his head about to observe your dream-world with the tiny glints of light he had for eyes. The terrain was familiar to him—he’d brought you here before. “Do you often dream of hospitals?”
“Unfortunately,” you replied, picking up one of the half-solid scalpels with a frown. There was a hoarse scream in the distance, one that you’ve had to listen to a million times before: your own. You regarded him with a cruel sort of suspicion. “Am I dreaming you or—?”
“I came of my own volition,” said the Void. “I wanted to see you.”
“Hm.” You wanted to ask why, but you had a feeling you already knew the answer.
“You know I will never actually go away. Not for you, not for your precious Bob.”
“I know,” you said, voice cracking. With a sigh, you sat back down on the surgical operating table. “I wish you would, though. But that wouldn’t be very realistic.”
The Void came to sit beside you, leg pressed up against yours. He was freezing cold—a lot like you, and a stark opposite to Bob. You shifted away.
“You will always choose him over me,” said the dark mass. “But he is me. And I, him. There is no separating us. We all have our little void.”
“Nothing little about you,” you grumbled. The Void let out something akin to a laugh—like the quiet rumbles of thunder just before the angry, rageful clap.
There was silence as the two of you watched a surgeon enter, holding the hand of a little-you, leading you back to your cell. The child’s gaunt eyes were round with shock. Blood lined tiny-you’s mouth, slickened your hands and stained deep within the crevices beneath your nails.
“It stinks of death here,” the Void said.
“They used to make my newer copies fight the older ones,” you whispered to him. “See if any of their genetic enhancers actually worked. Most of the time it didn’t.”
Raising his hand, the Void turned the surgeon into shadow. The sight brought a small smile to your face. Swift, the Void hovered over younger-you’s shoulders.
“Oh, precious,” he crooned to the stricken child, who immediately leaned into the darkness’ touch. “Come.”
You watched with furrowed brows. “Where are you taking me?”
“Into my world. It’s stuffy in here. Smells antiseptic.”
His hand reached out for you to take it. And you could see it then—Bob within the Void. You softened just a little bit, though you still refused to take his hand.
“I hope in the real world you’re not taking over the city again. I’m a bit too tired to deal with my shame rooms at the moment.”
“Really? I thought they were fun. I enjoyed making them for you.” He laughed his timbrous laugh again, to which you only rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry. It’s just us two now.” The Void looked down at younger-you. “Well—three. Soon to be four.”
“What—?”
Before you could finish asking him what he meant by that, the dreamscape around you began to shift, dissipating like ink in water. You felt the ground turn from cold tile to a fibrous brown carpet.
There was shattering glass somewhere behind you. You whirled around to see a familiar man smashing a beer bottle against the wall, going straight for a woman and a young boy at the dinner table. The Void held his hand out, and Bob’s parents immediately turned into elongated shadows. The young boy—tiny Bob—cowered away from the growing darkness seeping into the carpet.
“Go,” the Void said to younger you, pushing the child forward.
With a lump in your throat, you stepped forward to take the shoulders of your younger self, kneeling down and using your sleeve to wipe away the blood from your face. Then, the child, both terrified and in awe of the Void, listened to his instructions and obediently went toddling off to young Bob.
Tiny you prodded at Bob’s shoulder, who only shrunk into himself more. It occurred to you that your younger self likely thought that this was a new opponent for you to fight. To your relief, however, your younger copy only slumped down the wall beside the boy, and began to recite the elements of the periodic table—something you used to do to help you go to sleep. Young Bob turned and listened with wide eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” you asked when you finally tore your gaze away from the children, both out of genuine curiosity and confusion.
“You had no friends,” he said. “I had no friends. At least in here we can pretend.”
“That’s all you do, isn’t it?” you asked him. “Pretend. That’s a sad way to live.”
“It’s the only way,” he responded. “This way, he—we won’t get hurt.”
“But what about our real friendships? What about the rest of the team?”
The Void stepped closer to you. “Is what we have not real?”
No. Yes. Either way, the answer didn’t sound quite right.
“Whatever it is, it’s not as important as real life. I can’t be stuck in delusions forever. I… we have to live life. A real one.”
Something in the Void’s voice broke—Bob spilling through. “I don’t want you to leave me.”
“You said it yourself. You’ll never actually go away,” you whispered. Then, you spared the Void a small, sad smile. “You can come visit. But I’m afraid you can’t stay.”
“You’ll miss me.”
“Oh, I will,” you said, not bothering to deny it. “But I think I’m far happier with where I am now. I don’t need you… hovering over my shoulder anymore.”
You looked to the children, who were now chattering quietly to themselves. Younger you looked happy to be talking to someone your age who wasn’t yourself, for once.
The Void stared at you for a long moment. Then, finally, he asked, “He makes you happy?”
“Bob?” You thought of his warmth. His kindness. His constant, soft touches. His spritely laughter. His stammering. His lopsided smile. His thoughtful gestures. His excessive emoticons in his texts. His love for animals. His strange habit of ad-libbing extra notes to catchy advertisement jingles. “Yes. He does.”
“Then I guess that’s reason enough for me to keep my distance. But I’ll come back. I always come back,” he said. “See you on the other side, Xerox.”
When you flinched awake, a loud, startled gasp emitted from you. You shot upwards on the bed, ripping yourself out of Bob’s warm embrace. The sudden movement made him jerk out of sleep, as well.
“Wha—Whuss goin’ on?” he sleepily muttered, looking juxtaposingly alarmed and ready to go back to sleep.
It was only when his warm arms wrapped around you again, did you realize that you were shaking. Immediately, you began sobbing. It was silent as always, but it wracked through your chest and made it difficult for you to breathe. You turned into his hold and buried your face into him, clinging onto him like an ant to sticky nectar, and he let you cry damp spots into his sweatshirt.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry,” rasped Bob, though he really didn’t know what he was apologizing for. Still, he was almost certain it was his fault. He rubbed comforting circles into your back. “I’m sorry.”
And, once you calmed down enough to regulate your breathing, you found yourself parroting the very same words to him.
pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader
synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?
words ; 4.3k
themes ; action, angst, slowburn, fluffy near the end, the beginnings of romance
warnings / includes ; violence, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), the void is hot unfortunately, foul language, everyone's mental health sucks but they're actually getting better now!
a/n ; this chapter is a bit shorter than the other two just because it only covers the very end of the movie PLUS a little bonus scene to get you guys excited for future avengers tower moments :) thank you again for all the support! also did you guys catch the mutant mention wink wonk
main masterlist. read on ao3!
listen to a xerox playlist on spotify / youtube music!
xerox's face claim :) xerox's letterboxd profile!
Bob’s first room had an angry, middle-aged man standing in the very center, veins protruding out of his neck as he yelled gibberish. Flecks of spittle fell from his slurring lips. Bob, whose warm hand was intertwined with yours, flinched at the sudden volume.
Walker didn’t hesitate to strike him down with his taco-shaped shield.
“He seems nice,” Ava said.
The room gave a massive rumble, as if upset that things weren’t going its way, and the walls began to close in.
“This way!” Alexei bellowed, ushering everyone forward into a wooden wardrobe full of clothes.
“Narnia?” you asked as you shouldered through moth-eaten coats, giving Bob a quick glance over your shoulder.
Bob gave you a nervous smile. “It was one of my favorites as a kid.”
The floors gave out beneath you, and you found yourself free-falling for a few seconds before landing on the rough ground with a resounding thud. The new room smelled of gasoline and burnt rubber tires.
You helped Yelena up to her feet, only to be whacked over the back of the head with a sharp plastic sign that read ALFREDO’S BAIL BONDS! in a hideous shade of red, by a chicken mascot that had equally hard-on-the-eyes yellow feathers. With a low moan, you started crawling away from the crazed chicken, who had turned to attack Ava and Alexei.
“Oh, God!” Bob exclaimed, scrambling over to give you a hand. “Are you okay?”
“IF YOU DON’T STOP HITTING ME WITH THAT SIGN—!” Alexei gruffed from across the room, now bleeding from the nose.
“I was on meth!” Bob shrieked apologetically right before grabbing your head and shoving you down just in time to duck away from another sign-swing from the high chicken.
Whilst lowered, you spotted a stack of wooden vegetable crates across the street. There seemed to be no other exits from the room. Ava kept the chicken occupied and distracted by repeatedly phasing through him, so you took the opportunity to break open the bottom of the crates, which smelled faintly of rotting tomatoes.
“Through here!” you called. “Crawl through the crates!”
Past-Bob made a bee-line for current Bob, the sharp end of the sign aimed straight at him like a crude stake. With a stinging cheek and a clenched jaw, Bucky stepped in between them and punched the chicken square in the face (beak?) with his metal arm.
As you made your way through to the new room, you distantly heard Walker gagging behind you. “I hate tomatoes.”
Through the crates was a cleaner, more sterile space. The new room looked… clinical. You immediately tensed, eyes darting back and forth. There were beakers, needles, and measuring devices everywhere—all the marks of a science lab. You had to suck in a deep, painful breath to remind yourself that this wasn’t your room—it was Bob’s. A few meters away from you, there was an operating table. Big surgical lights looming over it like curved, robotic flowers. And on the bed sat past-Bob, shoulders hunched into himself. He looked the very same as the Bob right beside you, holding your hand. But his eyes were sunken and empty. Tired.
“I’ve been here before,” Yelena whispered. “Malaysia.”
Bob bit down on the inside of his cheek. “It’s where it all started. I was roaming Southeast Asia. Thought I’d figure something out. A way to find more drugs. And there’s this guy… he started talking to me about a medical study. A trial drug that can make me stronger and not feel like… me anymore. It was like a miracle.”
You felt your face fall with sympathy. You squeezed his hand, and Bob met your gaze with pursed lips. Slowly, the group began to advance towards Past-Bob. At least he wasn’t swinging a sign at all of your heads in a chicken suit this time.
“I thought I would get to show everyone that I was more… that I was something,” Bob told everyone, shame tinting each of his words a melancholic blue.
Past-Bob, now shrouded in shadow, finally straightened.
“And look what you unleashed,” the voice purred, echoing in your head as if he had managed to worm inside and tapping at the very base of your ear drums.
That wasn’t Bob, you realized with a heavy pit in your stomach. It was the Void. He hopped off the surgical table, turning to face the team, face dark, but eyes glowing.
“How could you possibly think you could be worth anything?” he said, calm as untouched waters. You could feel your skin prickle.
Yelena stepped forward. “We’re leaving.”
The Void stayed silent for a moment, scrutinizing the ragged team of misfits and criminals with an empty expression. Then, he shook his head in miniscule movements. “No,” he simply said.
Behind him the surgical table rose into the air and flew across the room at a startlingly rapid speed, crashing against Yelena and Alexei, pinning them against the wall behind. The long strips of buzzing, artificial lights above were torn from the ceiling and wound around Bucky, keeping him to one of the lab’s counters. Several metal frames from a window came whizzing across the room to bury into the edges of Walker’s suit, keeping him stuck on the ground. Ava was sent flying into the other side of the lab when a crumbled garbage can wound about her midriff. She would have phased right through it, but there was a force weighing her down.
You managed to dodge the door that was coming at you, having to relinquish Bob’s hand to do so, but missed the heavy metal shelf used to store plastic pill pots heading toward you from the opposite direction. It slammed into your stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs, and you were left struggling fruitlessly against the wall it lodged you up against.
“Stop,” Bob pleaded to the Void with wide, watery eyes. “Let them go.”
“You think they care about you?” The Void stepped closer until he was right in front of you, close enough that you could feel it—the cold darkness. The dread. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The weight of all you’ve done wrong, all the people you’ve murdered and maimed, all your deaths, all your lies—resting right on top of your sternum. You gasped for breath. You felt something cold touch your face, so cold it felt blistering hot. You simultaneously wanted to pull away and lean in closer. The Void’s fingers were caressing your cheek ever so gently, and Bob did nothing but watch. He felt frozen to the floor, paralyzed with fear and uncertainty.
“Xerox… lovely, sad Xerox…” crooned the Void, almost sing-songy. “Bob’s got a fixation with you, you know. It’s pathetic. He’s like a sad mutt begging for scraps from the table.” There was an amused hum from him before he continued, this time speaking to Bob. “Xerox doesn’t want to help you. None of them do. They’re all using you. Deep down, you know they despise you. You’re a burden.”
“That’s not true!” Yelena screamed from the opposite side of the room. IV drip wires wrapped around her throat so tight her eyelids fluttered and her words were caught on her tongue.
“Isn’t that right, Xerox?” said the Void, his cool thumb slipped beneath your chin to tilt your head up as he regarded you with those cold, blank eyes. “You chose the darkness. You chose me.”
“I came…” The weight was growing stronger. The words felt like thorns in your mouth, painful to speak. What was he doing to you? “I came to help him.”
The Void tilted his head. Then, you felt the coldness close around your throat. The edges of your vision darkened. If your hands weren’t pinned back, you would’ve been clawing at your neck for breath.
“I told you… he doesn’t want your help. He’s pathetic. Why would he deserve it? Deserve you? Now tell him. Tell him the truth. It’s what he needs to hear… some tough love.”
When you opened your mouth this time, words spilled out that weren’t yours. “I don’t want to help you,” you found yourself saying. Not to the Void, but to Bob. Your Pal. You gasped, a cold tear slipping down your cheek. The words came out grated, as if someone had forced you to swallow razors. “I never liked you, Robert. You’re nothing. In fact, worse than that. You’re an active hindrance. A thorn in everyone’s side. I wish… schkk—I wish you had stayed dead when they shot you down.”
“That’s right,” murmured the Void. “Good.”
“Please stop,” Bob ground out. You weren’t sure if he was saying that to you or to the Void.
His dark counterpart laughed a deep, rumbling noise. “Robert the Hero. Doesn’t sound right, does it? Fake. Like a comic book story. What a joke.”
Walker was close to prying himself out of his confines.
The Void flicked his wrist. All the glass from the beakers and volumetric cylinders in the lab exploded. Crystal shards scratched at the team’s face, leaving everyone with stinging, bloodied cuts. The Void’s hand slipped away from your throat to pull out the piece of glass that had embedded into your skin.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, almost a whisper. It would’ve sounded sincere if it hadn’t sounded like an automated message. “You do enough of that to yourself. Did you enjoy what I showed you? The darkness has been kind to you, hasn’t it? The only one you can trust is yourself.”
“Yes,” you choked out, and your head bowed into a nod even though you hadn’t wanted to. “I deserve to relive it all. All the worst parts of me. I’m just as bad as I thought I was.”
Bob was breathing heavily, expression twisted into one of pain. The Void was hurting you. He was hurting you.
“I’m stronger than you,” Bob told his alter-ego, trying to sound more confident than he was. “I can beat you.”
The Void grinned. It was a terrifying sight. Wolfish. Predatory. “Let’s see.”
The shadowed figure finally stepped away from you, and you seemed to lean forward, as if chasing his touch. Once the Void was far enough, Bob watched you recoil with a trace of disgust to your expression. At yourself or at him?
“It wasn’t me,” you croaked, misty eyes now glued to Bob. Not the Void. Just Bob. “Palindrome. It wasn’t me.”
And Bob believed you. He trusted you. With a determined nod, he ran forward and swung a punch to the Void. The dark mass hit back with equal ferocity, sending Bob sprawling to the ground. Glass dug into his skin.
“Get up, Bobby,” Walker gruffed. “Get up!”
“You thought you would be some great man? Some savior?” taunted the Void as he kicked at Bob. “You can’t even save yourself.”
You watched in horror as the Void picked Bob up by the scruff of his sweatshirt, and struck him three more times.
“We will always be alone.”
The room began to shift, elongating. The entire group was pulled further and further away from Bob and the Void. Bob watched the team go—his friends grow smaller with the distance—and blew out a choked breath. Alexei was bleeding profusely from his head. Yelena’s face was turning blue from the cords cutting her airway. Ava, Bucky, and John were still working against their bonds. Bob glanced at you hanging limply behind the shelf, staring at nothing in particular with glazed eyes. No doubt that was the Void’s doing.
Bob turned. His lips curled angrily. Then he launched himself at the Void with a mangled cry. He began punching the figure with all his might. To his fury, the Void only smiled, unhurt.
“There we go,” the Void whispered in a mocking manner. “Show them how strong you are.”
The room began to crack and crumble. Darkness began to eat away at Bob the more he struck his darker self. His shoes were swallowed first, now beginning to crawl up his shins.
“This isn’t right,” Bucky gruffed.
“Bob, stop!” Yelena coughed out. Having had enough, Alexei strained as much as he could to push the weight off of them. Just enough to let Yelena wriggle loose. She slipped out with a pained groan, tore the IV off her, and began running towards Bob. The room shifted to try to stop her—throwing cabinets and beakers and tables at her, but she lithely dodged each one.
By the time she got to Bob, the darkness had seeped up to his neck.
“I’m here,” she said, wrapping her arms around Bob from behind, trying to hold him back. Bob kept hitting the darkness, relentless.
“It will always be just us,” the Void told him, almost comforting. “I’m the only one you can rely on.”
Yelena held onto him tighter. “I’m here, Bob,” repeated Yelena. “You’re not alone.”
Finally, Bucky managed to tear himself free. He helped Walker get free, and Walker then stalked over to push the shelf off of you with a grunt. You collapsed with a dizzy intake of breath. Ava and Alexei were quick to free themselves afterwards, bonds slightly loosened—it seemed that Yelena’s words of comfort were actually helping.
The rest of the team ran towards Bob, Yelena, and the Void.
“We’re all here,” Yelena told her friend. “We’re here for you, Bob.”
You kneeled down beside him, hand wrapping around the wrist that led to a now-bloodied fist. The team piled together, all holding Bob—and each other. In the tangled mess of limbs and arms, Bob began to weep. His head knocked against yours as he sobbed, and you held him all the tighter.
“Let it out, Pal,” you said. “We’ve got you.”
Then the entire group fell backwards. Your spine hit the rough surface of a broken road. After blinking several times and adjusting to the sudden onslaught of light, the city of New York came back into view. The shadows were slowly but surely melting away.
The team slowly struggled to their feet. People were gradually but surely returning from the Void’s realm.
You sniffled, wiping an errant tear with your sleeve. The Void’s hold on your mind was still fresh, and you certainly felt a little worse for wear. You felt Bob’s concerned hand on your shoulder, and you turned and enveloped him into a sudden, tight hug, yanking him close. He emitted a noise of surprise, but his arms wound around you out of instinct.
“I’m so sorry,” you said, breathing shallow and rapid. “I don’t wish you died. I don’t think you’re a burden. I think you’re really sweet and cool and—” Your words were spoken so quickly and pretty muffled into the fabric of his sweatshirt that Bob didn’t really catch them.
Bob held you until your breaths mellowed out a bit. Even patted your back a few times for good measure. There were no complaints on his end for the hug, but he wasn’t very sure why you were giving him one.
“This is nice,” he started, uncertain.
“Sorry, I didn’t ask if I could hug you,” you whispered once you pulled away, cheeks flushed.
“You don’t need to ask,” he said, almost too quickly. There was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “You don’t ever need to ask to hug me. It’s nice. I like it.”
Walker came to stand beside you, having done a quick survey of the premise. “You were great in there, Bob.”
Bob blinked at the bearded man and smiled. That was probably the nicest thing Walker has ever said to him. Too bad he had no clue what he was talking about. “Thanks, Walker,” he said, still smiling goofily. “In—wait, in where?” Finally, Bob took a glance around. There was wreckage everywhere. Had the Avengers totaled New York yet again? “Woah. What happened here?”
“You don’t… remember?” you asked, eyeing him with kinked brows.. “Did you hit your head a bit too hard?”
Bob patted down his skull. “Feels normal.” He laughed a bit—a nervous, knee-jerk reaction. “Sorry, I’m a bit confused.”
“Are you okay?” Yelena asked, looking at him with nothing but concern.
Bob’s brows twitched, still completely lost. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why’s everyone looking at me like that?”
“Are you serious?” Alexei deadpanned. “We were in crazy rooms of despair and misery and—”
“Thanks, Alexei,” you cut in, giving the giant of a man a pointed look. “You did good, Bob. I can explain the details later. For now—”
Your reassurance was cut off by Valentina shrilly speaking into a phone, only a few yards away. You could feel anger twist your insides just from seeing her.
“I’m going to kill that woman,” Alexei gruffed.
“We can’t kill her. We have to take her in,” Bucky said with an exasperated sigh. It was clear that he had plenty of experience being the voice of reason.
“What happens when he regains his memory?” Walker asked. “Will we have to go through that all over again?”
Yelena shook her head. She took Bob by the elbow and began leading him towards Valentina. “Okay. Come on, Bob.”
“I’m going with you guys?”
“Of course you are,” you said as you walked alongside them towards Valentina, nudging Bob with a soft smile. “We’re a team now.”
Bob returned your smile easily. “That sounds nice.”
Yelena nodded. “We stick together from now on.”
When Valentina spotted the Thunderbolts coming towards her, she began to hurry backwards. “Hello, team! I know we’re all dealing with very big feelings right now, just give me—give me half a second—!”
She disappeared behind some wreckage.
As you rounded the broken pieces of construction, you were met with the blinding flashes of about fifty cameras. There were news trucks, reporters, microphones, the entire shebang. Even a podium for Valentina to stand behind as she hushed the audience. A small part of you thought about all the dried blood on your face and body—it was a relief your suit was dark, or it would’ve looked like you were mauled by a bear. Or, more likely that you were the one that mauled the bear.
“What’s going on?” Bob leaned closer to whisper to you.
“No idea,” you whispered back.
“Cool.” The smile that appeared on his face was boyish and lopsided. “It’s nice not being the only one who’s confused.”
“Are we live?” Valentina asked one of the cameramen. Once he nodded, she began speaking with a shiny, rehearsed smile. “For years, I have been working secretly to develop a new age of protection. Today, the citizens of the United States need that protection. Thanks to my hard work, they got it. Ladies and gentlemen… meet the new Avengers.”
Avenger? You? That didn’t sound quite right. The Avengers were heroes. They were a beacon of light and hope and occasional destruction of city-folk. You were…
Just a person trying to do better.
The Thunderbolts stared at each other in a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Bob began to clap loudly, but you put a hand on his, forcing him to lower them down.
“What?” he asked, still completely miffed, and you shook your head with an I’ll tell you later look. Bob nodded solemnly and put his hands behind his back, which made you hold back an amused grin. The snaps coming from the cameras seemed to flare with every tiny movement you made, so you weren’t too keen on giving them anything to pick apart.
Yelena strode up to Valentina. She covered the microphone, leaned down, and said, just loud enough so she and the rest of the team could hear. “We own you now.”
This time, you didn’t bother trying to smother your smile. The cameras went crazy.
“Have you seen the news?” Bob asked you, settling down next to you on the couch. He handed you the steaming mug of tea, made just the way you liked. His knees knocked against yours.
You glanced away from your crossword puzzle and took the mug with a warm smile. “Thanks. Seen what? I haven’t checked ever since news of mutants broke out.” You were still waiting for your own test results to come back. The memory of the clinic drawing your blood made you shudder. It did, however, make you feel slightly better knowing that the entire team was squashed in the tiny waiting room right outside the door for you. Even Bucky, who swore up and down that he was busy that afternoon still showed up. You made a mental note to get him a smoothie from that juice shop he liked so much.
Bob gave you an awkward grimace. “They’re writing about us again.”
This made you roll your eyes. “They’re always writing about us.”
Just yesterday, Ava had shown you an article that said: THE HEROES NOBODY ASKED FOR! IS NEW ALWAYS BETTER?
Which, to be fair, was a completely valid article. However, counterpoint, none of you asked to be on the Avengers. Except Alexei and Walker at some point, you suspected.
“No,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Not us like the group, but us us.”
“Oh?” You quirked a brow. “What are they saying this time?” Last week, they were convinced Bob was a special secret agent of sorts.
Bob handed you the rolled up newspaper he was holding.
SPOTTED: BOB WHO? MYSTERY MAN SEEN WITH NEW AVENGER ‘XEROX’ — ROMANCE BLOSSOMING IN THE TOWER?
Though you were wearing a baseball cap, that clearly wasn’t enough to hide your identity. Beneath the article title was a grainy image of you and Bob in the park, feeding the ducks. The two of you were wearing identical, fond grins; but you were looking at the ducks, and his eyes were trained on you. There was another photo beneath where the two of you were sharing a milkshake in one of your favorite diners. You let out a sigh—you supposed you couldn’t be going to that diner as often anymore.
“Oh,” you muttered, reading through the first few lines, which turned out to be a whole bunch of speculative nonsense. “They’re always doing this, aren’t they? Making something out of nothing.”
“Right,” said Bob, nodding. “It’s nothing. You’re right.”
When you caught his eye, noting the slightly crestfallen look on his face, you shook your head, assuming he was just upset about the whole ordeal. You could understand—losing your privacy overnight wasn’t something you were very keen about, either. “Try not to pay too much mind to the news people. I guess we just have to lay low for a while. It’ll die down. They’ll move on to the next big trendy thing in a minute or two.”
“Yeah, of course,” Bob said. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Does this mean we have to stop going to the park together?”
“No,” you reassured. “We just have to put on some better disguises. I’m sure Valentina could scrounge up the money. After all, she kinda has to do whatever we want now.”
Bob smiled, all awkward and endearing. “Good. Yeah. I… I like the time we spend together.”
“I like it, too,” you said, lips upturned. Bob had to force his eyes away. It was nothing. Right.
You patted his leg and returned to your crossword puzzle. You were about halfway through the crossword book that Bob had bought for you from the musty cornerstore two blocks away. It was the first gift you’d ever gotten from someone.
Yelena walked into one of the Tower’s many common areas an hour later to find you and Bob leaning against each other, dozing away. Your puzzle book was discarded to the side, pencil sticking out one of the pages to mark your place. Bob’s mouth was slightly agape and he looked about two seconds away from slipping and face-planting painfully into the boniest part of your shoulder. Your legs were intertwined with his in a position that certainly couldn’t have been comfortable. Yelena regarded the two of you with a downturned smile.
“Okay, you sleepy lovebirds,” she muttered, grabbing a neatly folded blanket from the corner of the long couch and draping it over the both of you. You stirred ever so slightly, mumbling something under your breath, then settled back closer to Bob. “Sweet dreams.”
The two of you were startled awake just as Yelena was leaving and Alexei stormed in, loudly complaining about how this lady in the grocery store wouldn’t buy the Avengers Wheaties cereal box even though he’d explicitly recommended it to her.
You rubbed your eyes tiredly, standing up to stretch upwards like a feline after a long nap. Bob watched you with a sleepy grin. “Ooh, that just reminded me. I need to go pick up some ingredients for soup night tomorrow. Walker hates tomatoes, so tomato soup is off the menu.”
With no hesitation whatsoever, Bob asked, “Can I come with you?”
You thought distantly to the news reports. Let them think what they want. Whatever you had with Bob, you liked it just as it was.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’d love that. We can stop by the library afterwards, too. I’ve heard they’ve got a new copy of…”
Alexei and Yelena watched the two of you head out, animatedly discussing some sort of new mystery book, shoulders practically pressed up to each other.
“Are they—” Alexei sent his daughter a pointed look. “You know?”
“I’m not speaking about this with you,” Yelena curtly said, turning on her heel. “But no, not yet. Ava and I have a bet going on.”
This made a devilish grin spread over Alexei’s face. “He makes it obvious, the way he looks at Xerox. I give them a week.”
Yelena scoffed. He was such an optimist. She gave them three months at the very least. “You’re on.”
Synopsis: Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.
Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader (ex-Black Widow)
Genre: fluff, lil bit of angst
Warnings: sickness because I've been sick this past weekend and life sucked, swearing, Bob being an anxious little bean, alluding to violence, but nothing else, really :)
Word count: 6623
All characters belong to Marvel. Also - Bob has my heart
If Bob paced any more behind Y/N’s door, he was sure to wear a track into the concrete floor.
His hand had hovered over the panel separating him from whatever lay beyond, about twenty times in the past hour or so, yet just as his knuckles were about to meet it, he pulled back with a shake of his head and began his pacing once more.
“I should just knock,” the man muttered to himself, blue eyes warily watching the door, hoping it would creak open without his interference, but alas, it remained as immovable as it had always been. “She’s not gonna mind. You’ve woken her up in the middle of the night before, and she wasn’t angry then. She won’t be angry with you.”
And even still with those thoughts in his mind, Bob couldn’t get himself to do it, his anxiety overriding his motor skills.
It wasn’t that he was incapable of action. He was. It was more so getting to the action where he faltered. His therapist, someone Bucky had helped him find, had told him even two steps forward and one step back was still a step forward.
Like the first time he’d reached out for help after a nightmare, where he could feel the Void curling inside him, just waiting until his emotions reached a bubbling point so he could take over.
“What did you do?” the therapist, a take-no-bullshit kind of woman, had asked. “To stop the Void from emerging?”
Bob shrugged, knee bouncing up and down, not daring to make eye contact. “I uh – I went to Y/N. I just… I heard she was still awake and knew if the Void was gonna come out, someone had to… You know… be aware and take me – him – down.”
“And who is Y/N?”
Now that was a loaded question he wasn’t fully yet ready to answer, so he settled on the objective truth. “She’s my teammate. We live across the hall from one another.”
“And how did she help?”
“She…” Bob bit down on his lip. “She invited me inside her room and we just… talked. She had some music playing… I – I guess she helped me take my mind off it all and… stuff…”
The woman hummed. “And why was she the first person you thought to go to when things got bad?”
He wanted to say it was because she was the closest one to him, physically being right down the hall, that they were the only two people occupying the floor, but the truth spilt out before he could even contain it, “Because I knew she wouldn’t be mad at me. If – if I woke her up. She… she wouldn’t be upset I was there.” Because she was one of the few people who wasn’t afraid to touch him, despite his powers and the Void.
But just because she hadn’t been upset with him those few times he’d sought her out, didn’t mean she wouldn’t be angry with him that specific day. Otherwise, why hadn’t she stuck to her promise?
The previous week, right before Y/N had been shipped out to Malaga on a mission, she’d promised him that once she was back, the two would go to a bookstore together, Bob’s supply already dangerously low.
Now, though, three hours had passed from the time they’d set last night, and Y/N was nowhere to be seen.
He’d let the first hour pass by, thinking maybe she had to catch up on some paperwork the team had to file after a mission. When hour two had come and gone, Bob had started to become anxious, but still, he told himself she was probably just resting, no doubt exhausted by the mission, and he would never be one to take away time she could be using to heal. But as hour three had started to roll, Bob couldn’t help the nervousness entering his body, and that was how he ended up behind Y/N’s door.
Gently, he placed an ear against it, hoping to hear the slightest sound, maybe a soft movement of her feet padding against the carpeted floor, but the only noise invading the silence was the echo of his heartbeat.
Bob sighed, head hanging low and fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as he turned around, ready to go back and wallow in self-pity, when Yelena’s raspy voice made him look over his shoulder.
“Bobik? Everything alright?” she asked, the nickname Alexei had bestowed upon him, making warmth bloom in his chest. Not ‘Bobby’, a name that made him flinch, but a soft ‘Bobik’, a name that made him feel cherished.
The blonde was decked out in her combat gear, clearly just having arrived from a mission, so the fact that one of her first instincts was to check in on him made his body flush. He was still trying to get used to the fact that people actually cared about him, not as an experimental subject, not as a wannabe superhero, but just about him. About Bob.
“Oh, yeah,” he stammered, giving Yelena a tight-lipped smile, but he couldn’t control the way his hands wrung together, betraying the anxiousness he was feeling. “Everything’s A-Okay.”
For a second neither of them moved or said anything, and just as Bob was about to venture down to his room, Yelena crossed her arms, cocking her hip to the side and raising a single brow.
All he could do was sigh. She was one of the few people it was hard to lie to, whom he didn’t even really want to lie to. “It’s just that… umm… Y/N and I were supposed to go to a bookstore a while ago, but she uh… well, I haven’t seen her all day… and when I asked around, nobody else has either. Ava even said she didn’t come up for breakfast, and she wasn’t in the kitchen for lunch, so…”
“That does not sound like her.” Yelena’s nose scrunched as she went closer and knocked against Y/N’s door, a motion that came so easily to her, yet Bob had struggled for ages to even lift his hand. “Lubov moya,” she sing-songed in Russian. “Are you in there?”
And once again, only silence responded. As the moment stretched, Bob slowly started to roll back and forth on his feet. God, why hadn’t he thought about how she could already have left the tower ages ago!
But no, it wouldn’t be like Y/N to just leave him hanging or not let at least one person know where she was.
Unless… unless she’d gone out to do something she didn’t want the others to know about… to tease her about… like maybe she’d gone on a date.
“It’s – it’s alright,” Bob let out a strangled chuckle, as thoughts whirled inside his head. “She just probably forgot about it, or something more important came up.”
But the ex-Widow just knocked again, ignoring Bob’s spiralling. “Legushka?” she called out, the nickname rolling off her tongue with a concerned yet teasing lilt.
There’d been this one time John had called Y/N that, snorting as Alexei had translated the meaning of the word (froggy or little frog), and where usually she’d respond with an eye roll to Yelena or their sort-of-kind-of adoptive father figure, Walker received a bloody nose and grade-two concussion.
Only Yelena had the privilege of calling her fellow ex-Red Room alumni such absurd names without any consequences. And, well, sometimes Bob could too, but he wrote it off on the fact that Y/N just tried to make him feel included, and no other reason…
“Snookums? My little pookie-wookie?” Now, Yelena was just making things up as she went, no doubt hoping to get at least some sort of a response from Y/N, but when even that didn’t accomplish anything, with a grumbled, “alright, fine, be that way,” she crouched down, pulling out a picking set from her boot.
Bob’s eyes widened in alarm, hissing at the woman, “What are you doing? Don’t do that!”
“Well, we have to get in somehow,” Yelena just shrugged, the noise of metal softly scraping against metal invading his senses.
“Not by breaking and entering Y/N’s room!”
The blonde let out a squeak of indignation. “I am not breaking and entering!” The lock clicked open. “For one – I didn’t break shit. And two – the door is open. Now it’s just entering.”
“She is going to kill us, and I will not be coming to your rescue.”
“Please,” Yelena replaced her picking tools back inside her boot. “We have too much history between us in the Red Room for her to decide this is the final drop. As for you…” Yelena smirked. “Let’s just say, I know things you don’t.”
“Wait, what? What do you know? What things?”
But she didn’t respond, only opened the door.
Bob wanted to protest, wanted to say they shouldn’t be invading Y/N’s private space like that, wanted to shake Yelena down for whatever information she might possess. If it had anything to do with feelings he hoped Y/N might have for him. That most likely, there was a reason she wasn’t answering, even if she was there, and that most likely, she just felt bad about not wanting to hang out with him, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying so, which he was totally fine and cool with and –
Yelena poked her head inside, and where usually, Y/N’s place was brightly lit by the daylight, her curtains drawn back to allow it to be illuminated, pure darkness greeted them, as Bob, shame curling in his stomach at such invasion, peered over Yelena’s head to take a glance.
He associated Y/N’s room with peace.
Cream colored walls, dark brown curtains with a plush carpet, emerald settees resting atop it and a large bookshelf taking up a whole wall with softly glowing nightlights in the shape of sprouting mushrooms would be plugged in during the night, and plastic glow-in-the-dark stars creating real and made-up constellations on the ceiling – that was the space he considered his true home.
Every free inch was covered in some knick-knack or a souvenir, as she had a tendency to collect small things, but she also had a tendency to gift them to others.
She was kind. Caring. Thoughtful. She was Bob’s safe place.
Yet now it was pitch black inside.
Yelena was clearly just as worried as he was, because when she looked up from her still crouched position, confusion marred her face.
“Malishka?” she called out as she stood, slowly entering the room, Bob following as their eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting.
He shifted his gaze around only to settle on a large moving mound on the bed, so with Yelena as the lead, they moved towards it, when finally a voice rasped from somewhere beneath the ungodly amount of blankets. “Malishka is dead. Come back tomorrow with a warrant. Or a casket.”
Every single doubt that’d permeated Bob’s mind vanished at the realisation of what was really going on.
Y/N hadn’t forgotten about the plans they’d made. She hadn’t found something better to do with her time or decided he was simply not worth her while.
Y/N was sick.
And by the sound of it, badly.
Bob’s heart clenched at the thought. They all seemed so indestructible, but it was moments like those, where he was reminded that some of them, especially Yelena and Y/N – the two people he’d grown to care most about in the weird little team he was a part of – were simply humans. And humans could get ill.
Gently, Yelena sat down on the side of the bed, her fingers rooting around the coverings before an opening was made, a pair of Y/E/C eyes squinting at the intruders. “Can you please close the door? My eyeballs hurt.”
“Oh, shit!” Bob cursed softly, padding to the door and closing it, once again plunging the room into complete darkness. “Sorry.”
He wanted to rebel against the black that now surrounded them, he wanted to panic and spiral, to have at least one of those nightlights be turned on, but somehow, through a sheer sense of will, he steeled himself against the rising tide. Whether it was because he knew light would hurt Y/N, or whether it was because he felt safe with the two women, despite not really being able to see anything that wasn’t an inch away from his face, Bob couldn’t tell. Well… he could, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud, because that would make things real…
“Can you please breathe quieter, Lena?” Y/N groaned from her cocoon. “My head’s pounding as is.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Yelena cooed, placing the back of her hand against the other woman’s forehead to feel for her temperature. “I think you might have the flu, huh?”
Y/N sniffled. “I dunno what I have, but whatever it is, I blame Walker.”
Bob looked at Yelena, the man still hovering by the bedside table, not wanting to invade the space between the two. “Has John been sick?”
“Not that I’m aware.” Yelena ghosted her hand over Y/N’s cheek before standing up and going to what he knew to be the bathroom. After a quick second, she returned with a wet cloth, laying it over her friend’s forehead. “But we can always blame him.”
A delirious smile appeared on Y/N’s face. “We can, can’t we?”
“Of course.” Yelena nodded. “Would it make you feel better if I went and beat him up?”
“I think it would, yeah… Can you stab him too?” Y/N asked as an afterthought.
“Anything for you, legushka moya.” Yelena brushed a sweaty Y/H/C strand from where it’d plastered itself down against her cheek. Bob’s heart ached at the tender motion, fingers twitching at his side with the want to do the same, but he restrained himself. “But tell you what, before I go and seek revenge on Walker, how about I go and make you some soup, and Bob will keep you company. Sound okay?”
Instantly, it was like someone had turned the light switch off, Y/N’s smile dropped, and she harrumphed. “Bob can stay, but no soup.”
“Soup always makes everything better! Besides, Bob said you didn’t go to breakfast or lunch. You have to get something in you,” Yelena scolded the woman. Despite them being barely a month apart, she acted like an older sister to Y/N.
The sick girl just whined. “I’m not hungry. I’m achy and icky and gross, and I just wanna rot away in my bed.”
“Well, you need to get food in you,” the ex-Widow countered, hands on her hips. “Do not move. I will be right back. Bob, please keep an eye on her.”
“As if I could go anywhere,” Y/N scoffed, but it fell only on Bob’s ears, as Yelena had already made her exit.
On instinct, his fingers started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, a nervousness taking over his body. After a moment of unsurety of what exactly he was supposed to do, a croaky voice whispered, “You should go, Bob. I know Lena said to stay, but I don’t want you to catch whatever wasting disease I have."
An involuntary smile blossomed on his lips at her care about his well-being, despite being so sick herself. “I uh, I don’t think I can get sick anymore, so no worries there.”
He noted the small frown on Y/N’s lips as she eyed him up and down. “Show off,” she muttered, but didn’t tell him to leave again, rather said, “ ‘M sorry about today, by the way. Should’ve at least gotten out of bed and told you I wasn’t fit to walk in civilised society. I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“No!” he said, trying to quell her guilt, sitting down onto the bed, and to his own surprise, brushing a finger down her cheek without even thinking. “No, no, no… you’re not feeling well, so don’t even worry about me. I’m just glad that, you know, you’re not bleeding out on the bathroom floor or something.”
Bob’s whole being lit up when, despite Y/N being evidently unwell, she snorted, no doubt remembering how about a month prior when she’d returned to the Watchtower after a mission, she’d pretty much traumatized both Bob and John, as they’d found her half-dead on the kitchen floor, munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, blood pooling around her at a rapid pace.
“Seriously!?” John had scoffed as he helped Bob lift Y/N up from the floor, the two men supporting as much of her weight as possible as they dragged her to the elevator and then to the med-floor. “PB&J? That was gonna be your last meal?”
“Hey!” Y/N protested. “It was the only thing I could manage to make before the wooziness set in. You know, from having been turned into a walking-talking shishkabob.” She chuckled deliriously, looking at the man who had the biggest crush on her in the world, yet she didn’t even know about it, and now she could potentially die. “Huh. Shish-ka-Bob.” Then she booped his nose and promptly passed out.
Safe to say, he’d spent the next few days hovering in the med-bay, and when Y/N had been discharged, off-missions for a while, but allowed to rest in her room, he’d hovered in the hallway behind her door, just to make sure the things he saw during his nightmares, the images that the Void tried to tell him were real, actually weren’t.
But Y/N didn’t know that.
She didn’t know the true extent of what went on inside Bob’s mind or heart, didn’t know the real depth of the feelings he had for her.
She didn’t know how much the nights she allowed him to spend in her room meant to him.
She didn’t know how much the little trinkets she brought back for him as a souvenir from whichever corner of the world she’d been sent to, mattered.
She didn’t know that if the tower suddenly caught on fire and he could only save three things, he’d rush inside the flames to take the three little cat figurines sitting on his shelf.
It had been after she’d returned from a solo mission in Japan, Bob having pretty much worried himself sick, only to have her bound up to him, still dirt-covered and bloodied, but the smile on her face was as bright as the morning sun. “Look!” She presented the white, red and gold porcelain cats. “It’s the three of us! Me, you and Lena! They’re so cute!”
That night, he’d fallen asleep with the three little waving felines looking over him, golden night-light illuminating the statuettes.
So, in a moment like this, where Y/N was the one who needed support, he could only hope and pray, she felt it from him.
Gently, Bob brushed a palm against her forehead, taking off the wet towel that’d now warmed up to her skin temperature. But he hadn’t anticipated that, despite being bogged down by most likely the flu, her reflexes were still Black-Widow-quick, as her hand shot out from underneath the blankets, grabbing onto his wrist and pressing his hand against the skin of her neck. “Oh, you are so warm,” she sighed, cuddling the appendage.
“S-so are you!” Bob didn’t necessarily know what to do. “Alarmingly so, actually.”
“Yeah,” Y/N puffed a breath, still not releasing the death-grip she had on his hand. “That’s probably the 103 fever I have going on.”
Instantly, his anxiety skyrocketed.
He knew he ran warm. He pretty much always had the AC on in his room, especially at night, as he was a complete contradiction of a human – he was abysmally hot all the time, mainly thanks to the Sentry serum, but he was most comfortable in a sweater and sweatpants while swaddled up like a burrito in a blanket.
His heart thudded in his chest as Y/N snuggled closer to his touch, while he worried he was doing her harm. Yes, a fever was the body’s natural way of fighting off viruses or infections and whatnot, but a too high a fever was also dangerous, and he'd never forgive himself if he made it worse.
“Y/N, you’re really burning up.” Bob chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Can you please let me go? Just for a second,” he added on, as she whined when he tried to slip his hand away. “I’m just gonna get you a new cold compress. Please…”
“But I don’t want you to leave!”
“I’m – I’m not gonna leave,” he whispered, terrified that if his voice was any louder, any clearer, she might pick up on the emotion he was trying to suppress. “I promise, it’ll be just a second. I won’t even go outside the room.”
For a moment, Y/N’s grip tightened on Bob, holding him closer than ever, but then, with a sigh of defeat, she released him.
He was quick, just like he said he would. Even in pure darkness, his eyes having adjusted to the lack of light now, probably thanks to the Sentry serum, he dampened the cloth with cold water and wrung out the excess, getting back to her, in the time it took for Y/N to shift from lying on her side to being on her back.
She’d somewhat untangled herself from the cocoon of blankets, and Bob had to stop mid-step as he noted what she was wearing.
It was his sweater. Well, one of the many he had, but it was something of his nonetheless.
And he could physically feel how something broken and cracked inside him got stitched together. Some deep, still-hurting part of Bob, that always managed to whisper a negative thought, how he didn’t matter, how washing the dishes and doing the chores was nothing compared to what everyone else in the tower did, fused back together, the Void’s incessant noise quietening. With just a simple glance at Y/N, who had found comfort in something of his when she was feeling bad, Bob felt a part of him heal.
He didn’t comment on it, though, half-terrified if he did, she might think he was mad about it, when in reality it was the complete opposite. And an insatiable need had now settled somewhere in his chest, a want to see her in all of his clothes. And maybe nothing as well…
“H-here,” Bob stammered out, before taking a deep breath and sinking down next to Y/N on the bed. Gently, he placed the towel along her forehead, and he couldn’t help himself as his thumb brushed along her jawline, tracing a small scar, no doubt from some mission. She leaned into his touch like a sunflower leaned towards the sun. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“No,” she shook her head, and this time, when her hand met his, she intertwined their fingers, as if afraid he might disappear. “Just stay, please.”
“Always.”
And there really wasn’t anywhere else Bob wanted to be.
The thought of spending the day at a bookstore, some ungodly sweet concoction that resembled a coffee only in spirit, in his hand, was only appealing because he would be going with Y/N there.
“We’ll go when I get better, I promise,” she muttered, as if having read his mind while snuggling closer to the palm he’d placed on her cheek.
“Books can wait.” Bob hoped his voice was low and soothing as he spoke, blue eyes still trained on the sweater that covered her body, his own feeling all fuzzy at the image. “Just rest.”
When he didn’t get a response or even a little hum of acknowledgement, he looked up only to find Y/N’s features slack with sleep, her chest rising in slow and steady breaths.
Bob wanted to curl up next to her, to have his hands wrap around her waist, and have her head rest on his chest as he buried his nose into her hair, because this was the highest degree of trust anyone could have in him. For Y/N to find peace and safety with him while she was in such a vulnerable state, catapulted Bob onto Cloud Nine. He knew darkness would always try to press in, try to find the cracks and strike when he was unawares, but this time he wasn’t afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows. Not when he knew he would have to be the one to step up, if only to protect the one he loved most in the world.
He sat there like that, entranced with the sleeping beauty on the bed, a thumb softly grazing her cheek, making sure Y/N was as comfortable as possible. He was so attuned to her and her sleeping form, that when the door cracked open, he was startled by Yelena coming in, a tray in her hands as she blew on a steaming bowl of soup.
“Okay,” once more the blonde sing-songed as she walked inside the room. “I have chicken-noodle soup for our little sick-bug.”
There was some grumbling from Y/N as she was brought out from her slumber, but despite all her protests, she rose into a sitting position, Bob’s hand on her back a steady help. She eyed the bowl with suspicion. “Who made it?”
“Do not worry, Dad was nowhere near the pot. He might be lurking for the leftovers now, but this!” She lifted the bowl above her head like it was a diamond, “is all from yours truly.”
Y/N sniffed the air. “Well, I guess it smells edible… not that I can smell much.”
“Then this is exactly what you need.” Yelena slid the tray to rest on Y/N’s knees while Bob helped her adjust against the backboard of the bed and was rewarded with the most gorgeous smile ever. “Here you go, legushka. Now, I’ll go get some paracetamol and VapoRub, and by the time I get back, I expect that bowl to be empty. It will do wonders for your sinuses, trust me.”
She didn’t argue, just let out a resigned sigh and nodded, taking the spoon in her hand. “You know, back in the Red Room, Mistress Vera said the best kind of medicine is a good beating. Will get you right back on your feet.”
“Yes, well, that is why Mistress Vera is six feet under.” Yelena fluffed up a pillow behind Y/N before nudging her chin up with a finger. “As is the whole of Red Room.”
“I mean right now, I think I’d rather get a good beat-“
“Eat,” Yelena interrupted whatever she was about to say.
“Fine, fine, Jesus…. You’re worse than Mistress Vera…”
Slowly, without moving her gaze from Y/N, Yelena stood to hover over her. Even Bob could feel the menacing aura she exuded – an older sister ready to torment her younger one. “And if you don’t eat every single noodle, every single piece of carrot and celery and chicken, you will be wishing Mistress Vera were here. Understood? Legushka moya?”
Though Y/N was bleary and tired, she was unwavering as the two Black Widows engaged in a stare-off. Unfortunately for her, though, she was the first one to break, as she rubbed at her teary eyes, probably because of the light that was filtering into the room from the open doorway.
“Damn it, Lena, fine! I’ll eat the stupid soup!”
“Good.” The blonde straightened out, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Because Bob will tell me if you don’t. Won’t you, Bobik?”
His eyes turned so wide he was afraid they might fall out of his head.
God.
Oh god no.
He was stuck between a rock and a hard place as Y/N glowered from below her lashes, sniffling, while Yelena cocked her head to the side.
Ultimately, though, his loyalty to the blonde and wanting nothing but the best for the well-being of the woman he was in love with, no matter what she might say to counter the effectiveness of the soup, won out. “Yeah. I – I will.”
Y/N scoffed, turning her head away from him as Yelena pressed a triumphant kiss to the top of her hair before leaving.
“Traitor,” she muttered.
Bob looked down at his hands, which he had resting in his lap as he worried the inside of his cheek. “I just want you to get better, Y/N…”
“And I just wanna lie down and die, but neither of you is letting me.”
“But who’s gonna go to the bookstore with me if you die?” He gave her a small smile, hoping to elevate her sour mood.
“I dunno, John?”
Bob gave her a look, their gazes meeting. “You actually think John can read?”
If Y/N had been eating the soup, no doubt she would’ve choked with how she threw her head back in a loud laugh, as Bob tried to steady the tray, the broth sloshing a bit out of the bowl.
“I’m sorry,” she chuckled, their fingers brushing as she held the platter and pulled it closer. “Didn’t mean to make a mess.”
“Don’t be.” The smile on his face was probably ridiculous, wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. “Laughter’s the best medicine or uh… something along those lines.”
“You should tell Mistress Vera that. Might have to use a OUIJA board though.” Y/N winced as the hot liquid slid down her sore throat, slowly chewing on a piece of noodle.
Admittedly, Bob didn’t know much about her time in the Red Room. He’d seen her shame rooms, just like he’d been privy to Yelena’s and the rest of the Thunderbolts’, as she’d been there when the Void had attacked New York, but once he came out of it, once they told him what he’d done, the feeling of having violated their privacy… he never asked either of them to talk about their time there.
All Bob knew was that Mistress Vera had been Y/N’s handler, as she’d been trained separately from Yelena and her sister Natasha. Only after the original Avenger had broken her out of the trance induced by the mind-control serum used to keep the Black Widows under the Red Room spell, did Y/N join the two in helping them take down the organisation.
“Oh… oh shit, I’m sorry,” her words of apology brought him back to the present, away from the thoughts of what she’d had to go through as a child, where a sore throat wouldn’t have been healed by a gentle touch, but a brutal beating.
His brows furrowed as he looked around, thinking she might’ve spilt the soup, but there wasn’t anything there. “Whatever for?”
“The dark!” she said, like it was a crime she’d committed. “Bob, you can put in some of the nightlights. They’re by the plugs.”
“Oh, that’s…” He shook his head, for once happy to be surrounded by mostly shadows because that meant Y/N couldn’t see the furious blush covering his face, while his longish hair obscured his smiling features as he glanced down at his hands. “It’s okay. I don’t mind actually.”
“But you don’t like the dark…?” The sentence was more of a question than the solid statement it used to be.
Bob shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his sweater. “This isn’t that bad… and if it helps you feel better, your eyes to not hurt, I don’t mind.”
“I don’t want you to ‘not mind’ things. Bob, if you’re uncomfortable, you should put in at least one nightlight. Seriously. They’re not gonna boil out of my skull or something.”
“My comfort isn’t as important as your health right now.” He shifted on the bed.
“Of course it is!” The offended squeak Y/N let out would have made him smile, had it not turned into a violent coughing fit.
After she was done hacking her lungs up, Bob’s hand running up and down her spine, hoping to at least somewhat soothe the ache, he lifted the warm bowl of soup closer to her. “Eat. Or I will tell on you to Yelena.”
“Stukach,” Y/N mumbled in Russian, glaring at him as best as she could. Alexei and Yelena had introduced him enough to the language (mostly swearwords, which they said were the most important words) for him to understand she’d called him a snitch, but if being a snitch would motivate her to eat and get better, so be it.
With a fond gaze, he watched as she finally got some food into her, and once she was done, he took the tray away, placing it on the nightstand, a hand of his acting on its own accord as he brushed a finger along her cheek. “Better?”
“Yes. But don’t tell Lena that. She’ll just be insufferably smug about it.”
Shaking his head, Bob helped Y/N settle back into bed, tucking the blanket under her chin, but before he could even move a foot, her hand shot out, curling around his wrist once more.
“Bob?”
“Yeah?” He looked where the woman lay against the plush pillows, head slowly sinking deeper into the down.
“Could you… umm… and that is only if you really can’t get sick… could you maybe stay with me? Just until I fall asleep…”
He was sure his heart had skipped a beat. Or maybe it’d done a full-blown gymnastics routine, somersaults and all, because it definitely wasn’t beating in its normal rhythm in his chest.
“Y-yeah, of course, if that’s what you want.” Bob swallowed hard, nodding. “Just, uh… let me bring the tray to the kitchen, and then I’ll be right back.”
And with a small “okay” from Y/N as his dismissal, Bob scurried out of the room like lightning.
The hallway light was blinding compared to the darkness of the room he’d just spent about an hour in, but for the first time in his life, he craved it. Because in that darkness was safety and peace. In that darkness lay a body, curled up on a bed, covered in his sweater, waiting for him, hoping he’d help her get better.
He barely acknowledged Ava or Bucky, who called out to him, asking if he was alright, as he grabbed a couple of water bottles from the fridge and some of the pretzels Alexei had stashed behind pots and pans, hoping to hide his hoard. He wouldn’t mind, Bob reasoned. Y/N was like another daughter to him, and if she’d eaten the soup, despite all her protesting, maybe her appetite was gonna be coming back sooner rather than later, and he wanted to be stocked up on snacks. Besides, he could just blame Walker if needed.
When he returned, he was instantly enveloped by Y/N’s scent as if it were its own form of blanket.
“Hey,” Bob whispered, not wanting to break the settled peace. “I’m – I’m back.”
He mostly heard rather than saw shuffling on the bed, but as his eyes adjusted, he noted Y/N had moved to the side furthest from the door, opening up some space on the bed.
She’d done so before during the nights his mind had been restless, but somehow this felt much more intimate than when insomnia forbade him from sleeping.
Slowly, as if afraid this moment would be ripped from him if he moved any quicker, Bob placed the waters and pretzels on the ground, sliding in next to her, turning to face Y/N with one hand under his cheek, the other on the mattress between them.
“Thank you,” she muttered, the ghost of a smile on her face as her hand slid from below the blankets and rested atop his. “For taking care of me.”
“I–I mean, I didn’t –“
“You did,” she interrupted his stammering, tightening the grip she had on him. Gently, he flipped it palm up so that her fingers could slide between his. “And you still are. So thank you.”
And once again, like he’d said before, he simply replied, “Always.”
With that single word spoken, Bob watched as Y/N’s eyes drooped closed, her breathing evened out, and once again she was deeply asleep. Yet even when in dreamland, her hold on him never wavered. Not when she twisted out from the cocoon and scooted closer to him, not as chills overtook her body and Bob held her through them, not as the fever broke and a small sigh of relief escaped, her body slowly returning to a normal temperature.
For the first time in his life, Bob had found peace in the darkness, all because of the woman lying in his arms. And when it came to claim him too, he gladly fell, knowing that when he awoke, she would be there, much like she’d be in his dreams.
***
BONUS
“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, this is so cute!”
It was a harsh whisper-yell that brought Bob out of his slumber.
He peeked an eye open, noting the unmistakable shape of Y/N’s form in his arms. She was still sound asleep, her body curled around his like that of a koala’s, head tucked below his chin, while one of her arms had a death-grip on his waist, a leg thrown over his hip.
One of his own arms was underneath her, completely numb. From the feeling of it, it’d probably been there for ages, but if this position meant she was comfortable and could have a good sleep, he’d deal with the pins-and-needles a hundred times over if necessary.
Turning to look over his shoulder, Bob found the culprit or rather culprits of the noise as he was met with the faces of Yelena, Alexei, Bucky, Ava and John all looking at them through a gap in the door, the Red Guardian with a phone in his hand, no doubt taking pictures of the two cuddling.
“You guys,” he mumbled, a blush of embarrassment crawling its way all over his body. “Can you pipe it down? Y/N’s asleep.”
“How is Legushka?” Yelena whispered into the room. “Did the fever break?”
“Yes!” Bob hissed, turning away from the team and curling tighter around the body he had in his hold. “Now, can you all please leave? You’ll wake her up.”
“Sorry.” Bucky raised his hands in apology. “I told them not to disturb you. Come on! Out, everyone!”
Obviously, he more than Y/N, would get mercilessly teased about it, but he could take it, if it meant a bit more time with her in his arms, but just when he thought he’d gotten away with it, Walker just had to shout a loud, “Yeah, fucking get it, Bobik!”, making Y/N spring up.
She took a confused glance around at the room before her eyes settled onto Bob who was on her bed, red-faced and mortified.
“The toad did it,” Y/N said, her tone serious as a heart attack.
Bob blinked once. Twice. “What?”
“I swear the toad did it,” she mumbled, evidently delirious from sleep and the flu, but slowly moving back to lay down next to him, curling into the man’s body like it was where she belonged. “The toad ate the last strawberry. Damn thieving amphibian…”
Come morning, he would ask about the toad and the strawberry and if it had anything to do with Yelena’s nickname for her, but for now, Bob just pressed a light kiss against Y/N’s forehead, eyes slipping closed, listening to the melody of her breathing.
One day, he would tell her how he really felt.
One day, he would give his heart to her.
One day, he hoped, she would trust him with her own.
But for then and there, Bob was content with his present. With the peace he’d found in the darkness.
Tags:
Marvel tags: @nerissa98 @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @pizzarollpatrol @desir-ae
A/N: we are so back baby, Tower fics incoming! Bob, my love, my life...
you bet your ass I'm probably gonna write something where OG Avengers are still alive and living in the tower with Thunderbolts*!!! The chaos that would ensue is giving me life
Tags are always open
Pairings: Dom!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts Teammate!Reader
Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. no use of y/n. secret hookups, armory sex, unprotected p in v, praise kink, power play, slight sub!bob energy but make it neeeedddyyyyy and feral, desperate!bob, dominant!reader, interrupted sex, yelena being yelena, begging, orgasm denial (sort of), overstimulation, dirty talk.
Summary: The Thunderbolt's press tour is a fucking disaster—Valentina's controlling, the team’s a mess, and Bob Reynolds looks at you like he’s one second away from losing his mind. When you catch him pacing the armory alone, you take what you want. But when you tell him to stay quiet and be good... Bob doesn’t stay quiet. And he definitely doesn’t stay good.
Word count: ~4k
Author's note: need bob reynolds to absolutely destroy me. can't even think or breathe cause he's taking up space in my mind. living in my head rent free and i am not complaining. I'm loooovvvinnnggg these two so much, might make more shots with them cause what the hell???? the dynamic thooooo!!! love me some dom and sub bob <3333333 he's so babygirl i can't take it anymore. if you want to be added to my tag list just comment! <3
masterlist.
"Quiet, Bob."
The words came out as a whisper, but the threat in them made Bob Reynolds shiver under your touch. His back hit the cold armory wall with a clang, head tilting back, mouth already parted on a moan. His shirt was god knows where—somewhere between the racks of rifles and dusty, outdated StarkTech. Your mouth was on his, tongue sliding deep, fingers fisting his curls like you needed an anchor. And Bob? He was already halfway gone.
It had been a long, brutal week.
Valentina had decided that the Thunderbolts—the shiny New Avengers—needed a rebranding for a more "palatable" public. And what better way than a grueling, nonstop, goddamn press tour?
You were paraded like collectibles. Forced smiles. Posed photos. Tactical suits are tailored to make you look sleek. Heroes for the modern age, like she'd said.
Like a fucking boy band.
You were all lined up and put on display like action figure dolls.
"Smile for the cameras," she'd coo, pacing in front of you like a general inspecting her soldiers. "We're selling salvation, not trauma. Wipe that frown off your face, Bucky."
Bucky didn’t even flinch. Just stared through her, arms crossed, his metal hand twitching like it wanted to be anywhere else. Or wrapped around her throat.
Valentina didn’t stop there.
“You,” she snapped at you during the third press op, finger jabbing the air like it might actually hit you. “Need to look grateful, sweetheart. Do you know what I’m paying to make you likable? Not that you aren’t—you’re a doll, really—but come on now, you have to stop glaring at the children like you want to throw them into traffic.”
It was all bullshit. She’d even made Bob do interviews. Bob, whose voice cracked anytime someone looked at him too long.
Yelena had muttered something in Russian that was definitely a curse and didn't even try to smile.
Alexei had laughed too loudly during a morning show segment that made the host flinch, and a lighting rig tripped over.
Ava vanished in the middle of a red carpet appearance—literally phased through the floor and didn’t return for hours.
Walker kept trying to one-up Bucky in interviews. "Sure, Barnes is a legend," he'd say, clapping his shoulder, "but some of us chose to be heroes."
Of course, you snorted a little bit too loud. Loud enough for the mic to catch it. Loud enough for Walker to glare at you and Bucky to smirk.
And Mel? Poor Mel had to endure Valentina's bickering, forcing all of you to pose for pictures while muttering apologies like there was no tomorrow.
You were the first one to be asked for solo shots in the new tactical gear.
"Just a few poses," Valentina said, flashing a big, bright PR smile. "You wear it so well. We want something sleek. Powerful. Sexy, but not, like, thirst trap sexy, you know?"
You didn't miss the way Bob watched. He didn't say a word; he barely moved. But his eyes? They devoured you. Dark, wide, hungry. Like he was seconds from losing it in front of everyone.
Later that day, you'd found him in the dark armory, pacing like a caged animal. Shoulder tense. Breathing shallow.
So you pushed him up against the wall. Fist in his hair. Mouth on his.
And now—
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled against your lips, teeth grazing. His hands were gripping your hips tightly, grinding against you, still half-covered by his pants but already leaking, already thick and throbbing for you. “The way you looked in that suit—I couldn’t fucking breathe.”
You rolled your hips against his, slow and punishing. “You could’ve said something.”
By the time you shoved him down, Bob was already panting, pupils blown, knees buckling. He hit the floor with a groan, legs spread, cock heavy and flushed. You were on him in seconds—knees framing his hips, hands pressing down on his chest, owning him.
You thanked God for wearing a dress.
He didn't even see your panties come off. Just blinked and they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. His pants already shoved down far enough, his cock already free.
He looked up at you like you were something holy. Divine. Dangerous. Like he'd beg to be burned if it meant you kept touching him like this.
Then you reached between you, lined him up, and sank down in one thrust. He filled you up completely.
Bob swore, loud and wrecked—“Fuckfuckfuck—” his head hit the floor, back arching, eyes wide and pleading.
“God, you feel so fucking good—tight—perfect—I can’t—”
You clapped your hand over his mouth.
“Quiet, Bob.”
He whimpered behind your palm. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your ass, your thighs—like he didn’t know what to hold onto first.
You started to move—fast and rough, giving neither of you time to adjust. You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want sweet. You wanted to feel it. The way he stretched you open, filled every inch, the way his cock hit deep, perfect with every thrust.
Bob moaned into your palm, loud and choked and shameless. His hips bucked up hard, matching your rhythm, chasing every thrust like he couldn’t help himself. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider for him, pulling you down harder.
Your name spilled from his lips again and again, muffled and wrecked.
“You’re so—fuck,—you’re so perfect—need this for so fucking long. I can't even fucking think when you're on me like this—God, yesssss"
You leaned down, dragging your lips along his jaw.
“You like being under me like this?”
He nodded, feverish, muffled praise tumbling behind your hand.
“Mhm—yes—fuck, please—you don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed against your palm, words falling out between gasps. “Been thinking about this—every night—every time you walked past in that suit, I wanted to fall to my knees—wanted to ruin you or be ruined, didn’t even fucking care—just needed you.”
You grinned, filthy and pleased. “And now you’re ruined under me.”
He whined, hips snapping up with such force that it knocked a loud moan right out of you.
“You feel that?” you gasped, rolling your hips in a slow, dragging circle. “That’s how deep you are. You’re so deep, Bob. I can feel you so deep inside me. God—you feel so fucking good."
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he moaned, eyes blown wide, hands gripping your thighs like a man drowning. “Such a good girl. God, you take me so fucking well—look at you—riding me like I belong to you—”
“You do,” you growled, dragging your nails down his chest. “You’re mine right now. You hear me?”
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck—yours—always—please god don’t fucking stop—”
You clapped your hand over his mouth again, smirking down at him.
“Quiet, Bob. Don't you dare fucking come until I tell you to."
He whimpered behind your palm, body trembling, trying so hard to behave, to stay still, to not fall apart completely under your touch. But you kept moving—fast, hard, relentless. Your thighs burned. His cock throbbed deep inside you with every stroke.
And just when he was seconds away from breaking—
Hiss. The door slid open.
“Oh my fucking god.”
Yelena’s voice hit like a bullet.
You froze. Bob’s eyes flew open, pure panic, still fully inside you.
Yelena stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, hand flying to her face but only half-covering her view.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “The armory? Are you both deranged? This is where we keep weapons, not—whatever the hell this is.”
Bob let out a muffled moan under your hand, utterly betrayed by his body.
Yelena pointed without looking. “Oh my god, this can't be happening. You’re—on top of him. And he’s—Jesus Christ, Bob!”
“Yelena!” you snapped, glaring over your shoulder.
“Alright, alright!” She held up both hands, backing away. “I’ll leave you to your... deep reconnaissance.” She snorted. “Real in-depth work going on here.”
“Yelena! GET OUT!”
“Leaving! Leaving!” she laughed, ducking out as the door hissed shut again. “Just make sure no one ends up disarmed.”
Your heart was still pounding when the door slid shut again, sealing Yelena—and her mouth—on the other side. You didn’t move, still straddling Bob, still full of him, flushed and breathless.
“You okay?” you asked, teasing, one brow raised. “She didn’t scar you for life, did she?”
Bob’s chest was heaving beneath you. He blinked up at you. Something shifted in his eyes.
“No,” he said—low, steady. Then, with startling force, he sat up.
“Bob—?”
His hands gripped your waist, hard. The next second, you were on your back, sprawled across the cool floor, his body covering yours. He was still inside you. Still rock hard. Still throbbing.
“You tease me like that,” he growled, voice rough and frayed, “and expect me to behave?”
Your breath hitched.
“You told me to be quiet. Told me not to come.”
His mouth was at your throat now, kissing, biting, breathing heat against your skin.
“You think I’m gonna ask again?”
You clawed at his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.
“Bob—”
“No,” he snapped, thrusting hard. You gasped, your back arching off the floor. “You don’t get to be in charge now.”
He fucked into you like a man possessed—deep, fast, relentless. All the praise from before was gone, replaced by low, hungry grunts and the sound of skin on skin.
“You wanted this,” he hissed against your ear. “Wanted me like this. Loud. Messy. Mine.”
You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he gave it to you—over and over again.
“You feel that?” he growled, pounding into you. “That’s not deep. This—this is deep.”
You couldn’t even form words. Just gasps. Moans. Scratches across his back.
And he loved it.
He didn’t stop until you were shaking, whimpering beneath him, your control shattered.
He leaned in, panting against your cheek, his voice a rough whisper.
Summary: When Finney beats up your ex, you finally bring up the courage to start a conversation with him.
Tags: canonical violence, fluff
Words: 1,184
A/N: This scene was something for sure
You were drawn to the school parking lot by the various noises from students, which sounded like a mixture of frightened gasps, arguments, and cheering on the people who were undoubtedly getting into a physical fight.
As you found an empty spot between students staring in awe, you were at first shocked by the bloody nose of the boy who was lying on the floor. Then you recognized who it was. Your dear ex-boyfriend who could go to hell. It seemed he found something close to it. With a grin you were unable to suppress despite the harshness of this situation, you looked on.
For once in your life, you were rooting for the bully. Although in this case, you gladly believed your ex boyfriend was the bully here and the other boy only defended himself—albeit more violently than maybe necessary, generally speaking.
“Anyone else?” the taller boy yelled, looking around the crowd of spectators, all of them suddenly quiet. Secretly fearing you might have been next, you quickly wiped the grin off your face.
Now you also recognized him. Finney Blake. The kid who had disappeared in middle school and had come back to be celebrated as the tough guy who had escaped a serial killer. The celebrations hadn't lasted very long, as in recent years, the only context in which those events were brought up among students was to make fun of him and express doubt that all of that had actually happened. Most likely, that was the reason for this fight as well.
Breathing heavily to come down from all this physical action, fire in his eyes and the muscles in his cheeks visibly contracting as he clenched his jaw, Finney almost looked attractive.
You didn’t really know him personally, yet you knew everything there was to know about him. He had been abducted by the Grabber four years ago, he had killed the Grabber and as he grew older, his coping mechanisms were violence and smoking lots of pot.
Certainly there was more to him and his personality beyond the tough survivor surface, but nobody ever talked about that, and he had become a lone wolf less in the sense that he was simply too shy than in the sense that he wanted to be left alone, so it was difficult to find out more by talking to him personally.
In fact, you had never talked to him before. You only took a few classes together and even for group projects, you were never paired with him to get the chance to strike up a conversation. Those who didn’t look down upon him were intimidated by him, and he probably wasn't the type of person to make friends in class, anyway.
However, you were determined to change that today. For one, you wanted to praise his work in the schoolyard earlier. The other reason was that you suddenly realized he wasn't the timid, skinny, little boy with a passion for building rockets anymore, rather than the handsome 17-year-old who had just beaten up your ex-boyfriend—something you held him in the highest regard for.
Your new locker wasn't too far away from his, which you used to your advantage now. After a few seconds of fumbling with the combination you still hadn't fully memorized, you decided to leave it and avoid an embarrassing scene.
“Good fight,” you said casually, leaning against the lockers.
Huffing, he opened his locker without more of a response. You weren't sure if he even looked at you all. If he did, it was a glance that lasted no longer than a split second.
“That was my ex,” you pointed out off-handedly, the smirk audible in your voice.
Finney didn't seem to care, only moving slightly to look at you past the locker door and murmuring sarcastically, “Well, sorry about that.”
“Not at all, he was an asshole,” you shrugged, putting the books into your bag when you realized you weren't going to be able to open the locker, before adding, “Still is, as it turns out.”
A smile tugged at his lips as he quickly put something in his pocket while hurriedly scanning the near-empty hallway and closed the locker. “You mean he's a dick by nature?”
“Right on the money, Finn,” you confirmed, the strap of your bag sliding down your shoulder as you got too comfortable in your cool position.
Suddenly, Finney frowned and you thought it was because you had used his name, but then he gestured toward the locker you were leaning against. “Do you need help?”
Being offered help because you were too stupid to open your own combination lock was the worst case scenario you hadn't even thought of before approaching him. You had expected him to act annoyed or ignore you—both of which did happen—but you hadn't expected him to show pity for you, nor was that your goal.
“Um…” You couldn't think of a clever reply before he stepped closer to you, lightly tapping the metal beside your head with his bruised knuckles.
“This one?” he asked and you shook your head, stepping aside. “Next to it.”
“Forgot your combination?” He turned to you with a smirk, which made your cheeks heat up. You prayed it was subtle, even if he was close enough to definitely notice.
“I was just assigned this locker, my old one was larger than I needed,” you said almost defensively. “I just remember 8–17… and whatever the last number was.”
Finney nodded, an unreadable expression on his face as he didn't take his eyes off you while you talked. “Let's see.”
He turned the dial to the numbers you had given him and for the last round, he leaned in as he carefully turned the dial in the other direction, listening for the click when he hit the correct one. Soon enough, the lock was open and he straightened up. “24.”
“Thank you,” you said sheepishly, suddenly more embarrassed than you had been earlier when you had at least been struggling to open it by yourself without him watching. Or maybe he had been watching, or else he wouldn't have known you needed help.
You opened the door and finally put your books away, seeing from the corner of your eye that he was staring at you, still not leaving your side when his job was technically done.
“Hey, you got a piece of paper?”
You handed him a pencil along with a ripped-off corner of a paper that was sticking out of one of your books to take notes in case your notebook was full.
Finney wrote something on it—presumably your locker combination—and gave it back to you. As you read his writing, you looked up at him in confusion. “That's not my combination.”
“Of course not, it's my phone number,” he grinned, giving you a bewildered look at how you could have thought he would write down anything else. “You know, that's two favors on my part.”
Folding the paper and sliding it into the pocket of your jeans, you winked and slowly turned to go to class. “I'll see you.”
ENDGAME — send me a dialogue prompt from this list, this list, or this list, + a character from the list above for a blurb!
HI can i get bucky x reader where reader is absolutely oblivious "please correct me if i've been reading this all wrong but..." but bucky has been trying ALL of his 1940s flirting methods and hes tweaking (i'm imagining his eye twitching) because hes been so obvious about it and she cant tell
hi angel!! thank u so so much for your request it was so much fun to write, hope u enjoy!
congressman!bucky x fem!reader, 1.3k words (reader is a little shy and a lot oblivious)
Apart from outright telling you, Bucky doesn’t know what else he can do to show you how much he likes you. He’s tried everything, from flowers on your desk to flirting with you over paperwork, to impromptu lunch with you during your break. He doesn’t mind waiting for you if that’s what you want, but he’s starting to think you actually haven’t realised how he feels about you, despite his many attempts.
You take his flirting like he’s joking (he’s not, he’s completely serious whenever he tells you you look pretty, or that you’re an incredible secretary and he wouldn’t have anyone else), and you don't flirt back, not on purpose, anyway. You’re not stupid, but you’re maybe a little unassuming. He guesses this is a result of you not being pursued much, or in the proper way. Which, of course, he thinks is absurd, when you’re that pretty.
“Hi, doll,” he says, looking up from his laptop. He gives you a once over, “You look nice today.”
You stand in the doorway of his office, looking lovely as ever with a stack of paperwork pressed to your chest. “Hello,” you say, smiling. “Thank you.”
Bucky likes your smile. He likes everything about you. He gestures to your paperwork with his head. “What’ve you got for me?”
“The documents you asked for, the ones you wanted printed?” You cross the room and place the stack on the corner of his desk. “Sorry I took so long, the printer was playing up.”
Bucky couldn’t care less about the printer. You look almost abnormally pretty today, in a cream coloured sweater and a brown skirt, your hair pinned up out of your face. He stares at you a bit too long before he remembers himself.
“That’s okay,” he says. Again, he could not care less about the printer when you’re in his office looking like that. “Thanks so much, doll.”
You smile at him and shrug one shoulder. “Just doing my job,” you say sweetly. “Was there anything else you wanted?”
Bucky can think of a lot of things he wants. You, being at the very top of the list. He decides on the spot that he’ll finally tell you so, tonight if he can. He taps a vibranium finger on the desk like he’s thinking.
“Hmm,” he hums, dragging it out as he pretends to think. He takes his time pretending before meeting your gaze, “Are you free tonight?”
You roll your eyes. “Bucky,” you say.
Bucky loves the way his name rolls off your tongue like that. He grins.
“What?” He asks, laughing a bit, “I’m serious, are you doing anything after work?”
You squint at him like you’re trying to figure out whether he’s joking or not. “No,” You say slowly. You fiddle with your bracelet. “Why?”
“I want to take you out,” Bucky says simply. “For dinner. Would you want to?”
You stare at him. “Are you joking?”
Bucky shakes his head. “No. I want to go somewhere nice with you and talk,” he explains.
Something close to panic crosses your features. “Are you firing me?” You ask.
“What?”
Bucky’s baffled. He has no idea why you think he’d be firing you. He’s just asked you on a date. You’re the best secretary he’s ever had (he’s only ever had one, but he imagines you’re the best out of all the ones he could’ve had). He very clearly likes you enough to keep you around for as long as he wants. Why you think he’d want to sack you is beyond him.
You get nervous then, embarrassed. You screw your hands in your sweater. “I— so you’re not firing me?”
Bucky feels suddenly so fond for you he almost stands up and kisses you. It burns in his chest like starlight, makes him feel nineteen again. It’s been a long, long time since he’s felt so young. It’s sort of electrifying.
“No,” he tells you, shaking his head. “Of course I’m not firing you, why would I do that? I just want to take you to dinner, doll.”
“Oh,” you say softly.
Bucky grins. You’re so cute. So oblivious. It drives him nuts for more reasons than one. “Is that a yes?” He asks you.
You rock on your feet and bite your lip. “Yeah, okay.”
“Perfect,” Bucky grins. “Do you like Vietnamese? I know a place.”
-
You’ve spent the majority of the day at work worrying about your dinner date with Bucky. You’re not sure if you should call it a date. You don’t know what to call it, actually.
You like Bucky. He’s kind, hard-working, handsome. He’s also intimidating and a bit scary sometimes. You know he doesn’t mean to be, but you’re flighty at the best of times, and he only makes it worse. He’s always saying and doing things that make your heart pump in a way you don’t quite understand.
You’re still a little scared he might fire you. Or tell you he’s replaced you. But so far, he’s only walked on the outside of the sidewalk, held the door for you, and refused to let you see how much anything on the menu costs.
All this only gets you thinking about all the other nice things he’s ever done for you, the pretty flowers that appeared on your desk last week, the time he gifted you a necklace because he, “thought it would look nice on you”. You’ve never thought about any of it for too long, not wanting to get your hopes up about what it all means.
“I’ve lost you,” Bucky says, sitting across from you. He’s taken off his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair. You can’t stop looking at his vibranium arm and the way it reflects the warm glow of the lights overhead.
You blink. “Sorry.”
Bucky smiles at you. “That’s okay. What’re you thinking about?”
You bite your lip. “Nothing,” you lie.
Your lie must show on your face (you’ve never been good at hiding anything, let alone from Bucky, who seems to have the uncanny ability to unravel you like a spool of thread), because Bucky gives you a knowing look.
“C’mon, doll, what is it?” He reaches across the table and takes your hand in his flesh one. He’s warm, but you’re warmer. He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, “You can tell me anything, you know.”
You look at your joined hands on the table and feel a bit dizzy.
“Um,” you start lamely. You can’t look at him, so you stare at his shoulder instead. “Please correct me if I've been reading this all wrong, but… is this a date?”
Bucky goes silent and you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing. Maybe the flowers and the necklace and everything else was merely a kind gesture between friends. Maybe this isn’t what you think it is, and you’ve gone and—
“Oh, honey,” Bucky says, saccharine sweet. “Are you kidding me? Of course this is a date. If you want it to be.”
You don’t know what to say. Of course you want it to be a date. You just never considered that Bucky would want that, too. You realise, suddenly, that you’ve been a bit foolish. You’ve no time to think about it because Bucky pushes his hand further up your arm to hold your forearm, leaning closer over the table.
“Do you want it to be?” He asks quietly. Gently, like he won’t be mad or offended if you say no.
You don’t want to say no, not at all. In what world would you? You nod your head, “Yes, I think so.”
Bucky grins so big it changes his whole face. “Okay,” he nods. “A date it is.”
He leans back in his chair but doesn’t let go of your hand. You feel so giddy you could burst, your chest fizzing with the feeling. Your fear it’ll spill out of you all at once.
Bucky looks equally as happy as you feel. “I’m glad you said so,” he says, and there’s a teasing edge to his tone that you’d hate if it wasn’t coming from him. “I’ve been wanting to take you on a date for ages, did you notice?”
pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader
summary: ava and yelena have no choice but to call your ex-boyfriend when you refuse to leave girls’ night out without him. but in your drunken haze you forget you’re broken up, and bob was never very good at telling you no.
tags: new avenger!reader, exes to lovers, angsty mutual pining goodness (i can’t seem to write anything except men who yearn these days), alpine picked bob in the divorce (you were never married)
warning(s): reader wears a dress and makeup, reader drinks alcohol and is intoxicated, mentions of addiction, mentions of mental health issues, suggestive content (no smut but some mild spice), one derogatory joke about florida (sorry florida. love, a californian 🫶🏻)
word count: 11.6k
note: title comes from the song back to friends by sombr, which i listened to while writing to help inspire the angst 🙂↕️
masterlist
If Ava and Yelena had known what a menace you were when you got drunk, they would never have floated the idea of a girls’ night out. They just thought you needed to blow off some steam after Bucky banned you from going on missions for two weeks.
Ever since you and Bob broke up, you’d been trying your best not to visibly mope too much. It had been almost three months since the breakup, and it was easy to avoid Bob when you went on missions and he stayed behind at the Watchtower. You did everything you could to throw yourself into work and volunteer for missions with barely any breaks in between to avoid the pain of seeing him.
Everything was going to plan until Bucky put his foot down after you almost got shot in your exhaustion. Luckily, John had gotten there just in time, but it was a closer call than any of your teammates were comfortable with.
So, for the last week, you’d been locked in your room to avoid Bob. You tried desperately not to run into him, only using common areas when you knew he was scheduled for training.
That was how Ava and Yelena got the idea to have one of their famous Thunderbolts—you never did quite feel like the “New Avengers” label fit you, much preferring your inside joke team name—girls’ nights out.
And boy, were they regretting that now.
You were something of a dark horse when it came to alcohol tolerance.
At first, Yelena and Ava were blown away by your ability to throw back drinks. For the first hour, Yelena was banging on the bar top and yelling for you to chug while Ava cupped her hands around her mouth and cheered. During the second hour, you hit the dance floor, closed your eyes, and let your hips sway with the pulsating beat of the 2000s dance track playing.
It was the third hour when all your drinks caught up with you.
You were delightfully sweet when you were drunk; they had to give you that.
Even though you were leaning against the bar, blinking slowly at your friends, you had a honeyed smile on your lips. Your already short dress was riding up your thighs as you slumped on a bar stool, and the eyeliner Yelena had carefully applied for you at the start of the night was smudged at the corners.
The nightclub had already started winding down. The dance floor that was buzzing only half an hour ago was now a cluster of stragglers clinging to the last songs. You could taste salt on your lips, from sweat or the rim of some forgotten glass.
“Yelena, your hair looks soooo good slicked back,” you said, just slightly slurring your words. Yelena, whose love language was exchanging insults and making fun of you, stared back emotionlessly. “Like—like a sexy seal. Ava, tell her she’s a sexy seal.”
“Yes,” Ava deadpanned. “She is a very attractive aquatic mammal. Happy?”
You laughed, delighted. “See? You get it. Yelena’s the prettiest seal in the sea. If seals wore blue eyeliner and were trained to kill.”
You blinked slowly. The lights in the room had gone softer, pink, purple, and blue lights smearing at the edges like a watercolour painting. Your body was slow to obey you, limbs heavy and skin hot, a pleasant hum under your skin where alcohol loosened your nerves.
Yelena snorted, then sighed as she watched you wobble on your stool. “Okay, dorogaya, time to go,” she declared. In your inebriated state, you had no idea this was the fifth time she’d said this. “Drink’s empty, party’s over. Up you get.”
You pouted, clutching your glass protectively. It was empty, save for some ice left behind, condensation wetting your fingers. “Noooo, I’m not leaving until Bob gets here!”
Rubbing her forehead, Ava tried not to lose her temper. “Bob didn’t come out with us tonight,” she reminded you. “He’s back at the Watchtower.”
You leaned across the bar top, whispering like you were telling them a secret. “Liar. He never misses girls’ night out!”
Yelena rolled her eyes, muttering, “I am not paid enough for this.” Then, more gently, she tried to urge you out of your stool. “Come on, you’ll see him tomorrow.”
You shook your head furiously, words dragging together. “Nooo, I need him now! I miss him. I love you both sooo much, but you’re not Bob. Nobody’s Bob but Bob.” You pointed very seriously at Ava, who blinked like she wasn’t sure how to answer.
“True,” is what she went with. “I’m not Bob.” Then, below her breath, Ava muttered, “Who’d want to be from Florida?”
You giggled, throwing your arms around her anyway. “But you’re my best ghosty-shadow girl. I love you.” Ava had to admit that it was nice to get a hug. If there was one thing the Thunderbolts were starved of, it was physical affection, but you gave it out freely and happily. “But I need Bob to take me home.”
Yelena lowered her voice while you nuzzled Ava’s shoulder. “She’s going to break him in half,” she declared. Even though he was the one who broke up with you, everyone knew it absolutely destroyed him. “He’s just barely standing, and now this?”
The pinched expression on Ava’s face suggested she agreed. “I don’t like it either. But she’s not going to move for anyone else. She’ll stand here all night long, hoping Bob will show up.”
You lifted your head suddenly, eyes bright and wet. “Did I ever tell you? Bob makes the best midnight snack noodles.” A faraway, glazed-over shine filled your irises. “He always stirs them with chopsticks because he thinks it makes the soup tastier.” Your voice grew tender. As your eyelids grew heavy, each blink lasted a second longer than the last. “Nobody makes noodles like Bob…”
Yelena tried not to let the stab in her chest show on her face. “You are killing me.”
You perked back up, grabbing Yelena’s hand and kissing it. “But youuu, you’re the absolute best. You’re my girl forever, Lena. Even if you make me drink water when I don’t want to.”
Taking the opportunity, Ava suggested, “Maybe drink some now? Before you declare your love for the bartender.”
You gasped, genuinely scandalised, clutching a non-existent string of pearls. “I would never! Only Bob.” Your gaze fell to the bartender, eyes narrowing as you studied him. “…Also, maybe the bartender a little bit. He gave me free fries.”
Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian, and Ava was glad she didn’t understand the profanity. “She is impossible,” Yelena complained.
“She went all judo on my arse when I tried to drag her out,” Ava reminded her flatly. “I vote we surrender and text him.”
You were the most experienced out of the three of them at hand-to-hand combat, and you nearly tossed Ava over your shoulder the first time she tried to help you out the door. Even drunk, you weren’t going to let anyone carry you anywhere.
Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’ll come. And then what? We get front row tickets to his heartbreak?”
“Better than a broken wrist,” Ava retorted, but she didn’t look happy about it.
You leaned across the bar again, all wide-eyed with sincerity. Some of your body glitter was smudged across your cheek. “You guys always take care of me. You’re my family.” Your voice wobbled, suddenly heavy with emotion. “But I just— I need him, okay?”
Yelena shut her eyes, inhaling sharply. “Text him the code,” she told Ava. “Before she starts crying.”
Ava, who was already pulling out her phone, muttered, “He’s going to kill us for letting her get this drunk.”
“At least we’ll leave in one piece,” Yelena said.
AVA: code safety net. she’s fine, just refuses to leave the club without you.
When you and Bob first started dating, he set up what he called a “safety net” with the rest of the team. If anyone sent him a code safety net, he’d come running. The idea was that it was for non-emergencies, moments when you needed him but couldn’t ask him yourself.
The last time anyone sent him that code was over four months ago, when you were still his girlfriend.
Now, Bob sat on the edge of his bed, tugging his sneakers on one at a time. Getting that code used to mean rolling out of bed, grumbling half-heartedly to himself about how you’d gotten yourself into trouble, and loving that it was his responsibility to come and help you.
Reading the code word now felt like stepping into dangerous territory. Bob didn’t know if he was allowed to be the person who came to your aid now that you’d broken up.
When he got the text, he’d already had the messages app open, scrolling through an endless exchange of texts between the two of you. He knew he shouldn’t have reread them again, but it was like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.
Spoiler alert: it did. A lot.
Even months after the breakup, letting you go was something Bob hadn’t quite figured out how to do, no matter how hard he tried.
He had to remind himself that he had reasons to break up with you; good reasons. Bob reminded himself of these reasons constantly, just to stop himself from taking it all back.
At the end of the day, it wasn’t fair of him to drag you into his mess. He was still trying to learn what it meant to be Sentry, still doing his best to tame the thing inside him that one day might crack open and release Void into the world again. He couldn’t risk that, not with you sleeping beside him every night.
Whether he was Bob, Sentry, or Void, he would burn the world down if he ever hurt you.
And then there was his sobriety. Even in the best of times, it was a fragile, fickle thing. Bob had been in and out of programmes enough to know how it worked: no new relationships for at least a year, not until his feet were steady under him. He had broken that rule the moment he kissed you, but he couldn’t let his feelings for you be the reason he fell apart this time.
You were the right person at the worst possible time.
Bob knew meeting you was the kind of kismet people only got once in your life, and that’s if they’re lucky. He never considered himself particularly lucky, so he’d held on tight when he first found you.
Bob wondered now if that made it worse. Now that you were broken up, he knew exactly what he was missing.
When he arrived, the club was almost empty. The music was quiet, a few people were slouched against the walls outside, and the bouncer didn’t bother checking his ID when he walked in.
The smell hit him first. The scent of cheap spirits was soaked into the bones of the club, leaving the floor sticky and tacky beneath his shoes. Even though nobody was smoking, cigarette smoke clung to the walls, making his throat tighten. The air was heavy with memories Bob didn’t particularly want to relive.
He’d never been much of a drinker, but chemicals were chemicals, and his body recognised the promise of it even if his mind didn’t want it.
Bob’s mouth went dry, a phantom bitterness gathering at the back of his tongue. His thumb rubbed compulsively across the ridge of his palm, a nervous tick he’d barely registered unless you pointed it out to him.
He spotted you sitting on a bar stool beside an exhausted-looking Ava and Yelena, and the way your eyes lit up when you saw him made something in his chest shatter. In seconds, you were there, arms flung around Bob’s neck with the easy warmth of someone who didn’t remember they were supposed to keep their distance.
“I knew you’d come,” you murmured so sweetly that he felt his knees buckle a little.
You smelled of his favourite perfume, sweat, and alcohol, and it was so dizzying that it was almost like another type of intoxication. Bob’s breath hitched. He nearly folded into you without thinking, fingers twitching with the urge to hold you before remembering he wasn’t supposed to anymore.
His heart pounded against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and he irrationally you’d hear it. He forced his muscles to stiffen, every nerve screaming at him to let you go while every neuron insisted he hold you like he wanted to. It was the most delicious sort of agony.
Yelena and Ava’s eyes flicked his way, because of course they noticed his turmoil, so he took a heavy step back. Inside, everything screamed. Bob tried to mask his face in calmness, knowing his teammates could see right through his efforts.
“Sorry about this,” Ava said, grimacing at the way you pressed your face into Bob’s neck. “We wouldn’t have dragged you out if we had any other choice.”
Nodding drily, Yelena added, “She refused to leave. We tried everything short of a tranquiliser dart.”
“I’ve never seen her like this,” Ava mused. Now that Bob was here, your shoulders had completely relaxed. “She said she’d only go home if you came.”
Forcing a smile, Bob waved away their concern. “S’alright. Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you texted.”
“Don’t you think Yelena looks like a sexy seal?” you asked excitedly. Bob wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but nodded anyway.
As you babbled drunkenly about what you got up to that night, Ava and Yelena shared a weary look. “He says he’s glad,” Yelena mumbled, “But he looks like he swallowed glass.”
“Yeah. I noticed,” Ava agreed.
“You know I can hear you, right?” Bob cut in, brows pulled together, offended. “I’m fine.”
When you moved back just enough to peer at him with glossy, adoring eyes, Bob audibly gulped. “I missed you so much, Bob,” you said sweetly. Your voice was a little husky and tired, and it made him shiver.
Stiffening slightly, Bob gently patted your back with one hand. The other was still busy doing his usual nervous tick, rubbing his thumb across his palm. “Yeah, I—I missed you too,” he stammered, shooting Ava and Yelena a concerned look.
Yelena softened, her expression regretful. “She doesn’t remember,” she explained, cadence uncharacteristically tender.
It felt as if someone had punched Bob in the gut. He couldn’t actually feel anyone’s punches with his impenetrable skin, but God did he remember what it was like. His breath gushed out of him all at once, and his organs felt like they were being crushed together.
Incredulous, he looked at you with wide, questioning eyes. And there you were, grinning at him like you’d never broken up. “You look soooo good tonight, handsome,” you told him. The familiar nickname was like a second blow to his stomach. “D’you know that?”
Bob’s eyes darted to the others. “Uh…”
You frowned, unhooking your arms from his neck and catching his hand in yours. “You’re doing it again. The thumb thing,” you noted. “You only do that when you’re worried. What are you worried about, Bob?”
He choked a laugh, trying to pull free gently. “Nothin’, sweetheart. I just— don’t worry about me.”
Suppressing a laugh, Ava commented, “She’s sharper drunk than half the team sober.”
Yelena was slightly less tactful; she didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Only when it comes to Bob,” she sang. “A tragic gift.”
“Very inconvenient,” Ava agreed.
Still holding Bob’s hand, your voice wobbled a little. “You didn’t answer me. I missed you. Did you miss me?” Your head tilted as you took on a seductive tone that used to make Bob do whatever you wanted. “You do, right? You always do, especially at night…”
Heat curled low in Bob’s stomach, and you thought you might have caught a familiar glimmer of gold in his irises. “Of course I missed you,” he admitted hoarsely.
You hummed happily, lacing your fingers together and resting your other hand on his solid chest. “Knew it. You always say as long as you miss me, you love me. You still love me, right?”
Bob swallowed loudly. “You’ve… had a lot to drink tonight.”
You offered him a bright, tipsy laugh. “Only enough to tell the truth,” you teased. “You’re my Bob. Always my Bob.”
When you leaned in and started pressing kisses to his neck, Bob jerked back, turning scarlet. He shot Ava and Yelena a look that said, For God’s sake, how much did you let her drink?
“Don’t look at us,” Ava exclaimed defensively, hands up. “We tried cutting her off hours ago. She just kept sneaking off and getting more.”
“We told the bartender to deny her orders, but she caught the next guy once his shift ended,” Yelena added, straight-faced. “It’s a miracle she still has a functioning liver.”
Bob huffed out of breath, blowing the hair from his face. “Okay.” He started steering you toward the exit. “C’mon. Time to head home now, yeah? Fresh air’ll do you good.”
Dopily blinking at Bob, you smiled. “If you think so, Bob.”
Yelena and Ava trailed behind, keeping an eye on you. As you stepped into the cool night, the music dulled behind you. You closed your eyes contentedly as the breeze soothed your warm skin. New York City air wasn’t exactly fresh, but Bob said it’d help, so you basked in it regardless.
“Easy now,” he said, holding you steady. “One foot at a time.” You nodded, clinging to his arm and taking careful steps.
“She does exactly what he says,” Yelena said, partially impressed. “We spent almost an hour arguing with her to switch to water.”
“Tell me about it,” Ava groaned. “I nearly pulled my hair out.”
“I told them I wouldn’t go without you,” you told Bob sincerely. “I knew you’d come. You always come when I need you, and I really needed you tonight.”
All Bob could do was nod, smile, and try not hide how much his hands were shaking. It was ridiculous how he still remembered the sensation of your weight against him. Muscle memory was a cruel thing, and this one came with a sharp jab in his chest.
“Yeah. I’m here,” was all he could say.
Warmth pooled under your skin, not from alcohol but from leaning against Bob. His skin was always hot, bleeding into you until you felt safe and cosy in his arms.
You paused as Ava lifted a hand to flag down a cab. Bob could feel the burn of Yelena’s stare and pointedly ignored her. While you were the person who knew Bob best, Yelena was his best friend. The two of them were inextricably bonded after everything they’d gone through, and he knew he’d fall apart if he saw the pained sympathy on her face.
“For the record, we did try everything,” Ava said as a nearby cab slowed to a stop beside them.
“At one point, she sat on the floor and said she lives in the club now. That was our breaking point,” Yelena added. She hurried to open the back door, watching Bob carefully manoeuvre you inside the cab.
“Alright, careful now,” Bob warned, careful to put his hand out so you wouldn’t hit your head as you got in.
“Let’s go before she decides she’s staging another sit-in,” Ava sighed. She took the passenger seat, giving the cab driver the address for the Watchtower.
The middle-aged man stared at her in shock, clearly recognising the address and the team in his car. Without making a big deal about it, he started the meter once Yelena slid into the last available seat in the back, shutting the door behind her.
The cab rattled softly, city lights flickering across the windows. You were half-curled against Bob’s side, still talking despite your heavy eyelids. Yelena watched you with a conflicted frown.
“Knew you’d come for me, Bob,” you murmured again. Your heartbeat slowed when your head tipped against his shoulder. “Always do.”
“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he assured you. The old anxiety ticks were back before he could stop them, thumb worrying the side of his index finger, shoulder giving the faintest twitch every time your hand shifted further up his thigh. “Let’s just get you home, alright?”
You smiled at him, eyes half-closed and gleaming with exhaustion. “Home’s wherever you are, silly.”
Bob felt his pulse jump in that ugly, uneven way it used to when he was strung out—except this was worse, because there was nothing to take the edge off. Just your eyes, devoted and pure, looking at him like he was still yours.
Noticing the shift towards the kind of honesty you wouldn’t be verbalising if you were sober, Yelena leaned forward a little. “You should rest,” she suggested. “Save the poetry for the morning.”
You giggled tiredly. “S’not poetry. S’the truth.” Your skin tingled deliciously where it touched Bob’s. It wasn’t sexual so much as the electrical spark of recognition, like your body was sighing in relief. “Missed you so much tonight, Bob. Like my chest was hollow until I saw you walk in.”
Ava turned from the passenger seat to glance at Yelena.
Beside you, Bob stiffened. “You’ve, uh, you’ve had a long night,” he said, soft and strained. “Just close your eyes, yeah?”
You shook your head clumsily, words slurred but earnest. “Can’t. Gotta tell you.” You touched his chest softly, with all the care in the world. “For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not empty anymore,” you confessed. “And we’ve only been apart for a few hours. Isn’t that wild?”
Silence filled the cab. Even the driver flickered his eyes to the rear-view, then looked away.
Bob kept his jaw locked, molars grinding so hard he knew they’d crack if his body was still capable of breaking. It was better than letting his mouth soften, better than letting something slip that he couldn’t take back. There was a low, burning ache behind his sternum. Not sharp or panicked, but heavy, like his heart was collapsing in on itself.
Ava cleared her throat, trying to cut the tension. “Hey, maybe we all just… take a breather, yeah? Get some rest.”
You pouted, trying to keep your eyes open. “I love you. I always will.” Your laughter came out fond and warm, almost dreamy. “My Bob…”
Bob looked stricken, eyes darting helplessly to Yelena. His thumb rubbed harder against his palm, and he was sure that if his skin could still chafe, it would have. Yelena shook her head slowly, silently urging him not to answer.
Still, there was an almost imperceptible shift toward you when you drifted off to sleep, his body betraying what he wouldn’t let himself admit aloud.
The worst of it was the relief. That tiny, treacherous thought whispering: you still loved him. You still wanted him. It made Bob light-headed, sick with hope he knew better than to trust.
You can’t love me if you don’t remember why we ended things, he thought. You can’t. But God help me, I want to believe you.
Bob’s head tilted towards you as you dozed, the old instinct to shield you from the world kicking in even when he was supposed to have stopped. This was a masterclass in containment. He didn’t explode or crumble; he absorbed your confession, keeping it together while his heart split down the middle.
Bob effortlessly helped you out of the cab and up to your room in the Watchtower. It had taken a few months to get used to the newfound strength that came with the Sentry serum. But at least he wasn’t accidentally ripping doors off their hinges or breaking dishes when he picked them up anymore.
With uneven steps, he guided you into your room, setting you down on the bed. Seated, you blinked up at him, drowsy and smiling like he’d hung the stars. It was a look that was overfamiliar; an intimate expression he’d missed seeing.
“I’m not tired,” you mumbled, resisting his help.
“Love, you’re half asleep already,” Bob tried, coaxing but awkward. He gave a short, nervous laugh. “C’mon, let’s just get you sorted out.”
You squinted like he’d offended you. “Sorted? I don’t need sorting. I need… food.”
With a huff of laughter, he shook his head. “Face first. Food later. That’s—uh, that’s how it works. Pretty sure.” Then, mostly to himself: “If you’re still awake by then, which… yeah, probably not.”
Disappearing into the bathroom, Bob kept an ear out for any noises as he grabbed your makeup remover and wet a washcloth with warm water. He returned and crouched in front of you, carefully starting to wash your face for you.
You leaned into the touch happily, taking the opportunity to admire your ex-boyfriend. “You always do it nicer than me,” you mumbled, grinning. “So good to me.”
Quietly, Bob admitted, “Old habit.”
You pouted playfully. “I love it when you take care of me,” you confessed. “I always think it’s so hot when you—”
“Okay, I think it’s time for pyjamas,” Bob blurted, pushing up to his feet a little too fast. He turned away, ears pink, and wondered briefly if his poor heart was as conflicted as his mind was tonight. “Don’t fall over, alright?”
After taking your favourite pair out from your dresser, Bob turned his back to you as you wriggled into your pyjamas. His back was unnaturally stiff, listening for the sound of you stumbling. When you flopped back against the pillows, hair mussed and smile loose, he finally glanced over.
“See?” you said proudly. “All sorted. I can sleep now.”
Relieved, Bob nodded. “Good.” He moved to tuck the blanket around you.
You blinked up at him, suddenly urgent. “Wait,” you said, loud and high-pitched. “Snack!”
Bob sighed. “But—”
“No, Bob, listen,” you hurried, sitting back up with wide eyes. “If I don’t eat something right now I’ll die.” Your confession wobbled, tears starting to form as your eyes became glassy.
Oh boy. If there was one thing that was Bob’s Achilles heel, it was you crying.
There was something so heart-wrenching and wrong about seeing you in tears. The way your cheeks puffed up and your eyes widened, lips curving down into the most perfect frown, was enough for him to agree to do anything to make it stop.
“I’m so hungry now,” you whined, the first few tears cascading down your cheeks. Bob caught them without thinking, chest aching at the sight. He was torn between wanting to maintain some semblance of ex-appropriate boundaries and the dull twinge in his chest.
Eventually, his soft heart couldn’t take it any longer. “God, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You can’t do that. You know I’m useless when you cry.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a thin sound.
You sniffled, only a touch dramatic. “You wouldn’t let me starve. You love me too much.”
He shut his eyes at that, steadying himself. “You don’t play fair,” he said under his breath.
Triumphantly, you offered Bob a teary smile. “So… snack?”
“Fine,” he agreed. “Yeah, okay. But you stay put, alright? Don’t you dare try and follow me.” Bob wasn’t sure what he’d do if you kept looking at him like you still loved him. “Just stay here.”
You huffed, visibly offended. “As if I’d follow you.”
Bob arched his brow. “You absolutely would.”
“Nu-uh!”
You padded into the kitchen after Bob, clutching the back of his sweatshirt like he’d disappear if you let go. He was resigned but soft with you, guiding you towards the counter. The fluorescents hummed overhead faintly.
“Midnight feast!” you whisper-yelled excitedly, pumping your free fist in the air.
“It’s a quarter to two,” Bob corrected.
You gasped, delighted. “Even better,” you declared.
Bob wasn’t sure what your metric was for deciding what time was better to have a snack, but he laughed anyway. He went through the fridge while you rummaged noisily through the pantry.
Moments later, your tiny gasp of joy filled the kitchen. You held up two packets of noodles like they were a rare treasure. “Bob, noodles!” You held them out for him, already climbing onto the counter deftly. Even your drunken state couldn’t stop years of practised agility. “It’s perfect.”
Bob gave a half-laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… yeah, sure. Wild, right? Cosmic destiny.”
Midnight noodles were something of a weekly ritual when you were dating. You usually had dinner early with the rest of the team, then stayed up late chatting and cuddling. By the time the two of you were tired enough to sleep, you were hungry again.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t mock.”
He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh no, hey, I’m serious. I swear.”
Taking the packet from you before you tore it open with your teeth, Bob took out a saucepan and set the water to boil. You sat swinging your legs, watching him with lazy admiration.
Bob’s shoulders hunched, stomach tightening each time you called out to him affectionately. His face was schooled into neutrality, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it. He was hyper-aware of your position in the room. If you swayed, even slightly, his whole body tensed in case he needed to catch you.
“You like this,” you mused, teasing him. A lazy, fizzy happiness bubbled in your chest. You couldn’t quite figure out why, but you felt truly happy for the first time in a long time. “Taking care of me.”
Bob ducked his head shyly. “I like when you’re not sad. Or mad at me. So,” he motioned awkwardly to the stove, “noodles.”
You nodded. “You’re good at making sure I’m not sad,” you said fondly. “Can’t ever feel sad around you.”
It was a compliment that meant more to him than you could imagine.
Bob chuckled lowly. “No, I’m good at screwing stuff up, mostly. This is just hot water and noodles. Even I can’t—” he faltered, jaw tightening. “Well, I probably could mess it up.”
You frowned at his characteristic self-deprecation. “Don’t be mean to Bob,” you scolded.
Bob raised an eyebrow, dropping the noodles in the boiling water. “Pretty sure I am Bob.”
“Exactly,” you huffed. “Don’t be mean to my Bob.”
He nearly dropped his chopsticks at that. Clearing his throat, Bob bought himself some time by stirring the soup base into the water. To himself, he mumbled, “Didn’t know I was still yours.”
You smiled, still oblivious to your break-up. “‘Course you are, Bob. You’ll always be mine, and I’ll always be yours. That’s how the whole ‘forever’ thing works.”
Bob busied himself with the noodles, but when you started humming, he couldn’t stop glancing at you. You leaned your cheek against the cupboard beside you, watching him as if he’d strayed out of a dream. Reaching for him without thinking, you tugged carefully at Bob’s sleeve, pulling his free wrist closer.
“Miss you tonight,” you told him, longing to hold his hand.
Bob laughed softly, deflecting. “I’m right here.”
You shook your head stubbornly. “Not like that. Missed you in my bones, y’know?”
His chest squeezed. He cracked the chilli oil packet open to have an excuse to take his hand back. “Yeah, but you had your thing, right? Girls’ night. Shots. Dancing. Didn’t need me standing awkwardly in the corner.”
“Always need you,” you argued.
Bob’s hand tightened around the chopsticks. Still facing the stove, he begged, “Don’t say that.”
Your brows pulled together. “Why not?”
“‘Cause it’s— you’re drunk, okay?” It was tough to maintain a firm boundary and not get lost in how you treated him like he was still your boyfriend. “You say stuff like that—”
“Because it’s true,” you said happily. “You’re shy tonight. What’s the matter?”
“I’m,” he gestured at himself, voice breaking, “I’m Bob. I’m the guy who ruins every good thing he touches. And you’re…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. Bob couldn’t bring himself to say, You’re the last person I wanted to hurt.
You slid off the counter, stepping closer. Bob finally looked at you, wincing like it hurt to meet your eyes. For a second, all the noise in his body stopped—no fidgeting, no rambling. Just raw, aching stillness.
“You are something good, Bob,” you declared. It would have been sweet had your words not slurred together, reminding him of your tipsiness.
Bob reached for the bowls and poured noodles and soup into them. “Okay, so, noodles—uh, one for you, one for me,” he rambled, passing you the bowl with a noticeably bigger portion.
Bob returned to your room, balancing a glass of water and some painkillers for the headache you were sure to have in the morning. You were curled beneath the duvet, hair a mess, cheeks warm, still blinking against the low light. The noodles had settled in your stomach without making you nauseous, which you were both grateful for.
He set the glass on the bedside table, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should tuck you in or back away. “So,” he cleared his throat. Your eyes drifted up to his. They looked like the ocean during a storm, and you were transfixed. “There we are. One water, one magic pill. Not as fun as tequila, but you’ll thank me in the morning.”
You grinned sleepily. “You’re bossy.” You were comfortable in Bob’s presence, letting your guard down entirely.
He huffed a shy laugh. “M’not bossy, I’m being responsible. Someone’s gotta keep you from feeling rotten tomorrow.”
“Bossy,” you sang, pulling the duvet higher. Bob rolled his eyes fondly. He perched at the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles paled. You noticed. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for your turn at a job interview?”
Startled, Bob stammered, “Wh—what? I’m not— this is just how I sit.”
You giggled. “We’ve been dating for, like, nine months. I think I know how you sit.”
Bob bit his lip, glanced away, then reached down to straighten the corner of the duvet to keep his hands busy. “Just making sure you’re settled,” he said. “That’s all.”
You hummed, dubious. “You’re fussing. You only fuss when you’re nervous.”
His cheeks turned pink at that. “Maybe I’m always nervous around you,” he diverted your question. You blinked up at him, a little too fuzzy to catch the weight of it. “Right. You’re all tucked in. No more sneaking around for snacks, okay?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but a muffled sound at the door caught your attention. A soft little purr. Both your heads turned. “Apine!” you gasped, ecstatic to see Bucky’s feline companion entering your room.
The little white cat slipped in, tail high, and leapt onto the bed. You sat up straighter, arms out, laughing as Alpine bumped her head against your chin and curled beside you. Your smile spread wide and unguarded.
“Hi baby,” you cooed, stroking her head with the back of your hand. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”
“‘Course she does. She’s just picky.” Bob brushed a crease from your pillow, doing anything to stop himself from reaching for you.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” you accused Alpine, speaking to her in a low, dulcet tone. You watched her with almost childlike delight, pressing your cheek against her. “For weeks and weeks. I thought I got on your bad side somehow. Like that time John accidentally stepped on your tail.”
Bob chuckled, but his hands twisted together in his lap. He bit at his lower lip. Watching Alpine’s purrs vibrate against your cheek made his chest split in two. He’d always been more of a dog person, but he did have a soft spot for Bucky’s cat. “I’m sure she just missed you.”
“Or you,” you argued. “You’re her second favourite, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“No, you are. Everyone knows it,” you insisted. “She follows you around like a shadow. You spoil her with treats when you think nobody’s looking.”
“I guess she likes me well enough,” Bob allowed. His hand hovered near Alpine’s back, then withdrew, retreating to his lap.
You giggled into Alpine’s fur, drunk and unbothered. But then the giggle faded, replaced by a sudden, sharp earnestness you couldn’t quite stop.
“But she hasn’t come near me for weeks,” you murmured, lips pressed to the soft patch between the feline’s ears. Your hand stilled on her fur. “Not since…”
The words trailed away. You didn’t know why. Some small, skittish part of you pulled back from finishing the thought.
Your smile slipped, slow and reluctant, like something precious sliding out of your grip. A heaviness pressed against your chest, cutting off the little bubble of warmth you’d been floating in all night long. You lifted your head, blinking at Bob. His face was flushed, eyes darting from you to Alpine to the headboard behind your shoulder.
Your stomach dipped, a cold wash chasing away the warmth of the alcohol. That’s it, isn’t it? The pieces slid into place with cruel precision, emerging from the alcohol-induced fog that kept them hidden all night long.
“She’s been with you,” you said, the words cracking open in your throat. “Because we—because we’re not…”
Bob froze, throat bobbing as it worked against words that wouldn’t form. “I—I—don’t…” He tried again, breath stuttering. “It’s not—”
The ache in your chest grew so quickly that it made your hands shake. You dragged trembling fingers down Alpine’s back, stroking her fur in desperate repetition, like you could keep yourself from fracturing if you just kept the motion steady.
Your voice spilled into the room in a whisper. “We’re not together anymore, are we?”
The words hurt more once spoken, like they’d hadn’t been true until you said them aloud. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes. You blinked hard, but it only made them spill faster, streaking down your cheeks and landing in Alpine’s snowy fur.
“You broke up with me,” you recalled, your reply wavering in the middle of your sentence.
Bob looked ruined. His whole chest heaved, and for a moment, he just stared, caught in the wreckage. Hesitant and trembling, his hand pulled you gently, carefully into him. The dam broke when Bob wrapped his arms around you, turning your silent cries into sobs.
“Don’t—don’t cry. Please,” Bob begged, audibly torn. One hand rubbed your back in clumsy circles, while the other cupped your head, tender and desperate.
Your question came muffled against his shirt, small and devastating. “Why did you break up with me? I love you so much.”
Bob flinched like the words struck him, eyes squeezing shut. His hand kept caressing your back, not steady but frantic, trying to stop both of you from falling apart.
You pressed your face harder into his sweatshirt, tears hot and messy against the fabric. The sobs came out loud and hard, shaking your shoulders, then softened into smaller gasps and hiccups as the rhythm of Bob’s hand calmed you.
He could feel how your remaining energy slowly burned itself out. First, your trembling quietened, then your hands loosening where they’d clutched his sweatshirt, then the weighted slump of your body. His arms tightened around you instinctively, holding you upright.
You gave a little sniff. “Don’t you love me?”
Every muscle in Bob’s body locked. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first; not with your breath warming his sweatshirt, not with the fragile pressure of you sinking so trustingly into him.
“I— Do I love you?” The words shuddered out of him, frayed at the edges. “Of course I do.”
But when he pulled back to see your face, your lashes were already lowered, breaths evening out, body soft in the safety of his arms. Your question had used up the last of your energy, and now you were asleep.
Bob’s chest throbbed with relief and grief all at once. You’ll never know, he thought. Not really. Not the way he wanted to tell you—awake, sober, with steady hands instead of shaking ones. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, shutting his eyes to stop his own tears from falling.
You woke to sunlight pressing against your eyelids, a dull yellow insistence that came from your curtains being open. Your head throbbed; not stabbing but heavy, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton. Your mouth was dry, your tongue thick, every swallow tasting faintly of metal.
You blinked slowly, trying to piece the previous night together. What you remembered came in flashes: Ava’s laugh at the bar, Yelena making a face at the DJ, colourful lights blurring overhead. And then, nothing. Just a clean break in the reel, as though someone had pressed stop and forgotten to hit record again.
At least you were in your own bed, the duvet pulled up to your chin like your own personal fairy godmother helped you home. You couldn’t smell cheap takeaway on your clothes, which meant you’d dodged your usual post-club ritual of inhaling fries at three in the morning.
Still, the gap in your memory made your stomach twist a little. Not in fear, you trusted Ava and Yelena too much for that, but embarrassment. A mortifying little voice in your head whispered that if you’d blacked out at the end of the night, you’d probably done or said something mortifying.
You groaned and pressed the heel of your palm to your eyes.
After taking the painkiller someone left for you on your bedside table, you shuffled into the kitchen looking for something to have eat. You didn’t care that your hair was mussed and you looked distinctly worse for wear; you just needed to get something into your stomach before the nausea took over.
In the kitchen, Yelena and Ava were sitting at the table while John rifled through the pantry. Both of them look just as bad as you did. Yelena wore sunglasses even though you were indoors, and Ava still had eyeliner streaked across her face. You gratefully accepted a cup of coffee when Ava passed it to you. Collapsing into the chair beside her, you groaned quietly.
“Okay,” you began, a little sheepish. “Don’t laugh. I don’t remember anything after the club last night.” Your friends shared a look that said they weren’t surprised. “I just wanted to say thanks for dragging me home and dealing with me.”
Yelena smirked. “Dragging is the right word. You fought like a feral raccoon.”
“We were two seconds away from calling animal control,” Ava chimed in, grinning.
If they were teasing you, then their hangovers weren’t that bad.
You groaned, burying your face in your arms. “I knew it. I’m the worst drunk.” When you looked up, you gave your friends your prettiest smile. “Sorry about that. How did you even get me into bed?”
Yelena and Ava exchanged a quick look.
Before you could prompt them further, John interrupted. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he screeched. You turned around just in time to see him slam the pantry doors shut, glaring at the three of you like you’d committed a horrible betrayal. “Who ate my noodles?” John demanded.
All he got in return was three blank stares.
“Pardon?” Ava asked, her tone suggesting she was already done with the conversation before it started.
“My last two packets of instant ramen,” John said, crossing his arms and glaring between you. You had to admit, as much as you all liked messing with him, he could be pretty intimidating when he wanted to be. “Been saving them all week, and what do I find? Empty shelf.”
Without missing a beat, Yelena said, “Maybe the universe is telling you to eat a vegetable.”
“The universe can shove it,” John deadpanned. “Someone in here’s a thief. And don’t act innocent! It’s been a while, but my noodles used to vanish every week like clockwork.”
You froze with your coffee cup halfway to your lips. Your eyes snapped to Yelena and Ava, who were already looking at you, matching your wide-eyed look of surprise.
“It was Bob,” you said quietly, almost accusing, once John gave up and started searching the fridge for something edible. “That’s how you got me to come home.”
Yelena sighed heavily, rubbing between her eyebrows like she was getting a headache. “We didn’t have a choice, you wouldn’t leave without him. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad?!” you exclaimed, not buying it for a single second. “I know exactly how unhinged I get when I’m drunk, and you let me spend the night with my ex-boyfriend?”
“You honestly didn’t do anything embarrassing,” Ava insisted. Then, she paused. “Well, I guess you did forget you were broken up and treated him like you were still together,” she admitted. You opened your mouth to keep yelling, so she hurriedly added, “But he was honestly fine with it!”
“He took it very well,” Yelena agreed. “It crushed his mind, body, and spirit. But he took it well.”
“Even if I was asking for him, I can’t believe you forced him to come,” you retorted.
Yelena gasped. “We did not force him!”
John, who was eavesdropping the entire time, cut in. “Wait, wait, hold up.” Your eyes drifted over to him. “Are we even allowed to call a code safety net if the two of them are broken up?”
You frowned. “Code what?”
“Nicely done, Walker,” Yelena drawled sarcastically, pretending to applaud him. She was known to resort to his last name when he messed something up. Which, in her eyes, was often. “What is it about a secret code that you don’t understand?”
“What secret code?” you asked, already dreading the answer.
“Okay look,” Ava said, giving it to you straight. “When you and Bob started dating, he set up an emergency code called ‘safety net.’ If you were too far gone at the club, or if you needed him but were too scared to ask, we’d send him the code. He always came to help, no matter what.”
You swallowed, processing the news. “That’s…”
“Overly protective?” John teased, smirking a little. He didn’t mean it, of course. Nobody had called a code safety net more often than him. He just lived to tease you and was convinced you ate his noodles.
“I was going to say romantic,” you corrected him, rolling your eyes.
“Don’t you think you’re a little too, I don’t know, divorced to be making comments?” Yelena added.
“Jesus,” Walker muttered, holding his hands in defence and grumbling about ordering takeout instead.
Once he was out of the kitchen, Ava smirked. “So, midnight noodles with Bob?”
“I have a big mouth when I’m drunk,” you grumbled, downing the rest of your coffee to soothe your dry throat. You’d never told them about you and Bob’s midnight noodles, so you knew you had your drunk self to thank for that one.
“Yeah, but it was cute,” Ava said, leaning back in her chair. “You looked very proud of your little tradition.”
Yelena snorted. “You made it sound like a sacred ritual.”
You pressed your lips together, staring at the empty mug in your hands. “But… why would he still come? Why would he—” You broke off, shaking your head. “He’s the one who ended things. If he doesn’t love me anymore, then why show up to help?”
For once, Ava didn’t have a snarky comment locked and loaded. She just tilted her head, eyes warming. “That sounds like a question for him,” she said.
Yelena nodded, elbowing you lightly. “Yeah. Don’t waste your breath on us. Go ask Bob. We’ll be here eating John’s backup noodles. I found them this morning and stashed them in my room.”
You stood outside Bob’s door longer than planned to. Long enough to wonder if the team could hear your pacing from the hall, long enough to almost turn back around. Twice. You even considered coming back tomorrow, but you knew your courage was dwindling fast. If you left now, you probably weren’t coming back.
You held your breath as you knocked. From inside, you could hear Bob shuffling around before the door slowly cracked open. He blinked at you, hair a mess and t-shirt wrinkled like he’d been napping. For a stupid, dizzying second, the sight of him all domestic and soft punched through your ribs. You could still feel what it was like when you used to wake up in that bed with him.
Bob looked surprised to see you standing there, but not unhappy. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you echoed, hating how your throat tightened around the word. “Um. Can we talk?”
For a second, you thought he might say no. Then, he stepped back and opened the door wider. “Yeah. Sure. Come in.”
You crossed the threshold and realised you hadn’t prepared yourself for the wave of nostalgia that made your stomach clench. Bob’s room looked exactly the same as it had the last time you were in it. From the mug on his bedside table to the blanket you’d bought for him, half-folded on the bed.
It was all the same, except you didn’t live here anymore. Your fingers itched to straighten the blanket the way you always used to, so you folded them together like a penitent child.
You hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure where to sit. Bob noticed and gestured toward the chair at his desk before sitting on the edge of his bed. It felt like he’d deliberately put distance between you.
“So,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s up?”
You smoothed your palms over your jeans. “I just— I wanted to check in. See how you’ve been.”
Bob’s brows lifted. “I’ve been… fine,” he said slowly. “Busy, I guess. You know how it is around here.”
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Of course. I get it.”
Before the awkward silence stretched further, he asked, “And you?”
You blinked. “Me? Oh, you know. Same thing. Busy.”
“Right,” he replied. Bob didn’t point out that he knew Bucky had banned you from going on missions for two weeks, and refused to acknowledge how he’d accidentally broken the windows in the conference room when he found out you were almost shot.
You nodded, exhaling through your nose as your fingers tightened on your lap. “Okay, so… Ava and Yelena told me about last night.” Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours wearily.
“They said you came to pick me up,” you continued. “Brought me back. Stayed until I was asleep.” You shifted in the chair, the words scraping raw in your throat. “John mentioned something about missing noodles, so I assume you made those for me. Which I—I don’t remember at all.”
“I don’t know what I did,” you admitted, voice smaller than you intended. “I don’t know what I said. I just keep thinking— God, I must’ve been awful. Embarrassing. Ava said I forgot that we’d, y’know,” you gestured vaguely with your hands, referring to your breakup, “And I hate that I don’t even know what to apologise for.”
Something flickered across his face, not quite a wince, but close. Bob looked down at his hands, thumb dragging over his palm. “It wasn’t like that,” he said finally. “You weren’t being embarrassing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You almost laughed at how gently he said it. “Then what was it like? Because right now, it feels like everybody knows something I don’t,” you revealed.
Bob hesitated, mouth opening and closing before anything came out. “You were drunk. People get drunk, they… say things. Do things.” His cheeks and ears flushed as he averted his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” you pressed. “Why did you come when they texted? You could’ve ignored the code, or told Yelena to handle it, but you didn’t. Why?”
His jaw tightened. Truthfully, Bob had never considered the fact that you might find out about code safety net. When the two of you broke up, he assumed you’d never have a reason to hear about it.
“Because it was you.” He said it like he expected a blowback, shoulders hunched just like when he’d first confessed his feelings for you.
You blinked at him, the honesty of it knocking you off balance. Bob seemed to realise what he’d admitted, because he immediately pushed on, fumbling. “I mean— I set that code up for a reason. Back then. You always knew exactly when I needed help, and I was never as good at figuring that stuff out, so I set up a code. Even last night, I couldn’t ignore it. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
Bob nodded too quickly, eyes darting to the floor again. “That’s all.”
You studied him. Dating for almost nine months allowed you to mentally store something like a Bob Reynolds textbook. You could tell from the way his shoulders shook like he was bracing for impact that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Then there was his nervous tick of rubbing his thumb across the ridge of his palm, and the way his legs couldn’t keep still.
“You didn’t tell drunk-me we broke up,” you said after a beat. “You just let me think…” The words trailed, your breath catching at the memory you didn’t have. “Why would you do that?”
He shook his head, voice rough. “You were drunk. I wasn’t gonna hit you with reality in that state. Didn’t feel right, not when you were smiling for the first time in months.”
You sat back, staring at him like you were trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. “So… you didn’t tell me because I was drunk. Because you wanted me to be happy.” Bob shifted awkwardly on the bed. “And because you knew I wasn’t saying anything I didn’t mean.”
His head jerked up to meet your eyes before he could stop himself. “You’re sure you don’t remember anything?”
You nodded. “Not a thing. But I can guess. If I thought we were still together, I would have trusted you with my most private thoughts. I would have poured my heart out without knowing what I was doing.”
Bob exhaled slowly. “End of the night, you figured it out. When Alpine came in, you looked at me like—” He broke off, jaw working. “You realised we weren’t together. It hit you, and—it tore you up.” His wince said the memory still hurt. “If I’d known telling you up front would’ve spared you that, I would have said something. But I didn’t know what to do. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You wanted to spare me the pain,” you pressed. “Why? If you were just helping me out of an old obligation, why did it hurt you to see me upset?”
“Because I—” Bob cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose. Because I love you was dangerously close to the tip of his tongue. “Because it was hard. Anyone would’ve found it hard.” The excuse was weak, even to him.
You leaned forward, refusing to let him retreat. “I don’t care what anyone would’ve thought. I care what you thought. Why was it so hard for you?”
Finally, Bob dragged in a breath. “You think this is easy for me because I’m the one who ended things? Believe me, it hasn’t been easy.”
Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but you didn’t speak; you didn’t move.
“I broke up with you because, for once, I wanted to do the right thing,” Bob went on, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “I had to focus on the depression, and the loneliness, and the never-ending void.” He rubbed his eyes. “I messed this stuff up so many times trying to get sober, and I can’t afford to do that with the Void and the Sentry hanging around. If I fall off again, it’s not just me who pays the price. I couldn’t drag you through that.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed forward, too worked up to let himself be interrupted.
“I wanted you. God, I wanted you. And maybe that’s what made it worse. Because every time I looked at you I thought—what if I screw this up? I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.” Bob’s words caught, low and ragged. “So I let you go. Not because I wasn’t sure I loved you. It was just… bad timing.”
You sat frozen, his words blowing up everything you thought you’d known. You’d told yourself a hundred stories about why he’d walked away; boredom, fear, maybe even that he stopped loving you. But you’d never considered this.
Bob scrubbed his hand over his face, then let it drop. “You know I’m sober,” he said. “And yeah, the serum means drugs don’t really… stick anymore. I can’t drink, can’t use, not in any way that matters. But sobriety isn’t just about not putting stuff in your body. It can make you screw up the people around you while you’re trying to get clean. I guess my fear of doing that to someone never really went away.”
He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up to gauge if you were still listening.
“Every program told me the same thing: don’t date in the first year. Because you’re too raw, too unsteady. You’ll lean on someone in ways that end up hurting them.” He shook his head. “And I thought if I wanted a real shot at keeping the Void under control, I had to treat it like I was back at square one. Like I was still in that first year.” His jaw flexed, guilty, pained. “But by then I’d already met you, and for once, I thought maybe I got lucky.”
He looked away. “But I couldn’t have it all. Not when I was still learning how not to let the Void bleed out, or not to let the Sentry serum break everything I touched.”
You let out a laugh, shaky and wet, dragging your hand across your cheek. “Do you have any idea what you’re telling me right now?” you whispered.
His brow furrowed, wary. “I’m telling you why I ended things.”
“No,” you said, tone firming. “You’re telling me you never stopped loving me.” You were startled by how steady the words sounded, considering how violently your pulse was hammering.
Bob’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t deny it.
The months without him came crashing down: every long night staring at empty walls, every mission you buried yourself in, hoping exhaustion would trick you into not missing him.
“I know exactly what I would have said to you last night if I thought we were still together,” you admitted. “I would’ve told you I love you. That I miss you so much it feels like part of me got ripped away.” You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I’ve been walking around trying to pretend that I didn’t search for you every second of the day.”
Bob’s silence should have scared you. Months ago, when it felt like you were on the verge of breaking up, it did.
“Do you know what the worst part was?” you whispered. “Not knowing why you did it, or if I’d been wrong about you. I kept thinking—if you could walk away so easily, maybe you never loved me the way I loved you. And I hated myself for wanting you anyway.” Your chest rose and fell unevenly. “And now—” You broke off in a half-laugh, half-sob, “now that I know why you did it, it makes me love you even more.”
Bob’s hands twisted together in his lap, and then slowly stilled. “You know,” he said, voice quiet enough that it made you lean in to catch it, “it’s been a year.”
You blinked at him. “Since…?”
He glanced up hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure if saying it aloud might jinx it. “Since the last time the Void broke through. Since I—” Bob exhaled shakily. “Since I lost control like that. One year of doing everything right. No shortcuts, no lies, no risking it. Other than being with you, I guess.”
Your throat tightened. “You did it.”
“I did it,” Bob echoed, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself. “I didn’t think I could, but I did. And these last few months,” his eyes found yours, steady now, “I missed you so much.”
Something tugged at your gut. “Then why be with me at all, if you’d promised yourself a year?” The words came out softer than you meant, not accusing, but like you were afraid of the answer.
Bob’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Because I couldn’t let you go. You were the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just surviving that year, but actually living it. I thought—I thought I could hold both, you and the vow, but when it came down to it… I was terrified I’d break one, and I couldn’t risk it being you.”
You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to cry. “I missed you so much,” you said. “Nothing feels right without you.”
Bob swallowed, his gaze fixed on you. “You really think…” His words faltered, and then, barely above a whisper: “You really think you could take me back?”
You reached for him before you could second-guess it, your hand covering his. His fingers tensed, then relaxed, instinctively interlocking with yours.
Bob stared down at your joined hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t—”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you interrupted, quieter than you meant, but steady. “If anything, the fact that you were willing to give this up to get better proves that you deserve it.”
When he looked up at you again, there was something tender in his eyes. “I just don’t want to hurt you again.”
“You did hurt me,” you admitted, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at your mouth. “By keeping things from me. But we can work on that.”
For a long moment, he didn’t speak, just held your gaze like he was trying to capture the moment in a memory. Then, voice rough, Bob asked, “So what now?”
You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of it sink into you. “Now?” You drew in a shaky breath, lips trembling with something like a laugh. “Now we see if we can get it right this time.”
Then Bob leaned across to reach you, almost hesitant, like he was giving you one last chance to pull away.
Your free hand caught his sweatshirt collar and pulled him in the rest of the way, and then his mouth was on yours. It was laughably familiar, the exact way you used to tug him down for a kiss when he was stalling, and you felt his breath hitch like he remembered that too.
It was the kind of kiss that came from months of restraint tearing loose all at once. His lips pressed hard to yours, hungry and desperate, like your bodies remembered what your minds had tried to forget.
You tasted salt—your tears, his, you couldn’t tell—and his hand slid to cradle your jaw, tilting your face so he could kiss you deeper. It was as if he’d been picturing this moment in his head and couldn’t risk losing a single detail now that it was real.
The tremor in his hands gave him away; Bob always shook when he was holding too much back, and you realised this was months of self-restraint crumbling. Your lungs burned with the need for air but your body refused to stop, greedy and starved, like you’d gone months without food and only he could satiate you again.
The heat of it built fast, familiar and overwhelming, like no time had passed at all. Bob’s mouth found yours with the kind of certainty that only comes from practice, from knowing exactly how to draw that sharp gasp from your lips, exactly how to make your knees weaken.
You broke apart just long enough to breathe, and he let out a ragged groan against your mouth. “I missed this,” Bob whispered, deep and wrecked like it always was after you kissed.
“Then don’t ever make us miss it again,” you said, and dragged him back into another kiss.
Bob’s breath shuddered against your mouth, his thumb tracing over your cheek to ground himself in you. “I love you,” he said, hoarse and certain, before kissing you again.
Your hands slid into his curls, tugging him closer, closer, until the chair scraped back against the floor. Bob didn’t care, didn’t even pause, just caught your waist and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear a single inch of distance. Your knees sank into the mattress you used to sleep on every night, heat flooding your abdomen.
The sound he made when you settled against him was half growl, half plea, and it vibrated through you, low and devastating. His hands slid up your back, spanning your ribs, mapping you all over again with a reverence disguised as desperation.
“You feel exactly the same as I remember,” Bob rasped against your mouth, the words breaking on another groan as your fingers tugged his hair. “Except so much better than anything my mind made up.”
You kissed him instead of answering, teeth catching on his bottom lip. He cursed softly, lost to it. His hands moved restlessly—your hip, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. There was nothing careful in the way he kissed you.
When you leaned back, Bob chased your lips. “I can’t stop,” he whined, trembling as his thumb stroked gently across your throat. “Tell me to stop and I will, but—God, I can’t—”
“Don’t stop,” you cut in, breathless, your lips bruising his as you spoke. “Don’t you dare.”
That was all it took. Bob surged up to kiss you again, all fire and urgency, one hand splayed across your back to keep your chest pressed against his. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against yours. You gasped when your back hit the headboard, legs wrapped around his waist for stability. His mouth was already chasing the sound, devouring it.
“Missed this—missed you—” Bob muttered between kisses, completely wrecked. His hands roamed, greedy and adoring all at once.
Your fingers hooked into the hem of his sweatshirt, aching for bare skin, tugging it half-way up before you even realised you’d done it. The noise he made when you touched him—strangled, helpless, carnal—shot straight through you like lightning.
He broke the kiss only long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his chest heaving, eyes burning into yours. “Tell me this isn’t just me,” he rasped, already pulling you back in.
“It’s not,” you whispered. “I love you.” Then you kissed him as your hands traced over familiar lines of muscle, remembering exactly where to touch to make him shiver and groan.
Bob’s masterful composure broke. He fell back without warning, pliant and gasping underneath your fingers. Your knees dug into the mattress again, your hands bracing on either side of his head while his fingers disappeared underneath your t-shirt. You arched into him instinctively, his name breaking on your lips, and his grip on your hips tightened.
Bob knew exactly how to undo you, exactly where to linger, exactly how to make your breath stutter. And you knew him just as well; the way his hands trembled when you trailed kisses down his neck and across his collarbones said you hadn’t lost your hold on him either.
Every scrape of his stubble, every brush of his tongue, every shaky gasp between kisses was a reminder that Bob knew you inside and out.
And then you started laughing. Messy, breathless giggles that bubbled up between kisses when Bob fumbled with the button of your jeans and swore under his breath, when his nose bumped yours because neither of you could keep still.
You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling helplessly. He smelled the same, soap and cedar and the faint tang that clung to him when he woke up, and it sent another wave of hysterical affection through you.
“We’re a disaster,” you teased, rolling over to lie on your back beside him.
“Speak for yourself,” Bob muttered, though his grin was hopelessly crooked, his chest still heaving. “I’m very smooth.”
You gave him a look, one brow arched. He sighed, sagging down beside you, reaching for your hand like it was the only thing tethering him.
“Okay,” he admitted, eyes flicking away. “Maybe not smooth. More like… sandpaper. Or, uh, a car crash. The kind you can’t look away from because it’s that bad.”
You laughed again, louder this time, tugging him forward so you could kiss the corner of his mouth. “Bob.”
He glanced at you warily, self-deprecating humour still lingering in the downturn of his smile. “Yeah?”
“You’re fine,” you whispered, cupping his cheek, brushing your thumb over the stubble there. “More than fine. You’re the best thing I’ve ever let crash into me.”
Something unguarded flickered in his eyes then, relief tangled with endless affection. The way his face crumpled—half a laugh, half like he’d taken a breath after holding it for too long—was so unmistakably Bob that you couldn’t help kissing him again. Softer this time, slow and sweet, like coming home.
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Thunderbolts!Reader
Summary: Neither you nor Bob ever dared to fully cross the line of friendship or more, walking it like a tightrope instead. All it takes is one undercover mission for that tightrope to snap.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, might be a slight hint of a breeding kink in there, slight bit of superpower usage), porn with a LOT of plot, fluff, friends to lovers, lots of pining, sort of a fake marriage trope, one bed trope, language, some mental health talk, female reader, alcohol consumption, some Agents of SHIELD spoilers actually, Thunderbolts spoilers obviously
Word Count: 16,400 words
Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here
A/N: special thanks to @briseisgone for checking my French in this!!!!
"W-Wait...you want to send Bob and me on an undercover mission?"
Valentina let out an aggravated sigh, the same one she typically gave her rag-tag team of new Avengers. She stood at the head of the conference room table, perfectly manicured hand, as always, tapping incessantly on the glass tabletop. The look in her eyes displayed boredom, maybe even a hint of exasperation, as she looked directly at you.
“God–am I speaking Russian? Have I been spending too much time around the mall Santa over here?” her hand gestured out in the direction of Alexei. When no one spoke up, she continued. “Yes, Viper, I’m sending you and the man-child on this mission.”
“An undercover mission, that’s the part you’re glossing over that I-I really don’t think you should be,” you tried to reason with the woman, but she simply held her hand in the air to stop you.
“It’s the fastest mission of your life, Viper, it’s a single day: get in, get the information, get out. And if I remember correctly–well if Mel read the paperwork correctly–it was you that signed off on Robert’s combat forms and said he was fieldwork and combat ready,”
Well, she wasn’t wrong. That was your signature on those papers, signing off to approve Bob Reynolds for actual combat with the team on missions. You had been the one to hand-train him yourself for months on end, three hours a day in the training center, helping him to understand that his powers were a part of him and that he didn’t need to play the part of “The Sentry” to use them.
Hand-to-hand combat and the power of a thousand exploding suns were vastly different from undercover field work, though.
“Valentina, you’re missing the part where you’re sending them on an undercover mission,” Yelena chimed in, leaning her elbows forward on the table next to you as she voiced your own concerns out loud. “He’s combat cleared, we’ve taken him on small missions here and there-”
“He was very helpful with the gang problem last month!” Alexei cut in with a boisterous laugh. “They were such funny little men, looked like they were fake Russians. He made quick work of them, even if he apologized when he sent that one flying across the room-”
“The point is, undercover work is different,” it was Bucky who cut in this time, sitting directly across from you and Yelena, looking around at the group before his gaze cut back to Valentina. “Undercover work takes a certain level of care. It’s a lot of quick thinking in fast-paced environments, and it requires the ability to remain calm and adapt to anything that could happen. I just…I don’t think Bob is cut out for that kind of work yet.”
You hated agreeing with your team, but they were right. Bob brought a value to this team that sometimes couldn’t be accurately quantified, and you didn’t like talking down on him in any sort of way. He was valuable, he was helpful…he was your best friend, but he just wasn’t cut out for undercover work, at least not right now.
Valentina took one look around the room, scoffing with a mutter of “unbelievable” under her breath. With a snap of her fingers, Mel was by her side in a second to pass her a manila folder, shooting the rest of you an apologetic look as she stepped away. Valentina flicked the folder open, gaze rising to settle on you.
“Oh, look what we have here: SHIELD Special Agent 19, codename Viper,” the deep sigh you let out was inevitable as Valentina paced the front of the conference room, reading straight from your file. “A liaison for the original Avengers, looks like you did some work with Yelena’s sister. Let’s see, notable missions–ah! Project TAHITI, Project Deathlok, a mission to Puerto Rico that ended in the deaths of three HYDRA leaders. Need I list off more?”
You mumbled something under your breath about how much you loved this “walk down memory lane” that drew a short chuckle out of Yelena, before Valentina continued to read through the file.
“Over 37 different undercover missions spanning the likes of Berlin, São Paulo, Mumbai, and even Osaka: all successful, by the way. There’s even a review section about your superb skills with an FN SCAR-H, MGC M-16, and your favorite, the Nemesis Arms Vanquish. Oh, and your lethal little twin daggers, all coupled with this glowing review about how you were one of the best agents to ever step foot in SHIELD,” Valentina flipped the manila folder closed, tossing it onto the table with pursed lips. “Let’s not forget that all of that? Yeah, it’s all personally signed off by Nick Fury.”
“I love reading time with Valentina, it’s so fun,” Walker huffed out a bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair with arms folded behind his head. “Can you read my file next? I’m dying to relive my short few weeks as Captain America.”
As much as Walker could be a dick at times, his humor in moments like these was much appreciated. Except to Valentina, who only shot him another glare.
“My word is final. I have one of SHIELD’s best special agents on my team, and I’m using her. And yeah, you’re taking Robert with you,” with a snap of her fingers once more, Mel passed her another manila folder that was slid in your direction. You had barely stopped it under your hand before Val had slid the large pair of expensive sunglasses on top of her head over her face, shooting a fake grin around the room. “Now, I have a meeting with the Senator, followed by a stint on a beach in Fiji. I trust you all can handle this: try not to call!”
The sound of her heels clicking against the linoleum floor echoed through the room, before the large conference door swung shut with a heavy click.
Silence hung in the air between the team for a moment before all hell broke loose.
“He’s just not cut out for a mission like this. I’m sorry, I have to say it,”
“Bobby apologized to that gang member last month when he threw him across a room. We want to send this guy undercover?”
“Ah, but he is The Sentry! He is most equipped to protect our stabby-stabby friend, Miss Viper,”
With another sigh, you flipped the manila folder in front of you over. With a quick skim down the page, you got the gist of the mission: HYDRA, possibly regrowing, attempting to get their hands on Adamantium.
Just the word HYDRA had a pang of hurt hitting you straight in the chest. Great. Just great.
“We can argue as much as we want, but we aren’t the ones assigned to a mission with him,” your ears perked up at Yelena’s voice, turning your head to look at her. She was already looking toward you. “Do you think he can handle this?”
“Personally? I’m terrified that undercover work is going to be a lot on him. He’s gotten more comfortable with letting his Sentry powers show at times and with hand-to-hand, but undercover is different,” you explained, treading carefully around what you said. “It’s taken months for him to feel comfortable on his medication, especially after Dr. Kim changed his dosage at least four times. Undercover work…it’s intense, I don’t want him to get overwhelmed.”
Ava leaned forward on the table, drawing your attention to her.
“Viper, while it’s a valid concern…Valentina hasn’t left us with much of a choice,”
You sighed, flipping the manila folder closed once again.
“No. No, she didn’t,”
You didn’t speak another word, and the team took it as the official end of the meeting. All but Yelena, who stayed behind even as the conference room doors shut again. She sat quietly for a moment before speaking.
“So…you’re totally not nervous about being alone with Bob, right?”
“Why would I be?” you questioned, and Yelena just looked at you expectantly. “Oh god–Lena, don’t start this again–”
“The heart eyes you two give each other make me sick,” she faked throwing up, laughing as she dodged the kick you sent toward her chair while shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of the heat crawling into your skin. “Always looking at one another, he’s always stumbling over his words–more than usual–around you, always being so touchy touchy together, and so on and so forth with the cuteness overload day in and day out.”
She took the manila folder from your hands, skimming over the mission details as you scoffed in her direction.
“So we spend a lot of time together, so we can be a little touchy, what’s wrong with that? Friends are like that all the time!”
“Um, except Bob is notoriously not touchy with anyone, given the whole interconnected shame room incident,” Yelena simply stared at you, blinking multiple times in succession. You stared back, before she simply threw the manila folder down with a sigh. “Fine, fine, don’t listen to me and solve the glaringly obvious romantic–and slightly sexual–tension, wallow in it for all I care. I wish you luck in Paris, of all places, ignoring that.”
The mission weighed heavily on your mind later that night. Yelena’s thoughts lingered, too, in the back of your head.
The tower’s kitchen was quiet, except for the playlist currently playing out of your phone’s speaker from where it sat plugged in on the counter. The sun had already set, and the team was all off on their own set schedules.
Walker was finally making a supervised visit with his estranged wife and child, like you’d been hounding him to do for months. Ava had said something about catching a movie at the theater down the road, while Alexei had roped Yelena into ‘father-daughter bonding’ at a Broadway show (you were sure they’d be home soon and Alexei would somehow get them kicked out). Bucky had simply retired to his room, leaving you to your own thoughts in the kitchen.
Two pots were boiling on the stove. You had just added the spaghetti sauce into one and half of the box of noodles into another, humming under your breath as some song that Tony used to play around this very tower played off your phone.
“S-Smells good,”
You jumped slightly, heart rate spiking, before you turned. The sight of Bob leaning against the kitchen doorway, clad in a white t-shirt and one of his many pairs of grey sweatpants, had your guard back down in a second. With a quick stir of the noodles, you pointed the now-soaked utensil in Bob’s direction with a grin.
“Haven’t you been warned not to sneak up on dangerous agents anymore? After the last time Yelena almost stabbed you?”
The blush coating his cheeks at the simple mention of the incident had you laughing, nodding your head toward him to beckon him over. He crossed the room without hesitation, feet shuffling across the cold floor until he was leaning on the counter next to the stove.
“Well…you’re different. I-I hope you wouldn’t try to stab me,”
“On purpose? No. Scare me like that again? Maybe,” you added the rest of the box of noodles to the boiling water without having to ask, not missing the tiny quirk of his lips as you did.
Without having to ask, he took another large spoon from the utensil holder, lazily stirring around the sauce in the pot next to him. You shot him a grateful smile, keeping your eyes on the noodles in your own pot.
“Homemade garlic bread?” Bob questioned, gesturing down to the lit oven below you both. You could see his smile stretch just the tiniest bit wider. “You know I-I love your homemade garlic bread.”
“I know, that’s why I made it,” you teased him, bumping your hip lightly against his own as he let out a short laugh. “I figured you would come crawling out of your room eventually and get hungry tonight.”
The kitchen went quiet for another moment. Bob backed out of the way, letting you open the oven to a rush of warm air and check on the bread.
He took your spoon from you without having to be asked, stirring the noodles and the sauce as you crossed the kitchen to the fridge. With a wine glass and a normal tall glass placed before you, you poured him a cup of water before pouring yourself a generous amount of sangria from your favorite bottle in the fridge–it still had a sticky note on the side to tell Ava to keep her hands off of it.
“I had a dream last night. B-But…I think it was more like a memory,”
Bob’s sudden comment had you pausing, placing the wine bottle back down on the counter carefully, and turning. His back was to you, still focused on the stovetop, but even you could see the tension suddenly riddled throughout his body, in the subtle flex of his arms.
“What was it?”
“New York, the…the incident,” he struggled to explain that day, but you knew what he was talking about. “D-Do you remember what you said to me that day? When you…pulled me out of there?”
Of course you did. You remembered the shame room incident like it was yesterday. Reliving the day you thought you lost your mentor, the crumbling of SHIELD, the comforting hand of your mentor on your shoulder when you learned the man you thought you loved and trusted had really been-
You remembered Bob. Jumping into those shame rooms to find him, to break through every wall until you found Yelena, and until you both found Bob. Wrapping him in your arms after fighting tooth and nail across the room until you got to him, holding him as he cried.
I’ve got you. I’m not leaving, not now, not ever. You don’t have to carry it alone; I’ll carry it with you.
With both glasses in hand, you placed them on the island counter. You placed two plates beside them before you rejoined Bob’s side. He handed you back your own utensil without a word, and you took it, fingers just barely brushing his. You could see those little bumps rise on his skin where you touched him, and it brought a soft smile to your face.
“That I wasn’t leaving, that I’d carry your burdens with you,” you spared him a glance from the corner of your eyes, and he was already looking at you. “It was a memory, Bob. That’s what I told you, and I meant it.”
God, when you said you would carry his burdens with him, did you mean it. Every therapy session Valentina had ordered for him, you were at his side–at his request, of course. He refused to sit through the first few without you, and after that, he was just too used to you being around for them.
Those therapy sessions turned into late-night conversations on the couch when his insomnia took over. Walks around Central Park in the middle of the day. Visits to his favorite local bookstore to find something new to read.
It was hard not to become someone’s person when you spent every moment with them.
“Okay, good. Would be kind of awkward if it was just a dream,” you sputtered out a short laugh, leaning into his side with another small nudge to his hip. “You know, t-the same goes for you, right? That I’m here, that uh…that I have your back. Especially if we’re, you know, on missions or something…”
In the middle of stirring your pot, you hung your head with an audible sigh.
“Let me guess, Yelena told you about the mission we’re assigned?” he gave you a small nod. “I promise I was going to tell you, probably after dinner, after I had time to fully think about the logistics of it all.”
Bob took the pot off the stove as you switched it off, swinging it over to the sink and helping you empty the contents into the strainer, the excess water rushing off down the drain.
“She wanted to warn me, given that it’s undercover and all,” Bob explained, putting the empty pot back on one of the burners that was cooled off as you shook the rest of the water from the strainer. “I just…I want you to know that I-I can do this. That I won’t let you down o-or make it worse.”
Bob’s negative self-talk always caught your attention. Even when it wasn’t as glaringly obvious, when it was just hidden in his little comments, you always picked up on it. He seemed to know you did, already looking at you when you turned to give him a knowing look.
“Bob-”
“Yeah, I know, ‘replacing my negative thoughts with positive thoughts will lead to positive results’ or whatever it is Dr. Kim keeps telling me,” Bob tore the spoon stirring the sauce out of the pot and waved it around, flinging little bits of sauce everywhere. You couldn’t help your laughter as some of it splattered across his face, but he paid no attention to it. “I-I know undercover work is different from the little work that I-I have done, but I can do it, especially if it’s with you. I know I can.”
There was a beat of silence before you reached forward, fingers just barely grazing along his skin to wipe the little bit of spaghetti sauce from his cheeks. It was noticeable, the little way that Bob leaned into your touch, the only touch on the team that he actively allowed and didn’t shy away from all the time.
One strand of that dark brown hair fell in front of his eyes as he leaned into you, and you didn’t hesitate to swipe it back. Those striking blue eyes never looked away from you, and you found yourself lost in those ocean-like eyes and the softness they held. They were beautiful…Bob was beautiful, inside and out, and you had always known it. That flutter of your heart and that warm feeling that pooled in your stomach all but screamed it at you.
“I just worry that it could overwhelm you, bring up negative memories, that’s all. But I trust you. So, if you say you can do it, then I believe you. As long as you promise me that you’ll tell me the second something doesn’t feel right, if you feel overwhelmed.”
Bob’s smile quirked just slightly into that slightly smug little smirk you’d seen just a few times before, mainly when he managed to make a dig at Walker that always set the super soldier off. He held his hand up, pinky outstretched, and you laughed wholeheartedly before wrapping your own around his.
“I promise I’ll tell you,”
“Good. Do we need a secret code word if it comes up?” you teased.
“I mean…’cucumber’ works for many moments,”
You both laughed, pinkies still intertwined.
“Cucumber it is,”
❤︎
“The mission basics are simple: it’s been confirmed that remnants of HYDRA are still scattered across the globe, and they’re trying to regroup and gain momentum again. Somewhere in that rebuild, they’re trying to get their hands on Adamantium, that metal harvested from that Celestial body in the ocean. Intel suggests their plan is to get it from a French arms dealer by the name of Damien Jacquemin. His company runs out of the United States; it’s based somewhere in Texas, but he conducts his personal business as far from his company as he can. Not a guy we want to tussle with, Stark knew him well back in his heyday of weapons manufacturing,”
Valentina’s team had recreated the old SHIELD and Avengers quinjets fairly accurately, with their own additions. The cockpit was separated from the rest of the jet to offer more privacy, a more spacious backend area than what you were used to in the past. A large conference table sat in the middle of the room, big enough to seat your team of seven around. Bob was sitting at that conference table now, flicking through the holopad you’d set in front of him, while you paced the open space behind him as you spoke.
“He’s hosting a one-day conference of sorts in Paris, but it’s a ruse to distract him from meeting with his potential HYDRA clients. This conference will consist of high-profile arms dealers and investors from around the globe,” you leaned down over Bob’s shoulder, flicking the holopad to the next screen. “He’s rented out this entire little hotel for the conference. It’s a boutique hotel, only 25 rooms, so the guest list is small and the conference room is small, meaning this is going to be an intimate event. It’s at least got nice views of the Eiffel Tower, so at least we have a view.”
“Okay…” Bob breathed out the word, sitting up straighter in his chair as he turned around to face you. You couldn’t help but smile at those eyes that were as wide as a deer’s in headlights, his hand tugging at the collar of the white button-down he was donning, tucked into his black pants. “S-So what are we doing?”
“We are guests of the conference, much like all the others in attendance. This conference is only a day long, so we have a short timeframe to work with to get this information,” you crossed the room over to the expensive designer purse waiting for you, digging out the fake passport and license for each of you, and passing Bob’s over to him. “These are our identities. If you can’t remember, just let me do most of the talking. Our job is to avoid as much direct contact with Mr. Jacquemin as we can, as he is the most likely to sniff us out as undercover. We are to determine which guests are the HYDRA agents in disguise, and be close enough to determine if a sale of Adamantium is happening and where it will happen, so we can alert our team. All while…not getting caught, of course.”
Bob examined the passport and license in his hand, and you could see the tiny shake in them. It brought a frown to your face as he turned it to you, smiling just a bit.
“M-My name is Mr. Aidan Gray?” you laughed lightly, seeing Bob look between you and that terrible photo of him with his hair slicked back for the fake ID.
“For this weekend? Yes,” you flashed him your own ID and license, before stalking back over to your purse to put them away where they’d stay safe. “You’re the extremely wealthy son of a former American arms dealer, Russell Gray, who did work with Stark Industries back in the day. Now, you own Gray Enterprises. I’m your loving and adoring wife, Mrs. Eloise Gray.”
“W-Wait, we’re…we’re married for this?”
You paused, cheeks heating up as you remembered that little, yet big, detail of the mission. Turning on your heel, Bob was now standing from his seat, eyes blown wide again and cheeks flushed the deepest shade of red you had ever seen on him.
“W-Well, statistically, these missions go smoother when marriage is used as a cover,” you stumbled a bit, trying to find the right words to explain a decision of the mission that had been entirely your call. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with this-”
“No! No y-you didn’t,”
Something hung in the quiet space between you both just then, something you had been avoiding for months. You avoided it in every therapy session when Bob took your hand in his, in every late-night talk on the common room couch while rain pattered against the tower windows until you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, and in every look and gentle touch you exchanged.
The brush of hands, Bob’s hand always brushing against your lower back when he moved past you, the times when he’d wake up after you in the morning and wrap himself around you from behind in the kitchen in greeting, never fully understanding his actions so early in the morning with sleep still in his eyes. All moments that fluttered your heart in ways you tried to ignore.
“We just have to play it up at the conference, is all,” you reassured him, hands gliding down the sides of your dress as if brushing off non-existent dust.
Bob’s eyes were still blown wide, but he couldn’t help but let laughter flow from him, still slightly breathy. You quirked your head, smiling nonetheless at his actions, shoving that stupid heat pooling within you away.
“I-It’s just funny…Walker always jokes that we act like a married couple. Now he’s, like, k-kind of right,”
Okay, maybe Yelena had a point. There was a glaringly obvious rope of romantic tension that was hanging between you and Bob. It was a feeling you were aware of, that you tried to ignore for many reasons, but in moments like this it was more prevalent and obvious than usual.
That softness in his eyes, reserved just for you. It conveyed trust, complete and total trust, something Bob didn’t feel with many people. You were one of the lucky ones, if not the only lucky one.
The red light by the door to the cockpit blinked twice, illuminating the room: the signal that you would be landing. A secure location just outside of Paris, where an arranged car would pick you both up and transport you to your hotel.
“Well, you know how Walker can be. Always joking,” you did your best to laugh, even if it was slightly strained. An awkward smile crossed his lips before you walked past him, giving him a quick pat on the arm. “Get ready, we’re landing in a moment.”
The landing went off without a hitch, the sleek, black car awaiting you with Valentina’s personnel picking you up without an incident.
The drive into Paris city limits took an hour, a quiet hour. There was some channel playing through the car, a revolving slate of French songs. But neither you nor Bob spoke.
You watched him instead, as the sun set throughout the drive and the city lights lit up. The way the yellow of the lights reflected through the car windows, painting Bob in their soft light. The way the yellow reflected off the blue of his eyes, reminding you of the gold that shimmered through them when the Sentry serum took hold.
That tiny smile on his face, those wide eyes as he took in every street, every building, every group of people lining the street. It took a lot to stop the flutter of your heart at the sight.
“Bienvenue à Paris, Monsieur et Madame Gray! Nous attendions votre arrivée, veuillez me suivre,” the young man waiting in the lobby of your hotel greeted you enthusiastically, accent heavy, the second you and Bob stepped through the doors. Bob’s hand was wrapped in yours, and the second you were greeted in a language he couldn’t understand with fake names, you felt his grip tighten. You gave him what you hoped was a comforting squeeze back, giving the greeter a kind smile as you fell into step beside him, your bags taken by the bellhop at Bob’s other side. “Souhaitez-vous être accompagné jusqu'à votre chambre?”
“Non, mais merci de votre offre,” you responded in kind, the language rolling off your tongue with a practiced ease. You could see Bob’s head shoot up to look at you from the corner of your eye as you waved the greeter’s offer to escort you both to your room off. “Mon mari et moi avons eu un long vol, nous voulons juste nous reposer.”
“Bonne nuit, Madame,”
The keycard to your room was passed to you with another kind smile from the man. Bob stepped into the elevator first, pulling you along with him, before the bellhop placed your bags in the room with you and pressed the fifth floor button for you both. He bid you both another goodnight before the doors shut, leaving the two of you alone once more.
“Y-You speak French?”
There was a smirk on your face as you glanced at Bob, who looked astonished and impressed by what he had just seen.
“And Spanish, they were both taught to us during my SHIELD special training,”
“I liked the way you spoke it,” Bob’s voice dropped just slightly lower, slightly softer. “It…it was pretty.”
Heat was crawling through your skin as you slipped your hand from his, wiping it along your dress with a nervous laugh.
“W-Well, like they say…it is the language of love, and whatnot. Elegant and…all that,”
Silence fell between you both again as the elevator doors swung open on your floor. The room, 512, was just barely down the hallway, opening with a single flick of the keycard. Bob went to take a step forward, but you placed a hand on his chest, pulling him back and stepping into the room first, pulling the concealed gun from your thigh holster with a practiced ease as you did.
“First step of undercover, Bob: always assume you’re one step behind so that you never walk in blind,”
The hotel room was small: a tiny door that led to the bathroom to the right of the main door, a king-sized bed spread out along the entire wall with just enough space for the dresser, and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up onto the skinny balcony.
A quick sweep of the room and the typical spots confirmed that it wasn’t bugged and that no one besides housekeeping had stepped foot in there within the last few hours, so you gave Bob a nod to enter the room as you slotted your gun back into its holster.
“N-Never been in a hotel this nice,” Bob muttered as he entered the room, looking around the room with a look in his eyes that you could only compare to childlike glee. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, letting out a sigh as he fell back against the quilt and practically sank into it. “Or a city so pretty.”
You smiled to yourself, moving to lock the door to the room. Reaching into your purse, you slid a small, circular device onto the door, one that would alert you if there was any unauthorized breach of the door. You reentered the main room, placing a similar device beside the window to the balcony, this one scrambling outside interference with the room so that anything said within your four walls would stay private information.
“You went to Malaysia, I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful country,”
“I went there to score drugs, I-I wasn’t staying in five-star hotels like this one,”
Bob sat up on the bed as he spoke, looking over to you. You leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded over your chest as you watched him, laughing lightly at his comment.
“Alright, you got me there, Reynolds. Fair point,”
Silence hung for a second before Bob finally looked around the room, glancing down to the bed under his fingertips before looking up at you with wide eyes once again.
“Um…t-there’s only one bed?”
“Oh…”
Yeah, oh. That thought hadn’t exactly crossed your mind when Valentina’s team sent you the booking for the room, or when you did the initial sweep of the room moments ago.
Okay, this wasn’t a problem. There were plenty of pillows, and you could easily make up a place to sleep on the floor. This also wasn’t your first rodeo with an undercover mission; you had done plenty in the past and made do with a lot less to work with. Sleeping in a bathtub wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world, depending on the size of it-
“We could…we could share?”
That comment snapped you out of your thoughts. Bob looked at your sheepishly, his hands wringing together in a way you’d come to know well, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. Something that looked a lot like hope.
Your teeth gnawed at your bottom lip, the thought flickering through your head, before you gave him a hesitant nod.
“As long as you’re okay with it,”
“W-We fall asleep sitting on the couch together all the time. This is the same thing, just…horizontal,”
Bob may have hated his social awkwardness, but you were thankful for it. Especially in moments like this, where it broke tension so effortlessly. A laugh sputtered from your lips as you quickly covered it with your hand, and a tiny grin stretched across Bob’s face at the sound.
“Well, how can I argue with logic like that? Let me just…get changed,”
You spent too long in the bathroom, and you knew it. You had changed ten minutes ago into your sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt that you had stolen from Bucky weeks ago after he’d stained one of yours during a Walker and Ava-initiated food battle in the middle of dinner over a pointless argument.
The ten minutes since changing had been spent staring into the mirror in the pristine bathroom, trying to ground yourself.
Bob was right, you had essentially slept with each other multiple times before. This time, though, was different. Yeah, as Bob so expertly put it, you were horizontal this time, but you were in a bed and alone in Paris, not on a couch in the middle of the tower common room where any of your early riser teammates could walk in unannounced. It was such a mundane thing, sleeping next to someone, when you thought about it, but a much more intimate thing for Bob to feel comfortable enough to let you do with him.
He trusted you, completely. You tried to remind yourself of that when your mind drifted to how much or how little clothing he possibly wore to bed, or the fact that his body naturally functioned like a furnace because of the serum running through his veins. Or the impure fantasies that flicked through your head late at night when you were alone in your room in the tower, imagining how his lean and taut muscles and soft skin would feel under the touch of your wandering hand.
Bob was already tucked into one side of the bed by the time you finally entered the room. Just the bedside lamp remained on, bathing the room in a tiny bit of a yellow glow. You didn’t look at him directly as you shut the curtains to the balcony, but you could see the hint of bare skin peaking just above the covers from where he lay.
Without a word, you crawled in beside him, tucking yourself in with your head resting on the soft pillow on your side. You turned on your side, gaze trailing over the side of his face and his jawline, before Bob turned to face you too.
Nothing was said for a moment. You could faintly smell that body soap that Bob used, that hint of rosemary and sage invading your senses. His feet were moving back and forth under the covers, as if fidgeting when his hands couldn’t, and his body heat was prevalent in the sheets and in the air between you.
“S-Sorry,” he mumbled out, glancing down just barely at his own torso as you tried to keep your eyes trained on his face. “I run hot–you know that–and if I uh, if I wear shirts to bed I usually sweat r-right through them.”
“It’s okay,” was all you could manage to reply.
“I’ve never done this before,” Bob spoke again, vulnerability laced in his tone. “Never…slept in a bed with someone.”
You shifted, pulling your pillow down further as you tucked your hands under it.
“Never? Not even with a girlfriend?”
“Well, there was a girl…once,” Bob seemed to hesitate for a moment, but you didn’t push him. He’d come close to telling this story once before, about this girl, in therapy, but always stopped himself short. “I-I was younger, it was sometime after I dropped out of high school. Things were good, but she…she didn’t realize I was an addict. Once she knew, that was it. S-So, no, no bed sharing for me.”
“Well, I’m glad the first time you’re sharing a bed with someone, it’s with your wife,” the comment lightened the mood almost immediately, a genuine laugh tumbling from Bob’s lips. Your own pulled into a smile at the sight, seeing the tension that had been strewn throughout his features at the memory of this girl dissipating almost immediately. “It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with anyone, too. A long time.”
“How long?”
“Years. Way before Thanos, that’s for sure,” you chuckled to yourself. Bob watched you intently, hanging on your every word. “He was a SHIELD agent, too, a few years older than me. We were here in Paris…haven’t been back here since.”
You knew the melancholy was clear in your tone, memories flickering back to you in pieces. Bob shifted just slightly on the bed, his body moving just slightly closer to yours.
“What, uh, what happened to him?”
“He turned out to be HYDRA. My mentor killed him, so don’t worry, he’s a distant memory now. Became a full-time liaison for the Avengers after that all went down,”
“W-Well…it all worked out, didn’t it?” there was a hint of a sheepish smile on Bob’s face. “I…don’t think I would’ve met you if you didn’t work with them.”
Bob Reynolds didn’t make it easy. Whether the comment was meant to be flirty or just sweet in general, it had your stomach twisting in knots and heat flaring in your cheeks.
“Yeah…I guess everything works out for a reason,” you turned away from him then, back to him, as you flicked the bedside lamp out, plunging the room into darkness. “Goodnight, Bob,”
“G-Goodnight,”
The silence in the dark had only lasted for a few minutes. You hadn’t shut your eyes once, simply staring at the curtains covering the window in front of you, listening to the sound of Bob’s breathing fill the room. Any ounce of sleep that your body needed had evaded you suddenly, your body and mind wide awake.
“Can…can I ask you a favor?”
“Always,”
The bed sheets ruffled for a moment as Bob moved himself around.
“When I sleep, I tend to…I-I usually hold something. Like, my pillow. Do you–you can say no–but do you think-”
“Come here,”
You said it without hesitation, before you even fully realized what you agreed to. You didn’t need to think about it, though, because Bob Reynolds could ask you anything, and you weren’t sure you could ever really tell him no.
The sheets shuffled around again, before that warmth radiating from his skin was more prevalent than it was before. Gently, as if you were some wounded little animal he was scared to spook, Bob’s arm slowly slid around your waist from behind. His hand lay against your stomach, splayed out on top of the fabric, before his body molded to the back of yours.
One shaky breath left your lips the second his body was fully molded to the shape of your own. His other arm slid under the pillow beneath your head, and you could feel the heat from it on the other side of the pillowcase. Bob’s fingers twitched back and forth, as if hesitating, his warm breath ghosting over the back of your neck. In this close proximity, the sage scent in his bodywash was stronger, a hint of his minty toothpaste wafting through the air along with it.
Neither of you moved for a moment before you finally sank back into him, letting yourself embrace the feeling of being wrapped in his arms for the first time. Bob let out another shaky breath, his arm tightening around you the second you relaxed, as if realizing that you weren’t going to run away from his touch. Suddenly, tiredness finally found you again, your body being lulled into sleep.
“Goodnight,” he whispered, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.
“Goodnight, Bob,”
As sleep finally overtook you, Yelena’s words floated through your mind once again.
❤︎
The dress Valentina’s team had picked was simple: a deep navy blue satin, floor-length, and column fit to hug you just right but provide enough mobility in case of a fight. The halter neckline tied around the back of your neck, the zipper up the back of the dress stopping right at your lower back, exposing the expanse of your spine in the cool air of the hotel room. A comfortable pair of black heels, ones easy enough to discard if, once again, a fight ensued. A single slit up the side of the dress, stopping right at the middle of your right thigh to barely hide the holster strapped to your upper thigh with your knives.
Simple, elegant, and befitting of a woman supposedly married to a rich and powerful weapons manufacturer.
“H-Here, let me help,”
Not a single muscle in your body moved as Bob stepped into view behind you, fingers taking firm hold of the dress’s zipper to conform it to your body.
Your eyes watched him in the floor-length mirror behind you, dressed up in a way you had never seen him before. His suit was a deep, rich brown color, with a matching jacket and dress pants with just a slightly darker shade of brown shoes on his feet. Bob’s hair was slicked back, held behind his ears with the pomade packed for him. It was strange, seeing him like this, but not unwelcome. It gave you the chance to fully see his face, no longer shrouded by stray strands of hair.
The zipper hooked into place at the top of your dress, Bob’s fingertips just lightly ghosting over your spine as a shiver ran straight through your bones and showed in the bumps along your skin. You turned on your heel, reaching out without a word to adjust the crinkled white button-up beneath his jacket so it lay flat. With the collar in place, you let your hand rest on his chest for just a moment, touch light, as you looked up at him. Bob’s eyes hadn’t left yours, nervousness written clear across his face, before you pulled your hand away to retrieve your clutch across the room.
“Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Gray need to have their stories straight,” you cleared your throat, explaining to him as you dug through your clutch, crossing the room back to his side. “In case we’re questioned on how we met, fell i-in love, that type of thing.”
Bob was silent for a moment as you continued to rummage through your clutch. As the silence stretched, you glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.
“Bob, did you hear me-”
“Maybe…m-maybe we met in a bookstore. I saw you, but y-you were just too pretty to talk to. Then you came up to me, I was reading my favorite book, and you quoted it. And…the rest w-was history,”
Something about those words hit you like a hurricane, and suddenly, you were back in that Vault all those months ago.
“W-What exactly are you doing?”
“Rerouting power away from their security systems so they can’t get the drop on us,” Bob hummed in response to your comment, going quiet, but him being quiet worried you more than him talking. “Just stay behind me when the fight comes, okay? Because we’re going to have to fight our way out of here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I can help, though! At least, I-I want to,” there was enthusiasm in his words for a moment, before that negative self-talk worked itself back in. “The medical trial was supposed to make me better, so I don’t know, I-I feel like I could help.”
The wires were finally rerouted, the little blinking green light indicating power to their security system flashing red. Your dagger was placed back in its loop on your belt, the electrical box slammed shut, before you looked back at Bob with raised eyebrows.
“I thought you didn’t remember much about this trial?”
“I don’t, just that it was for people who wanted to make something of themselves, to be better. To do good,” your gaze dropped to his hands, partially obscured by the long sleeves of his hospital uniform, as his fingers twisted together. “I don’t know, I-I just feel like I did something…bad, if that makes sense?”
“We all have, that’s why we’re in this vault,”
“This feels different,” he gave a short laugh. “I-I’ve always had these episodes since I was a kid. There’s a…there’s a high, then there’s a big low, and then my memory just goes blank. This time, it feels like I-I did something bad. I don’t know, it just feels like every time I try to move forward and do something good, the past comes back to haunt me.”
There was a tug in your chest at the comment, like recognition in your soul for the way he hurt, for the pain he carried.
“And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” you shrugged a little at your own response, a splash of red coating your neck and cheeks. “Sorry, you just reminded me of this quote from a book I love about the past haunting you-”
“The Great Gatsby,” Bob’s smile was just a tad bit brighter now, and it tugged on your heart in a different way. “Y-Yeah, I know it. It’s my favorite book.”
“Mine too,” you offered him softly, with a smile of your own, before the lights flickered for just a moment before popping back on, indicating that Yelena’s plan had failed.
His own fake story for your fake relationship had traces of that first conversation you’d really had with him strewn throughout it. You couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered at the thought.
Suddenly, your head was back in bed this morning, just hours before. Wrapped in his arms as if it were the most usual thing in the world, his heat wrapping around you and shielding you from the cold of the room. The way his arms tightened around you the second you tried to leave the bed, his subconscious holding tighter to you even in the quiet of the morning.
The moments you had sat on the balcony, freshly showered in a bathrobe, enjoying a plate of fresh croissants and coffee. One hand flicked through the screen of your holopad, tapped into the security system of the hotel just down the street, monitoring the setup of the conference. But your eyes drifted back to Bob every now and then. The way the quilt rested around his hips, his slightly tanned skin and taut muscles visible in the smattering of sunlight that streamed through the window and painted his body in shades of gold.
“How’d we get engaged?” you found yourself asking after a moment, shaking yourself out of your head. Bob let out a soft laugh, hands wringing together in front of him.
“If I worked up the courage, ever…a picnic, by the beach. M-Maybe the sun setting in the background, little sandwiches, some music. I-I’d…I’d tell you that…you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Inside and out,”
If he’d meant it, if it had been a real marriage proposal, you would probably have said yes right in that moment without another thought.
Bob watched as you slipped your hand from your clutch, tucking it under your arm, before taking his left hand in yours. Your palm opened, two gold bands glinting in the overhead light.
“Sorry to rain on your engagement parade, but we’re in a time crunch. Looks like we have to skip straight to the ring ceremony,”
His shaky hand lay in yours as you slipped the ring onto his finger, a new kind of tension charging the air between you both. Bob took your hand next, and you could feel your chest tighten and your stomach flip a thousand different ways as his shaky hands slipped your own ring onto your left hand.
It all felt so right, so natural. But there was no time to dwell on it, as the mission was truly about to begin.
The streets of Paris in the late afternoon near your hotel weren’t overcrowded, but still busy. Bob had taken your hand from his arm, wrapping it in his own as he squeezed it firmly, but gently, twice. It was the same squeeze he would always give you in the middle of his therapy sessions when a moment felt like too much.
The rented hotel was just two streets away, and the wall of bodyguards standing outside was a clear sign that you were in the right place. You gave Bob’s hand a light squeeze back, leaning over so that your lips just barely brushed his ear.
“Tonight, you aren’t Bob Reynolds. You’re Aiden Gray, a wealthy CEO, someone people respect. They don’t look down on you, they respect you, because you are powerful and you are important. I’ll be right here the whole time, I won’t leave your side. You can do this, I believe in you,”
Bob didn’t get to respond before you were standing before the front door of the hotel. The looming presence of the bodyguards waited until you pulled out the ornately decorated slip of paper from your clutch, flashing them your invitation with Damien Jacquemin’s personal signature. They looked at one another, nodded, and parted to let you and Bob enter.
The hotel’s ground floor was spacious, yet still small. Shades of blue, beige, and deeper browns coated the room from head to toe, matching perfectly with the deep brown wooden floors and the beige columns around the room. The ornate lights hanging from the ceiling glowed in a warm white, bathing the room in soft light. There were maybe fifty guests littering the room, leaning against walls or cocktail tables, or even sitting in plush chairs and couches, already locked into conversations.
“That man over there is Herman Schultz, a known associate of Adrian Toomes that got released from custody during the blip,” you whispered into Bob’s ear once more, gesturing with a single flick of your finger toward a tall man across the room, laughing with a group of women. You tugged him slightly, pointing in another direction at a table where a group sat. “Over there? That’s the head of Cybertek Corporation, they’re speaking with a distant cousin of Aldrich Killian, trying to restart his defunct company, A.I.M.”
“S-So a lot of really important and powerful people,” Bob mumbled back. You squeezed his hand once, bringing his nervous gaze to you, and shot him a teasing smile.
“Darling, you have the power of a thousand exploding suns. You could take them all out with a single look,”
Whether it was the pet name or the compliment, something about what you had said made Bob almost preen under your words. He straightened just slightly, shoulders squared back, an air with a hint of confidence filling the space around him.
“Where’s the host for the evening?”
Damien Jacquemin wasn’t hard to spot. He had a way of commanding a room with charm and poise, leaving no one any wiser to the fact that he was three steps away from stabbing you in the back to get what he wanted at all times. He towered above most people in the room, even Bob, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking out like a marker for him. He laughed at something the young men around him said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as a flash of the Rolex on his wrist glinted in the light.
“He’ll be giving a speech soon, followed by some other key presenters he has lined up. Keep your eyes peeled for our potential targets,” you muttered just low enough for Bob to hear, hand still grasping his as you found your way to a table seated on the edge of the room as Mr. Jacquemin moved toward the makeshift stage and podium, giving you both a vantage point of the entire room. “They’ll stick out: clothing not up to par with the rest of the crowd, shifty body language, maybe even an identifying mark.”
The clink of a glass across the room had those in attendance seating themselves, attention brought to the charming French man standing behind the podium, a wide smile shining over his guests, who clapped for him. Bob clapped along while you took the chance to survey the room as Mr. Jacquemin began his speech to welcome everyone into the conference.
As the speech droned on, as other speakers stood to address the crowd, your eyes continued to scan the room. If your HYDRA agents were hiding in here, they were blending in well among the sea of expensive suits, high-end perfume, and designer dresses.
The seat across the table from you and Bob was pulled out suddenly, a younger man in what you recognized as a Dior suit taking his place across from you both. He didn’t turn to listen to the speeches, though; his gaze stayed locked on you–hungry, like a predator watching his prey. You squirmed slightly in your seat as the man’s tongue dipped out to run over his bottom lip-
A warm hand placed itself on your bare thigh, uncovered by the high slit running up your dress. A shot of heat bloomed under the already warm touch, while a contrasting shiver shot straight down your spine. Your gaze flickered to Bob, heat pooling within your abdomen at the look stretched across his face.
Gone was that softness he always wore, or that slight blush that always sat in the apples of his cheek. His gaze had hardened, eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched as he fixed his sights on the man across the table. It was enough to force the man to look away, but Bob’s hand didn’t leave your leg. His fingers drifted further in, digging into the flesh of your inner thigh as he practically pulled you flush to his side. Still, then, his hand never left, his thumb drawing circles into your skin as heat bloomed under every inch of his touch, stroking the fire that was now blazing in your abdomen.
“Table by the front door. Two guys, they look off,”
His voice had dropped slightly. It was more gruff, akin to the way it sounded when he groaned and dragged himself from the hotel room bed early in the morning hours ago. Still Bob, still the man you adored, but with an edge to it–harder, almost protective. As if you were something that belonged to him, something for his eyes only, and the man sitting across from you had set him off. It had you swallowing the lump you hadn’t realized had even formed and following his directions to the table near the door, suddenly remembering the mission you were currently here to complete.
Bob was right. Young men, maybe their late twenties, seated at a table closest to the front door where bodyguards still stood on guard. They wore suits, but even from here you could see the wrinkles in the fabric, the knock-off watch on the wrist of one of them. One’s eyes shifted around the room every few seconds, never staying in one place too long. The other watched the podium, eyes shifting down to the table every other moment, his body shifting in his seat to readjust as if he couldn’t get quite comfortable.
“Good eye, think those are our guys,” you tucked your chin onto Bob’s shoulder with a grin on your lips, making it seem to the room as if you were simply speaking in hushed tones with your husband, while you whispered the praise back to him. The corners of his lips quirked at your praise, his hand giving your thigh yet another squeeze, before he settled back to ‘listen’ to the speeches at the podium. You tried to get a peek at his eyes, but he’d turned his head from you.
Those speeches droned on for two hours. A collection of talks on the importance of ever-evolving weapons in the current state of the world, fear-mongering over politics to push the need for enchanted weaponry, and more bullshit that had you wondering in your seat how Tony Stark used to attend conferences such as this.
Those speeches were hard to focus on when your mind was zeroed in on Bob Reynolds' hand that wouldn’t leave your thigh. The feelings that you had buried deep beneath your platonic feelings for your best friend had existed for a long time, but you never pushed them. Bob never seemed to be someone who would push boundaries such as this, too afraid to cross any lines with you. But this mission, this room full of important people, seemed to go straight to his head and fill him with a confidence that you had never truly seen him wear before, at least not to the extent that he’d willingly leave his hand splayed across your bare thigh for two hours drawing circles into your skin.
Part of you didn’t want him to let go, the other part of you was begging him to move his hand. The middle of a mission was the worst time for a coil of heat that you weren’t able to satisfy to be building in your core. Even when your meals were served, speeches continuing on at the podium, Bob hadn’t removed his hand once.
“I must say, I was not aware of Gray Enterprises. It seems you hold a good portion of the weapons market across the United States now. Tell me, did Stark Industries ending their weapons division help boost your market value?”
Champagne glasses had been thrust into your hands, though Bob had kindly refused his. A German arms dealer and his wife, Kaleb Hettinger and Rosalina Hettinger, had quickly crossed the room and pulled you both into a discussion the second that the speeches had wrapped up, dying to learn more about two of the few Americans littering the room.
“Well, my husband’s late father, I’m sure, was excited when the late Mr. Stark shut down his weapons division,” you gave a simple laugh, resting a hand on Bob’s chest. You could feel his own nervous laughter run through him, one of his hands curling around your waist to rest on your hip hesitantly, a stark contrast to how easily that same hand had gripped your thigh minutes ago. “Given the events of the last few years, including during the blip, we’ve found it most profitable to focus on enhanced weaponry.”
“Lord knows we need it,” Rosaline laughed, German accent thick, shaking her head at a thought of her own. “We all know those…New Avengers, I think they’re calling them, won’t be of much help. But besides that, I love seeing a powerful couple in our world! Tell me, how did you two meet?”
You went to speak, but Bob beat you to it, squeezing your hip just slightly.
“W-We were teenagers. I saw her in a bookstore, but…she was too pretty to talk to. She came up t-to me, quoted my favorite book…” Bob’s gaze turned to you, and you glanced up at him. “I-It was love at first sight.”
Something about those words twisted around your heart: the sincerity of it. The soft look in his eyes, the tiny smile coupled with that hint of truth in your first meeting…it felt real. His words felt real, like it was Bob saying it to you, not Aiden Gray saying it to his adoring wife.
“Oh, mein Schatz! Look at them! That’s true love if I’ve ever seen it,”
Rosaline’s voice cut through the air again. Heat bloomed across Bob’s face, and you felt it on your own, gazes averting from one another almost immediately. Kaleb let out a hearty laugh, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek.
“Truly, it is wonderful to see a man love his wife like I love my own. I have a lot of respect for a man like you, Mr. Gray, who continues to shower the woman he loves in affection,”
There it was again, that straightening of Bob’s posture, the tightening of his hand at the comment, as if the words had gone straight to his head again.
“She deserves nothing but the best, and only I’m capable of offering it to her,” that usual stutter in his words was gone, replaced by an air of confidence as he turned his head, his lips ghosting over your temple in a gentle yet firm kiss. You tried not to falter under the notion, giving the pair in front of you the strongest smile you could, even as your stomach flipped upside down.
Your potential HYDRA agents caught your eye once more, moving across the expanse of the room just behind the Germans standing in front of you.
“Oh, Mr. Gray, I think you would be very interested in this new design my company has been working on. It’s an addition that can be added onto solar panels–well, it makes more sense if I show you. I brought the blueprints, they’re just over here at our table if you would like to see?”
Bob’s head turned to look at you, catching sight of your gaze following those two men across the room. You turned back to him, giving him a short nod. He hesitated for a moment before nodding back to you, letting his arm slip from your hips as he followed the Hettingers back to their table just a few feet away.
It was like being able to breathe again, the second Bob was gone, even if you missed the feel of his arm sitting around your waist as if it had been molded to sit there. This wasn’t the time for hidden feelings; you were in the middle of a mission.
You moved across the room elegantly, casually leaning yourself against one of the beige columns on the edge of the room, passing smiles to those who passed by you. The suspected agents stood just on the other side of the column you were leaning against, speaking in hushed whispers. With a sip of your champagne, you strained to overhear their conversation.
“He won’t sell it to us here,”
“It makes sense, too many people. He give you anything else?”
“One of his assistants will send me the location soon. He didn’t want to risk sending it himself in the middle of the conference,”
A smirk spread across your lips as you took another sip of your champagne, a single word running through your mind: gotcha. Sometimes, they made it all too easy, especially HYDRA agents. So lazy.
“Regardez ce que nous avons ici. A beautiful woman, all alone,”
A chill ran through your blood at that French accent, your head whipping around. Damien Jacquemin stood at your side in all his glory, perfectly pressed and tailored suit. He stood way too close, the hint of alcohol wafting off his breath and invading your senses.
“Mr. Jacquemin, a pleasure to finally meet you,” you put on the lightest, airiest, most polite tone that you could while trying not to grit your teeth. This was the exact man you didn’t want to be alone with. In the interest of maintaining your cover, you held your hand out in his direction to clink your glass to his.
Damien didn’t waste a second, whisking your champagne glass from your hand and setting both of your glasses on the tray of a server walking past. His hand enveloped yours: skin cool, nothing like the warmth of Bob’s. His lips pressed to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours: his gaze didn’t hold the warmth that Bob’s did when he looked at you, his lips didn’t leave a trail of tingling through your skin like Bob’s did.
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Gray. S'il vous plaît, come and spare me a single dance,”
There wasn’t any place to argue with the man as he whisked you off into the middle of the hotel lobby without another word. Soft music played from the live string quartet the French arms dealer had hired for the evening, and couples here and there had cleared the middle of the lobby to fashion a makeshift dance floor.
Mr. Jacquemin pulled you in, a huff leaving your lips as your front was pressed to his. One of his hands splayed across your lower back, pressing you closer, while the other held your left hand up beside you both dancing you softly around the floor in circles.
The hand didn’t feel like Bob’s; it didn’t engulf your hand like his did, his thumb didn’t draw little circles into your skin. The hand on your lower back was firm, almost controlling; it wasn’t comforting like Bob’s touch. Even pressed to his chest, you couldn’t feel the inhuman warmth that Bob radiated, and it left you feeling cold without it.
You never knew just how much you craved that closeness with Bob, how much you craved his touch, until you’d felt it in the way you had only ever dreamed of feeling it. You had masked these feelings for months in the guise of platonicness, when in reality, you were as much his person as he was yours.
You didn’t want to be in this dance if it wasn’t with Bob.
“A beautiful ring you have, ma chérie,” his gaze was settled on the simple gold band on your ring finger, poking and prodigy at it with his own index finger as you both spun. “Very…simple, though, isn’t it? I expect more from a man such as Mr. Gray, though maybe his personality and taste matches the rest of him…painfully drab.”
The comment made you bristle in his hold. It didn’t feel like a jab at the fictitious character of Mr. Aiden Gray, it felt like a jab at Bob Your grip on the man’s forearm tightened, nails digging into the fabric.
“Well, I didn’t choose my husband based on the gifts he gives me,” you grit your teeth, forcing a smile as you shot the comment at him. “He may not buy me the flashiest of jewelry, but he’s worth more than anyone in this room in heart alone.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gray, I’m sure he is. It’s hard to quantify you and your husband’s net worth, and the worth of your company, when there’s simply…not much to search about you online…”
In all your years of undercover missions, you’d never failed on. Your alibis, your identities for the missions, had always been airtight and remained intact. But Damien Jacquemin had found a crack somewhere; he’d found a missing piece in the concoction of Gray Enterprises, and he knew who you were. Your cover was blown. It felt as if your heart was going to stop: if your cover was blown, then so was Bob’s. Bob, who you had allowed to leave your side, who you couldn’t find from where you stood on the makeshift dancefloor-
“...I’m not surprised I didn’t find much, though. Your father-in-law seemed to do a good job of moving his dealings under the table and to the black market in the years following the collapse of Stark Industries' weapons sector. I’m, frankly, quite impressed by how you and your husband have managed to operate so under the radar. I’m quite interested in the idea of a partnership.”
It took every ounce of strength you had not to let out a relieved breath: he didn’t know. Your cover wasn’t blown. You were safe, Bob was safe, and that was all that mattered. You let out a slight laugh, brushing a strand of air behind your ear before resting your hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder again. He was none the wiser to the minuscule, circular device that you slipped under the collar of his suit jacket in the moment.
“Partnerships can be discussed, but with my husband, of course,” you managed to speak. “As long as your company isn’t engaging in any… under-the-table deals with unfavorable organizations, I’m sure a partnership can be on the table.”
He laughed, accent thick, as his breath brushed your ear and he whispered.
“Where is the fun in that, darling?”
Someone cleared their voice from directly behind you, a hand catching the forearm of Damien Jacquemin where you had been holding it before. That familiar bodywash scent invaded your senses in an instant: rosemary and sage.
“I believe it’s my turn to dance with my wife,”
Bob’s voice almost growled on the final word: wife. It had that cord of heat coiling up even further in your stomach. You could visibly see the wince in Mr. Jacquemin’s face as Bob’s hand on his forearm squeezed tighter and tighter every second, no doubt leaving indents in his skin as the veins running down the back of Bob’s hand almost throbbed.
The Frechman’s hands were off you within a moment, a tight-lipped smile sent your way, before he whisked himself back off through the room. It was like the little moment on the dance floor had never happened, a smile lighting up his face as he was whisked off into another conversation with investors.
Bob’s hand suddenly had a tight hold of your hip, spinning you around until your chests were pressed together, your body molded into his. You relaxed into that familiar grip, into the warmth it provided, your head placing itself on his chest. Bob took up the same position Damien had held moments before, one hand on the small of your back and the other lifting your left arm into the air, dancing softly back and forth with you. His grip tightened over so slightly, the firm grip around your waist hugging you to him in a way that was just the slightest bit uncomfortable.
“I’m okay, Bob, you don’t have to hold me so tight-”
“He shouldn’t have been touching you,”
His words were so final, so precise. His tone was laced with a hint of anger, that same gruffness from earlier present again. It had you furrowing your eyebrows, glancing around the room as his grip tightened ever so slightly again.
“He didn’t hurt me, I promise, I’m okay-”
“He shouldn’t have been touching you because you’re my wife,” he snapped back. “He thinks he’s above me? You’re my wife, he should respect me.”
Respect. That word shot up a wave of red flags in your head, as well as the flicker of the overhead lights of the room that sent a murmur through the conference crowd.
You racked your brain for memories of every therapy session of Bob’s you’d been with him on, trying to find that missing puzzle piece. His depression, his anxiety…his delusions of grandeur. Suddenly, it made sense when you’d heard him talk like this before, where you’d heard this overconfident tone before: just once, in The Watchtower months ago.
You can call me The Sentry.
You pulled your head from his chest, craning your neck back to look at him. Bob’s eyes were already looking down at you, as if waiting for you to look at him, and that’s when you saw it: that sparkle of gold in the blue of his eyes.
His eyes didn’t leave you as you hand left his, curling around the back of his neck as you moved back and forth across the makeshift dance floor, holding his gaze.
“You should be respected…but because you’re Bob,” you kept your voice soft, just loud enough for him to hear among the murmurings and music in the room. “Bob Reynolds deserved to be respected.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. You’re my Bob,” the smile you gave him was as soft and full of affection as it could be. “My Bob, who always asks me to read his favorite book because he says he likes hearing the sound of my voice. My Bob, who likes it when the rain hits the windows of the tower late at night. My Bob, who doesn’t even realize the way he hugs me so early in the morning when he’s fresh out of bed. My Bob? I respect him. My person…my favorite person.”
It wasn’t instantaneous; it took a few moments of simply holding him, but that gold slowly faded from Bob’s eyes. His features softened, his lips pulled into a slight frown, and then those blue eyes were frantically glancing around the room. You watched as the Adam’s apple of his throat bobbed, before his eyes found yours again: frantic, nervous.
“...cucumber?”
You let out a short laugh, and nodded, taking his hands in your own and leading him through the crowds as quickly as you could. There was an unguarded door behind the concierge desk leading into a backroom, L-shaped hallway for employees. You quickly shut the door behind both of you.
Bob leaned against the wall, running his hands through his hair so many times that the gel no longer held it down, letting those soft brown strands fall in front of his face again. He tugged incessantly at the collar of his button-down, his frantic gaze catching yours.
“I-I can’t believe I just did…any of that. God–I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t ruin the mission, did I?”
You let out a soft chuckle, taking another step toward him to stand directly in front of him.
“I overheard our guys; they made a deal with Jacquemin for the sale and are waiting on details. Also, planted a tracker in his suit while he was dancing with me, so we’ve got just about everything we need to nail them. So, no, you didn’t ruin the mission,”
“O-Okay, good, good,” his Adam’s apple bobbed again, his breath coming out in short pants. “Is it really hot in here for you? I-I feel like I can’t breathe, like my chest is going to explode, a-and like everything just…hurts.”
“Bob, honey, I think you’re having a panic attack,”
“How do I stop having a-a panic attack?”
A single thought flickered through your head for a moment as you watched him, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he almost clawed at his throat in a desperate plea for air. And before you could stop yourself, to think about your thought, you stepped forward.
Your hands cradled his cheeks, and you kissed him.
Bob’s lips almost trembled beneath yours with the first press, his entire body freezing up under that simple movement. Then, after just a moment of holding yourself in place, they moved. Slow, hesitant, but they moved.
You could taste the small remnants of the punch Bob had opted to drink in place of champagne on his lips. His lips parted just barely, letting your head tilt slightly to the side to let your mouth move firmly against him, pouring every ounce of feeling into the kiss that you could manage. You’d dreamt of this moment in secret for so long, and now that it was here, that coil of heat within you was seconds from bursting, and your own chest was the one tightening.
Bob’s hands found your hips, settling there–hesitant but firm, holding you close. His lips pushed back against yours finally, the pieces of hair broken free of the gel brushing against the skin of your cheek. The need for air rushed into your lungs as you reluctantly pulled away with a soft smack of your lips, leaving one another, almost breathless pants filling the air.
Bob Reynolds looked wrecked, more out of breath than he had been before. Those eyes you loved so dearly were blown wide, the blue almost sparkingly in the light. His lips were still parted, but slightly upturned on the side in what you could only assume was wonder.
“I-”
“You were having a panic attack,” you spoke quickly, voice like a whisper. “I saw it in a tv show once, that holding your breath stops a panic attack. And that…kissing can make you hold your breath.”
“...uh huh,”
“Did it work?”
“Um…not sure. I-I might be about to have a panic attack over something else,”
Laughter bubbled out of your lips at that, Bob’s smile growing, before you were frozen in place. Voices, down the hall and around the L bend of the hallway, getting closer. Bob went to speak again before you placed a finger to his lips, focusing to try and hear down the echoey hallway.
“Coordinates, time, and place. Should make this an easy sale,”
“Yeah, as long as we don’t forget the money,”
Back straightening out, remembering you were on a mission, you reached into the front pocket of Bob’s pants and tugged your clutch from it. Digging through, you pulled out a rectangular device that looked like a normal cellphone, tucking your clutch under your arm and taking Bob’s hand in your own.
You pulled the two of you to a stop right at the corner of the bed, waiting a moment, before swinging you both around. The pair of you crashed directly into your targets, cell phones and items in your hands crashing to the floor.
“Hey-!”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry, gentlemen!” you put on an overly fake voice, crouching down to the ground before either of them could. You grabbed your device, moving it discreetly over the top of both of the men’s cellphones, before gathering everything and rising back to your feet. The men basically snatched their phones back from your arms as you let out an overexaggerated giggle. “My husband and I weren’t watching where we were going! We were looking for the elevators, hoping to head upstairs and find a…private room.”
Both of the men muttered something in disgust, shoving past you and Bob without another word. You turned, watching them leave through the door you and Bob had come through with a triumphant grin, while Bob just watched you in confusion.
“Old Stark tech,” you flashed him the device in your hand. “I just swiped all the data off their phones without them even knowing it. Now, we know everything about this Adamantium sale.”
It was Bob’s turn to laugh, cocking his head at you with a grin.
“Have I mentioned that y-you’re kind of amazing?”
You grinned, and you pulled him back into another kiss without a word.
Sweeter, but still tender, laced with every bit of adoration and affection you held for him in your soul, that made the moment all the more intimate. Bob only hesitated for half a second this time before he pressed back into you with just as much force, his fingertips barely gracing the edges of your arms. You pulled back almost immediately, then, your brain finally caught up with your actions.
Well, you didn’t have any excuse for kissing him that time.
“Um…” you licked your lips, heat rising in your cheeks. “We…we should head back. Let the team know we got everything-”
“Right! Yeah, yeah, r-right, we should…do that. Finish the mission, and all that…”
The walk back under the cover of night was quiet. Those same soft yellow lights cast that same glow you’d seen before over Bob’s face, and your heart tugged in your chest at the sight.
But neither of you spoke. Not on the walk down the quiet streets. Not in the elevator. Not even when you entered the room together.
You could feel his eyes, watching you, burning a hole into your back as you secured the room. The silent alarm on the door, the device on the wall by the closed balcony window. They watched you still as you uploaded all of your information into the holopad, settled on top of your suitcase, transferring your information directly back to New York, knowing Yelena would likely receive the information in moments and alert Valentina of your successful mission.
Not a word was exchanged as you entered the bathroom like you had the night before, changing into a similar pair of sleep shorts. Discarded on the bathroom floor, though, was one of Bob’s white t-shirts, one he had slipped into early on that morning. You slipped it on without a second thought, wrapping yourself in the scent of that bodywash, before slipping back into the room.
Bob had already turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. You slipped into your side of the bed without a word, your backs facing one another as you lay there under the covers in the dark, the only sound being the ticking of the analog clock on the wall across from the bed.
“When you kissed me,” Bob finally spoke, voice just loud enough to be heard in the quiet of the room. “It…it was to stop the panic attack, right?”
You paused for a moment, then spoke, “Yes,”
The sheets shuffled, and you could feel the shift as his body turned, facing your back now.
“W-What…what about the second kiss?”
There was a brief moment of hesitation before you turned, too. You faced him now, mere inches away, looking into those blue eyes you adored.
“That one…was because I wanted to,”
Bob didn’t waste a second before leaning in, like your words had reassured him that he didn’t have to hesitate. Your lips welcomed the press of his, your body inviting the feel of his hand gripping at your waist–nothing hard, nothing too firm, but just present, grounding. His lips were as warm as the rest of his body, and they trembled just slightly as they moved just barely against your own, as if still unsure how to do this. So, you did it for him, hand wrapping around his neck and into his hair to thread through the strands, molding your body to his as you kissed him with every inch of passion you had been holding back for months.
Even as your mouths moved together, there was still a softness in their movements, no matter the growing passion. Even when they moved faster, when a broken moan slipped out of Bob’s mouth and a whine left your own when his hand tugged your hip even closer, it was still soft. Passionate but adoring, pouring every ounce of care into each movement as if to remind the other that this wasn’t just a moment of fun, this was the culmination of months of secret wanting, months of pining and hidden feelings buried underneath platonic words and affirmations.
You shifted just slightly, and a hint of confidence flowed through Bob. He used that moment to move, pressing your back flush against the bed as he hovered above you, his lips never breaking from yours for a second. Your legs fell open for him, inviting him into your space, and he took it without question.
As if it pained him, he tore his lips from yours, trailing them down your jaw and to your neck as he buried himself into the space. His kisses there were gentle, loving, but still burning with heat and passion. He kissed right above your pulse point, able to feel the fervent beat of your heart, and he groaned again into your skin.
“I-I think about you, like this, a lot,” he whispered into your skin. Bob’s arms were braced on either side of you, while one of yours placed itself on his bare chest, drawing shapes into the heated and flushed skin. “I’ve always thought of you like this. The prettiest girl, m-my best friend…my person. The one person who makes that darkness a little lighter. God, I…I love you.”
There it was. Those four little words that tore your heart open, that cracked open the cage that held every hidden desire of your heart locked up for months.
You pulled his face from your shoulder, fingers gently swiping at the silent tears that swept down his cheeks. You pulled him in this time, angling your lips against him, sighing into his mouth as you pushed every ounce of love in your body into him. He sighed back, practically putty in your hands, the weight of his body falling against you.
“I love you too,” you whispered against his lips like a promise. “I’ve always loved you. My best friend…my person.”
He didn’t get to speak before you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling every inch of his body against yours. A broken moan was choked out of his throat, breath ghosting your lips as his kiss swallowed the moan that left your own throat. Pressed against you now, you could feel it: thick, bigger than anything you’d ever had, and throbbing with heat and need.
With your words, with a confirmation of your love, Bob’s kiss grew more confident. Drowning you in every ounce of love, his hands roamed over every inch of you that they possibly could. Your neck, exploring the bare skin of your abdomen and leaving a trail of heat in every stroke of his fingers. You tugged the shirt over your head without another thought, leaving you bare to the world as you fell back against the pillows once more. You tried to tug Bob back to your lips, but he paused, eyes transfixed on your body, roaming every inch of it.
“Beautiful…” he whispered. His fingers traced lines from your abdomen to your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They traced right around the swell of your breasts, before he leaned in closer. “So beautiful.”
A cry of pure pleasure left your lips the second Bob’s curled around your nipple, teeth just barely grazing and tugging ever so gently. A heavy pant left your lips as your fingers curled into his hair, tugging ever so gently on his slightly dampened hair strands. The heat grew in the room, radiating off his body, and you could see the thin, sheer layer of sweat that coated his skin. His lips moved against your breast, tongue flicking out over the sensitive bud he was wrapped around as your hands tightened just barely in his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
“Sorry,” he whispered again as his mouth popped off your breast, a thin string of saliva connecting him to the place he’d lavished in love. He placed a gentle kiss on your sternum, hands gliding down your sides. “Got eager. I-It’s been a while since I’ve…done this.”
“In all seriousness? I couldn’t tell,” he laughed, crawling back up your body till his face hovered over yours. Your hand left his hair, trailing down until it cupped his cheek, and he turned to press a kiss to your palm. “We don’t have to do anything-”
“I want to,” he was quick to answer with a shake of his head. “I-I’ve never wanted someone more. You’re all I want. Lying together on the couch, those trips through the city, sleeping next to you…I-I just want you. I just want to feel you. I want to be yours.”
His lips met yours again, the second his last word died on his lips. He peppered kiss after kiss to your lips, never lingering long enough, and you couldn’t help the breathless giggle you let out.
“I want to feel you, too,”
Your confession lingered in the quiet of the room. It was visible, the way Bob’s pupils seemed to dilate at those words alone. With one hand, he unhooked your legs from his waist, sliding back down the bed and taking the quilt along with him, bearing your bare chest to the cold air.
You watched with hooded eyes as his fingers trailed over the edge of your sleep shorts, barely dipping past the waistband. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your right thigh, and then your left, before leaning forward to press one right above the waistband of your shorts. Then, he tugged, just barely. They gave way without a second of hesitation, slipping down over your hips and over your thighs without hesitation. You just barely caught the soft whisper of “fuck” that fell from Bob’s mouth when you laid bare before him, panties forgotten in the haste of dressing for sleep.
Those shorts were discarded somewhere across the room, finding the small heap that your shirt was in, and Bob just observed for a moment. You watched the way his eyes trailed up your legs, to your hips, and back down again. His hands did the same, starting from your knees and splaying out over your hips, before going back down to your thighs. He pushed gently, and you followed, spreading your thighs before him. Your breath caught, choking back a moan as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss directly to your core, before trailing the kisses back up your abdomen.
“I love you,” he whispered with every kiss. “I love you.”
You leaned up, forcing Bob to sit up, before pulling him into another kiss, catching his bottom lip just barely between your teeth.
“I love you, too,” you murmured against his lips, before your hands trailed down his chest to the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched.
It was like throwing him into overdrive, reminding him of where he was. Bob tugged those boxers off in a tangle of limbs, stumbling slightly on top of the sheets. You laughed, smile giddy, as you fell back against the pillows, just watching the man before you as he rid himself of his boxers and threw them across the room. Your eyes trailed down, seeing his throbbing length for the first time, and that heat that flushed through your body screamed for his skin to be pressed against yours.
A thick cord of tension hung in the air as Bob kneeled over you, bracing himself around your head. His nose brushed yours, breath fanning over your skin. You didn’t hesitate to wrap your arms back around his waist, tugging him toward you, as the heat of his bare length pressed against the heat of your bare core, a breathless moan falling from each of your lips in unison.
Bob rolled his hips forward just barely, throbbing cock dragging along the length of your core and ghosting over your clit as a shot of pleasure shot through every nerve on your body. Your hands found the back of Bob’s head, tangling in his hair once more and tugging him down into a kiss–messy, hot, and slick with saliva.
His hips rolled again, and you rolled back, his tip catching just barely against your opening before gliding through your lips once more.
“A-Are you sure?” Bob muttered into your lips. You nodded, kissing him once more.
“So sure,” you muttered back, hand tugging in his hair as your other trailed down his shoulder, his back, over his hips, before finally holding his heated and flushed length in your own hand. “Please, Bob–I need you–please.”
He nodded, catching your lips in another kiss, as you guided his cock down, catching the head against your opening.
You held it there, before Bob pushed ever so slightly.
Moans in unison fell from both of your lips once again as every inch of his heated, flushed, throbbing cock made its way into your walls, stretching you apart in a mix of part pain and pleasure. Your breath caught in your throat at every inch that pushed into your body, your name falling from Bob’s lips with every drag of your heated walls against him. Your teeth caught his bottom lip again the moment that his hips stuttered, pressing firmly against your hips, as every inch of him sat inside of you, buried within you to the hilt.
The lights of the entire room flickered on for a moment, glowing bright, before turning off once again. Your gaze trailed over them, as did Bob's, before you locked eyes once again.
“W-Well…” he choked out, a tiny laugh bubbling over. “That’s new.”
You laughed with him, arms wrapping around his neck to tug him down to you in yet another kiss, before you ground your hips up into his. A broken moan fell past his lips before he moved.
He set the pace, slow and sensual at first, dragging himself almost all the way out before pushing himself the entire way back in. Each time he settled deep within you, filling you out in every manner of the word, a choked moan spilled from your lips as you dragged them against his time and time again, nails scraping against his scalp.
Bob’s eyes met yours, dazed and glassy, filled with passion and every ounce of love he felt for you. Love, a look you’d seen in his eyes so many times when you looked at him, a look you’d ignored for so long. But there was no time to focus on it, not with every snap of his hips against yours, not with the feeling within your gut of fullness, and not with every ripple of pleasure that coursed through you with the feel of his heated skin molded to yours.
“You feel so good–oh god–so good,” he choked out against your lips. Your hands left his hair, trailing down his arms, but he took advantage of that. His hands caught yours, tugging your hands up above your head and holding them there, gripping you just tightly enough that you could feel the superhuman strength within him holding you down. “So, so, so good–Jesus–so perfect. So beautiful–my girl. Tell me, tell me that–my girl–tell me you’re my girl.”
“Y-Yours,” you stuttered out over every snap of his hips against yours, every slight scrape of his pubic hair against the sensitive bud of your core.
That simple word spurred him: yours. All his, always his. His hips snapped faster, harder, his lips trailing off of yours as he buried his face into your neck, teeth scraping just slightly over your skin as another moan broke through.
Desperation filled every snap of his hips against yours, your name falling from his lips like it was the only word he knew, like it was the only word he wanted to know. His ragged breathing, ghosting over your skin in hot waves. Your skin felt like it was on fire, burning beneath his touch, heat and want and need coiling with every throbbing drag of him against your walls–squelching and wet.
“I can’t-” Bob barely managed to cry against your skin, hips somehow driving into you faster than they had before, the pace in which his hips met yours and the superhuman force sure to bruise your skin, to leave you aching in the best way. “I can’t–please–I can’t hold it. You’re too good, you feel too good.”
“It’s okay,” you shook your head, one of his hands leaving yours to grip onto the wooden headboard behind you. “It’s okay–God, you feel so good–it’s okay, Bob, let go-”
CRACK. SNAP.
You could hear it, loud and clear: the splintering of the wooden headboard. It took every ounce of your strength, rolling your head back to fully see the damage behind you. Bob’s hand was white knuckling the splinted wood, having dragged down through half the headboard, leaving splintered wooden pieces decorating the pillows above your head as his hips pistoned into you at a superhuman pace, one you were barely sure you could handle.
God, you didn’t think there was anything Bob could do to make him hotter in your eyes. Apparently, splintering an entire headboard out of sheer passion and need was something that could.
“I can’t–oh God–I can’t-”
One. Two. Three. His hips drove into you just three more times before that sat flush against your hips, pressing himself as deeply into you as humanly possible before he let go. A rush of warmth filled you, every drop of him filling you, gushing warmth through you, and your own floodgates flew open.
Your hands were freed from his hold, wrists sore from where he dug into them, wrapping around his neck, curling into his hair, and cradling him to you as you trembled and gushed in his hold. Your walls fluttered around him with every wave of pleasure, with every twitch of his cock still sitting within your walls, and his shaky breath ghosted over your skin.
The comedown was quiet, your shaky breaths the only sound filling the air. Bob collapsed on you fully, his heated and sweat-covered skin lying on top of yours. You welcomed the feeling, fingers carding through the sweat dripping strands of his hair, taking in the scent of the air: sex, mainly, with hints of your perfume and that damn bodywash of his laced in between.
Bob raised his head finally, a blissful smile on his lips as he looked down at you. He tried to move his hips back, to pull away, but your legs locked around him with a whine, holding him in place against you.
“Not yet,” you managed to breathe out, shaking your head with a giddy little smile of your own. “Too sensitive, and…I just want to feel you.”
“Okay,” Bob didn’t put up a single fight, his hand coming up to push the strands of hair that stuck to your face away. His eyes trailed, finally, to the destruction behind you, and they shot wide. “Oh–Jesus Christ, d-did I do that?”
“You did, but don’t worry, it was hot,” you both laughed at your comment, noses brushing in the quiet, intimate moment. “Don’t worry, Valentina bought the room. It’s her problem.”
“True…hey, d-do you think cucumber could be used as a safe word too?”
Laughter sputtered out of your mouth, lips brushing his, and Bob laughed with you. All you could do was look at him, heart bursting open with a love that you had kept quiet for so long, and pull him into another soft kiss.
37 successful undercover missions became 38 that night, but this one had been your biggest success. It gave you Bob, in ways you had only ever dreamed of having him…it gave you your person.
bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. he’s got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. you’re too in love with him to say no. SPOILER WARNING!! plot spoilers for thunderbolts
note: disclaimer guys I totally made some stuff up to make the scenario make sense lol hope u can forgive me
thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, fluff, kissing, one bed trope kinda, 4k words
You wake to the shrill sound of your phone ringing. At first you think it’s your morning alarm, and wonder why it feels like you’ve only been asleep a few hours. It takes blinking yourself awake to realise it’s still dark out, the street outside your apartment dead quiet. Your phone continues to ring, piercing through the quiet of the night, the screen lit up and flooding the corner of your room in white. You groan. Who on earth is calling you in the middle of the night?
You sit up dizzily and grab for your phone. You stare blankly at the bright white screen, blinking hard until your eyes adjust and you can see the name that pops up.
Bucky Barnes.
You blink at your phone. Your boss? Well, he’s not really your boss, but you are his assistant, and you’re not really sure whether you’re friends or something else entirely, so he might as well be.
You hit the answer button.
“Bucky?” You’ve long passed the stage of calling him Congressman Barnes. Besides, any ounce of professionalism left between the two of you has probably now turned to dust, given the ungodly hour of his call.
“Hey.” He sounds tired, his voice strained. “Hey, I’m so sorry, doll, I know it’s late.”
No kidding. You ignore the fact that he’s called you doll, ‘cos if you think about it too long you’ll be here all night. ”What’s the matter?” You ask. “It’s one in the morning, Bucky.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but it’s urgent. I need your help.”
His words make you sit up straighter. Bucky’s been, for lack of better words, distracted lately. On edge, like he’s been waiting for something to happen. He’s been continuously disappearing at important events, and he keeps taking mysterious calls in hushed tones. You hope this has got nothing to do with the call he got from Valentina’s assistant (Mel, you think her name is) last night. He only told you about it because he’d wanted you to cover for him today while he “took care of something,” in his own, ominous words. He’s been MIA all day and you haven’t heard from him until now.
Somehow, you think this has got everything to do with the call from Mel.
“Are you okay?” You ask on instinct.
“I’m okay, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off. “We, uh.. we just need somewhere to hole up for the night.”
Your brain ticks. “Hold on, we?”
You can almost hear him wince on the other end of the line. As if on cue, you pick up some muffled voices in the background. A man’s rough voice followed by a woman’s smoother one — and is that a Russian accent? What has he gotten himself into?
“There's, uh, five of us,” Bucky says, like that makes it any better.
There’s a long beat of silence. You sit in the dark, still half foggy with sleep, waiting for your brain to catch up with what he’s telling you. He … wants to bring strangers to your place? To what, hide? From who? You’re dumbfounded.
“I— what?” Is all you can manage.
There’s another short silence, and then Bucky must realise how ridiculous he sounds, because he starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I shouldn’t have called, I’ll just—“
“No, wait,” you interrupt before you can stop yourself. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you find yourself wanting to help. You trust him, and know he’d never do anything to hurt you. Whoever these people are who’re with him must really need your help. And who else can he call, anyway? “It’s alright, I can help. Come over, okay? How far away are you?”
Twenty minutes, as it turns out. You spend the time making your apartment and yourself look somewhat presentable, less for your visitors’ sake than your own, and because it’s Bucky.
Bucky, who’s been to your apartment three times now. Once when he got you flowers for your birthday. Another time when you’d mixed up your laptops, and accidentally come home from the office with his instead of yours in your work bag. (He’d come round to pick it up and you’d cleaned the whole place, even though he only stood in the doorway for five minutes.) And the most recent time, when you’d gotten too drunk at the bar after work, and Bucky had walked you home, deposited you in your bed, and locked the door behind him. You don’t remember most of it, but you do remember feeling so so in love with him it made you feel sick. Or maybe that was the whiskey. You doubt it.
You’re tossing the trash from your takeout dinner in the bin, and trying not to think about how you felt that night, when there’s a knock on the door. Your phone dings on the counter, a text from Bucky.
It’s me.
You laugh to yourself. He can be so accidentally ominous sometimes. You cross the living room to the door and open it.
Five people stand behind it, all in varying states of disarray. Bucky’s at the front, probably the least beat up looking, though his jacket seems to be torn in some places. Two women (girls? They don’t look very much older than you), one with a blunt blonde bob, and one brunette with pretty eyes, both looking a bit worse for wear. One very tall, older man in a red getup that makes him look like Santa Claus - it’s absurd, but somehow you feel even more absurd in your plaid pajama pants. And bringing up the rear is… John Walker?
“Um, hi?” You say to the group at large. When Bucky said we, you didn’t expect John Walker, of all people, to show up. You try not to stare. “What can I do for you?”
The blonde girl opens her mouth, looking amused, but Bucky beats her to it. “Funny,” he says bluntly. Then, softer, “Can we come in?”
You share a look. Bucky has a very intense default gaze, but it seems to soften whenever he looks at you. And right now, he’s looking at you like I’m tired, I need help, just let us in please and I’ll explain.
You step back with little objection. Something about the way he seems to say trust me with just one look — it gets you every time. If he was a serial killer, you’d surely be dead by now.
“Alright,” you say. “Wipe your shoes, please.”
Everyone files into your living room. It’s not a huge space but it’s enough. Walker closes the door behind them. No one sits down.
“Who is this, again?” The brunette girl asks Bucky, breaking the silence. You assume she means you.
“We work together. She’s my assistant,” Bucky explains, throwing you an apologetic, somewhat strained, look. “Y/N.”
“Hello,” you say awkwardly.
They all just stare at you. You know what they’re thinking. Why on earth would Bucky, former winter soldier, avenger, and now congressman, bring them to his assistant’s place in the middle of the night as if it was a safe house? You’re asking yourself the exact same thing.
“Y/N, this is Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John.” Bucky names them off, pointing them out to you as he does. “They— I mean, we just need a place to stay until morning.”
“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go to yours?” Walker pipes up, addressing Bucky. You hate to agree, but you were just about to ask the same question.
“Valentina’s watching my place,” Bucky explains. “She knows by now that I’ve got you guys with me, she’ll have her people on us in no time if we go to mine.”
This only confuses you further. Valentina is … watching his house? This is not what you signed up for when you applied for a job as an assistant — it seems both you and Bucky are in over your heads. Though maybe you should’ve expected it, Bucky being a former Avenger and all.
The others seem to understand Bucky’s explanation far better than you do, and they all look to you expectantly.
You look at the group of strangers, then at Bucky, then back at the strangers. They’re all standing there rather awkwardly. At their best, they’d probably be the toughest looking group you’ve ever seen, but right now they look dead beat, covered in bruises, dark bags under their eyes, and you suddenly feel very sorry for them.
“I— yeah, okay,” you say. They’re already in your living room, already know where you live, what’s it matter now? “You can stay for the night. Make yourselves at home, guys. There’s water in the fridge and the bathroom is down the hall to the left.”
The brunette — Ava, Bucky called her — gives you a tight smile. “Thanks,” she says, and collapses on your sofa.
The others follow suit, though Walker stays standing with his arms crossed.
Pleasantries over, you grab Bucky’s arm and tug him down the hallway. He follows willingly, though you don’t give him much choice. You end up in your bedroom, where you corner him.
“Bucky, what’s going on?” You whisper harshly. “Who are those people? Why would Valentina be watching your place? And why is John Walker here?”
You’re so busy bombarding him with questions that you don’t notice the way he’s holding his arm, not until you’ve finished speaking. Your eyes drop to his forearm. The fabric of his jacket has been slashed open, and there’s blood all over the sleeve.
“Oh,” you say stupidly, then even more so, “Bucky, you’re bleeding.”
Bucky grimaces. “I know, doll.”
You grab his arm, forgoing politeness, and hold it up to your face.
“It’s looks bad,” you say, forgetting you’re not supposed to care about him as much as you do.
You look up and find your face inches from his, his arm clutched between you. You suddenly feel very hot.
“Let’s, um,” you flounder for a few seconds, flustered not only by everything that’s happened in the last half hour but also his closeness, and the look on his face. “I have a first aid kit in the bathroom, I think. Come on.”
You guide him out of your room and across the hallway into the bathroom. You forget to ask why he’s bought a hoard of what look like trained assassins into your home, and force him to sit on the lip of the bathtub, pushing him down by the shoulders. He scrapes hair out of his face with his metal arm and looks up at you where you’re rummaging through the cupboard above the sink.
“Y/N, I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine,” you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and you go on, “Are any of your friends hurt?”
Bucky pulls a face. “They’re not really my friends,” he says. “And no, none of them are hurt, they’re just tired.”
You nod, accepting his answer for the meanwhile, even though it only opens up about a million more questions. A moment later you finally find what you’re looking for, a red and white first aid kit tucked away at the back of the cupboard, collecting dust.
You move to stand in front of Bucky, opening up the kit and setting it on the toilet lid.
“Show me?” You stick your hand out for his wounded arm and he gives it to you with no objection.
You hold his wrist and carefully push his sleeve up over the wound, revealing a harsh cut across the length of his forearm. On closer inspection, it’s not horribly deep, the blood only makes it look that way.
Still, you frown. “How did you manage this?” You ask him.
Bucky looks for a second like he’s reliving whatever happened to cause such an injury. He searches for the words, then, “I sort of flipped a truck?” he says. “Long story.”
Flipped a truck? Whose truck? You raise your eyebrows at him but ultimately decide it's fruitless to keep asking questions, at least until he decides to explain what’s going on.
“Right… I’m gonna clean it, okay?” You drop his arm to pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit, unscrewing the lid and dabbing the liquid onto a cotton pad. “It might hurt.”
Bucky looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m tough, doll.”
You clean his wound as best you can. You only sort of know what you’re doing, a half remembered first aid course you took in college sitting at the back of your mind, but Bucky doesn’t protest. Actually, he doesn’t make a sound at all, just watches you with those dark eyes. It makes you nervous, like he’s looking right through you and reading all your inner thoughts. The worst part is, he’s always looking at you like this, like he can read your mind, to the point where you’re pretty sure he knows all your secrets. Like how you’re desperately in love with him and have no idea what to do about it.
You continue your work, quiet. The silence is heavy, a sort of unspoken feeling floating between the two of you like a white hot star. You want to reach out and grab it, see if Bucky will follow, but you keep your mouth shut.
You’re unraveling a roll of bandage to wrap his arm when you finally speak. “So, are you gonna tell me why you brought a bunch of assassins into my home In the dead of the night?” You laugh at your own joke, but the look on Bucky’s face stops you short. “They’re… they’re not assassins, are they?”
Bucky purses his lips. “Well, you’re not very far off…”
He launches into an explanation, finally. First, of what Valentina’s really been up to. Project Sentry — putting a gold ribbon and a promise of a better life on a special super serum, and testing it on the most vulnerable subjects she could find. Then, how she rushed to eliminate all proof of the project, including the four people in your living room (who turn out to actually be trained assassins, though Bucky promises none of them will hurt you), and Bob, one of the test subjects.
Then he tells you about how he tracked Mel’s phone to a site in the middle of nowhere, where he found Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei in a “predicament,” and “saved their asses,” as he puts it. He spares you the details, but it's how he sliced his arm open, and why they’re now retreating to yours to regain their strength before going after Bob. Bob, who’s vulnerable but much stronger than he probably knows, and who Valentina now has in her clutches.
By the time he’s done explaining, you’ve realised how much bigger this is than just you and Bucky. For days this has all been happening without your knowledge and Bucky has been dealing with it all. You’re not annoyed, you get why he didn’t tell you. Still, you wish he’d asked for your help earlier.
“So, you’re going after Bob?” You ask, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. You spent half of his explanation just staring at him, hardly believing what he was saying, and the other half wrapping his arm, trying to believe what he was saying, no matter how ludicrous it sounded.
Bucky nods. “I guess so. He could be dangerous in Valentina’s hands, you know?”
You nod back. “Yeah, I get it. Won’t it be dangerous, though? Going after him?
You say it before you’ve thought about it. You realise right after that it makes you sound like you care far too much about the man sitting in front of you, who’s really just the guy you file documents for. You don’t owe him anything.
Bucky smiles. “Don’t worry, doll. We’ve got four assassins on our side, five if you count me.”
You frown. “You’re not an assassin.”
You don’t care what he’s done in the past, you can’t see him as anything else but lovely. He’s brave, kind, and so thoughtful it aches.
Still, Bucky shrugs. “Used to be.”
You pack up the first aid kit and put it away. Bucky watches you, his gaze like a burning fire on the back of your head. When you’re done cleaning up, he stands up and crosses the room, meeting you by the sink.
“Thank you,” he says, earnest though his voice is rough from exhaustion. “You make a good nurse.”
For some odd reason, butterflies erupt in your gut at his words. You look up at him. He’s very close now, only a step or two away from being chest to chest. You manage a grin.
“That’s me,” you say, faux casual. “Best nurse and assistant you’ve ever had, huh?”
You might be imagining it, but you’re pretty sure Bucky’s eyes flicker to your lips. He’s distracted as he murmurs, “Uh huh.”
A beat of silence, and then Bucky takes a step closer. Your chest burns. He raises his vibranium arm, and you watch as his silver fingers close around your forearm. You can’t feel it through your sweater, but you can imagine how smooth the metal would feel on your skin.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
“Mm,” he hums back. He’s definitely looking at your lips now, and moving closer by the second. “What, doll?”
You blink rapidly. He’s so close now you can smell him, sweat and dust but underneath that something heady, a bergamot cologne you’ve smelled on him before.
“I— what are you doing?” You whisper, starting to panic.
Bucky looks at you, this intense look of yearning in his eyes, like he’s being pulled towards you and can’t stop, and you almost melt into the bathroom tiles.
“I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, so quiet it’d be impossible to hear him if he weren’t this close. “Can I?”
You sort of guessed as much, but to hear the words coming from his mouth is something else entirely. You find yourself nodding. You don't know why. Well, actually, you know exactly why. You like him a lot, and you’ve imagined this moment a million times over in your head, though in your imaginations he certainly wasn’t bleeding out in your tiny bathroom.
“Okay,” you manage, heartbeat turning frantic.
You see a flash of his smile before he’s pulling you gently forwards by the wrist and then kissing you. It’s chaste, gentle, but you can almost feel him holding back, his grip on your wrist tightening as he moves closer still, almost like he can’t help himself. The pressure of his kissing pushes you backwards a half inch — your back hits the edge of the sink and you don't care, you really don’t, because Bucky is kissing you and his thumb is rubbing a rough circle into your inner forearm, and his lips are so warm they leave yours buzzing.
Too soon, Bucky pulls away.
You blink at him. He’s still agonisingly close to your face, and still looking at you like he wants to eat you. Your heart’s a riot, worse when he reaches up with his freshly bandaged arm and tucks a rogue piece of hair behind your ear.
His hand lingers at your jaw.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused and rough, but he touches you like you’re made of starlight. “Is it okay that I did that?”
You nod. “Yes,” you manage. Even to your own ears, you sound breathless as anything, but you’re so dizzy that there’s no space to be embarrassed about it. “I— yeah.”
Bucky smiles, but it’s not smug. If anything, it’s achingly fond. “I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have roped you into this. I just … didn’t have anyone else I could call.”
You shake your head. You won’t say it, but right now you’re infinitely glad he called. Even in the dead of the night. “It’s okay.”
Bucky strokes your jaw with his thumb, slow and intentional. “No one will hurt you while I’m here, okay? And we’ll be out of here before you even wake up, I promise.”
You nod around his hand. It’s hard to digest anything he’s saying while he’s touching you like this, and looking at you like that. You think you get the gist, though.
“Okay,” you say. You desperately want to kiss him again, but you’re much too shy to ask. Before you can work up the guts, he’s moving away.
“I think you should get back to bed,” he tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. “It’s past two.”
“Right,” you nod, not wanting to, but you’re too dizzy and too tired to protest.
You and Bucky leave the bathroom together. You follow him still half in a daze, not understanding how he can be so nonchalant when you literally feel lightheaded as a direct result of the kiss. You suppose he’s just better at hiding it, or maybe you’re just very sick in love.
You and Bucky step into the living room to find probably the most absurd scene to ever grace your living space. Yelena and Ava, both knocked out on the couch, Ava’s head on Yelena’s shoulder, drool falling from the blonde’s open mouth. Alexei sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, snoring like a bear. And Walker sitting at your kitchen table, bent in half with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, fast asleep.
Both you and Bucky seem to realise at the exact same time that there’s nowhere other than a much too small chunk of floor for him to sleep. You turn to each other.
“Do you want to—?” You start.
“I can sleep in the—“ he says at the same time.
You both pause.
“Sleep in the what?” You ask him, incredulous.
Bucky grimaces. “The car?” He at least has the decency to look guilty as he says it.
You roll your eyes. “You’re absurd. Come on, you can sleep in my room.”
It’s ridiculous, you know, but the words leave your mouth before you think about it. The truth is, you’re both dead tired and you’ve got no other option. Besides, you don't see how this night could get any more ludicrous. What’s it matter if Bucky sleeps in your room? He’s just kissed you, hasn’t he?
You start to pull him towards your bedroom, but he stays put.
“Y/N—“
“You said you wouldn’t let any of them hurt me,” you say firmly. “How’re you gonna do that from the car?”
Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.
“I… don't know,” he mumbles lamely. Then, at your I told you so look, “Are you sure?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s too gentlemanly for his own good. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.”
You pull him towards your bedroom, much too tired now to be flustered about it. In the dark of your room, Bucky insists on sleeping on the floor. You let him, because he’s stubborn, and because you think if he were to sleep in your bed, no matter the distance you know he’d put between you, you’d be much too consumed with nervous energy to even shut your eyes, let alone sleep.
It’s half past two when you finally crawl back into bed, Bucky lying on a stack of pillows on the floor at the foot of your bed. Though you can't see him, you feel his presence like a weight over your chest.
You settle down on your pillows, already feeling the tug of sleep behind your eyes. Before you can fully succumb, Bucky speaks up.
“Y/N?” He sounds just as tired as you, but you can't ignore the way he says your name like it's something special.
“Yeah?” You hum back.
“Thank you,” he says earnestly. You suppose he’s thanking you for everything from housing a bunch of strangers, to letting him kiss you. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
A pause in which you think about how to respond. Then,
“With a pay raise?” You joke weakly.
Bucky sighs loudly, but the smile in his voice is evident when he murmurs back, “Whatever you want, doll.”
You grin to yourself. Now that’s something you can fall asleep to.
-
thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
summary: you think you’re friends who occasionally kiss, but bucky thinks the two of you have been exclusively dating for a while now. it only takes one post-mission debrief for the whole team to realise someone’s missed a memo.
tags: one of you thinks you’re just friends the other thinks you’re dating trope, avenger!reader, friends to lovers, alpine thinks you’re her other parent, everyone is alive and happy because i say so
warning(s): reader wears jeans and a t-shirt, reader wears workout leggings, suggestive content
word count: 5.1k
note: i’m working on a personal challenge to write some shorter/medium length fics for the people who don’t always want to read 9k slow burns, so please let me know if you enjoyed this!!
masterlist
You’d lost count of how many times you and Bucky had ended up like this. Not that you were keeping score. If you were, it would be a very respectable number. Top-ten life decisions, easily.
The couch in his room creaked softly as you shifted higher onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the hem of your T-shirt tugging a little higher with every slow drag of movement. His hands, one warm and one pleasantly cool, rested at the small of your back, thumbs rubbing lazy circles through the cotton.
You kissed him again, deep enough that it made your stomach jolt like that weightlessness you feel at the top of a rollercoaster. You felt the familiar brush of his stubble against your jaw.
This was exactly what it looked like. Exactly as uncomplicated as it sounded.
Friends who kissed. Friends who sometimes stayed a little too long in the doorway after a movie night, who sometimes let a conversation dissolve into mouths pressed together until the occasional little sound escaped when Bucky did something particularly good with his tongue.
And why not? Kissing was fun, and fun was the whole point.
Bucky hummed low in his chest. You smiled against his mouth, tilting your head to steal another kiss, slow and deliberate. He tasted faintly of the coffee you’d shared earlier. When his hands slipped under your shirt, flesh and metal fingertips trailing across bare skin, you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you.
You liked kissing Bucky, Bucky liked kissing you, and the world hadn’t ended yet.
Friends, you reminded yourself as he nipped lightly at your lower lip, sending a spark down your spine. Good friends, even. Friends with extraordinary kissing chemistry. It was the kind of arrangement that let you enjoy all the perks without any of the drama; basically, hitting the jackpot.
Bucky’s metal hand shifted to the back of your thigh, cool through the denim of your jeans. The delicious contrast made you shiver and laugh simultaneously. He pulled back just enough to watch you catch your breath, blue eyes bright and a little smug.
“Cold?” he asked, voice rough with amusement. “Or is that just the effect I have on you?”
You grinned, brushing your nose against his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Bucky’s smile was small but certain, like he already knew exactly how to make you sigh again, before he leaned in for another kiss.
It all started months ago, back when Bucky officially joined the Avengers.
Not the awkward probationary period when everyone still half-expected him to vanish into the night with a duffel bag and a handgun. This was after he’d settled in, started cracking jokes with Sam, and started trusting people enough to stay for movie nights instead of just lurking in the hallway like a cryptid with perfect hair.
Somewhere in all of that, you and Bucky had landed in the “pretty good friends” category. The kind of friends who could spend an afternoon sparring in the gym and still grab take-out after, sweaty and laughing. The kind who could sit on the roof and trade sarcastic commentary about Tony’s latest gadget, or drop down into a serious conversation about nightmares and past mistakes without it getting weird.
And, apparently, the kind of friends who made out. A lot.
It wasn’t complicated. Sometimes, missions were rough, and adrenaline was high, and you both needed a way to blow off steam. Sometimes a late-night movie ended with you leaning a little too close. Sometimes—like tonight—you just happened to find yourselves kissing because it felt good and you both wanted to, and that was reason enough.
No strategy, no hidden agenda. Just two adults enjoying themselves in a world that rarely handed out simple pleasures.
You were good friends who kissed when the mood struck them. That was it. No strings, no labels, no looming “what are we” talk. A perfectly modern arrangement for a perfectly modern pair of friends.
You liked the way things were. Bucky was warm, solid, and dependable. He had this way of making you feel like the only person in the room, which was a dangerous kind of magic when paired with a mouth that good. But things never got complicated, and in your stressful line of work, you appreciated that.
It was easy, light, and made you feel like the universe could occasionally be kind.
Bucky shifted beneath you, the couch groaning as he settled a hand more firmly at your waist. His metal thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against your shirt, the cool contrast sending a fresh shiver up your spine.
“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged from kissing.
“Mmhmm.” You didn’t bother opening your eyes, just leaned in for another slow, unhurried kiss.
Bucky smiled against your mouth, a satisfied curve like he’d just confirmed something important. He always kissed slowly and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and knew you’d give it to him.
You melted a little—fine, a lot—into the steady press of his mouth. “You’re really making me work for it after leg day,” you mumbled against his lips.
Bucky hummed, a warm vibration you felt in your spine. “Maybe I just like having you in my lap, doll.”
You rolled your eyes, managing a smirk. “The feeling’s mutual, Barnes. But I could use a break.”
He chuckled, a low sound that made you want to drag him even closer. The couch groaned as he shifted, metal hand sliding beneath you in a smooth, practised motion. One minute you were sitting on his lap, the next you were stretched out along the cushions, Bucky braced above you.
The world tilted pleasantly, the weight of him sinking into your bones.
“Better?” he asked, breath brushing your cheek.
“Comfier,” you admitted, trying very hard not to sound like someone who had just been given the universe’s best weighted blanket. “You’re heavy. In a solid, heroic kind of way.”
Bucky’s grin flashed, quick and boyish. “Heroic heavy. I’ll take it.”
He dipped his head again before you could muster a comeback, mouth sliding against yours in a kiss that was both careful and possessive. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, tilting you just so, and the combination of soft pressure and cool metal tracing lazy paths along your waist sent heat pooling low in your stomach.
His nose brushed yours as he broke for air. “You taste like that sugar and espresso,” he murmured, voice rough. “My coffee, the one I made for myself.”
“It was a communal coffee,” you protested, fingers finding the hem of his T-shirt and giving it a cheeky tug. “Sharing is caring. Also, I’m a growing woman.”
Bucky smirked, clearly unbothered, and dipped back in. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget the world outside the four walls of his room and forget your own name if you weren’t careful.
His metal hand slid to your waist, tracing a line just under the edge of your shirt and approaching the buttons of your jeans. The cool touch jolted through you, sharp enough to register as a warning and a dare all at once.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky said quietly, forehead resting against yours. His thumb pressed a slow circle against your bare skin, a gentle reminder that going further would tip past kissing for the first time.
The softness of it made something tighten behind your ribs, but you managed a grin. “You first.”
His mouth found yours again, slower still, and you decided that this was the best friendship upgrade you’d ever signed up for.
You tasted like sweat and a hint of something sweet, somehow.
Bucky let his back hit the wall of the training room with a low thud, the sound swallowed by the rush of your breath against his mouth. You were still in your usual sparring gear, hair sticking to your forehead, T-shirt damp at the collar. He hooked his flesh hand around your waist and pulled you flush against him.
You made a sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—that went straight to his chest. God, that laugh. Low and warm and a little breathless. He’d chased it for months.
His metal palm slid over the small of your back, cool against overheated skin. You shivered and pressed closer, hips tilting just enough to make his breath catch. The thin barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the heat of you.
“Good match,” you managed between kisses, voice bright with the last of the adrenaline.
“Mm.” Bucky’s answer came out rough. Talking felt pointless when he could taste you instead.
You tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, nails grazing the back of his neck. Bucky groaned, deep and quiet, and let his hand drift lower until his fingers brushed the waistband of your leggings. Not pushing. Just there. Asking.
You didn’t pull away. You only shifted closer, thigh sliding between his.
Christ. Bucky angled his head, deepening the kiss. This was new. Closer. The kind of slow grind that carried a promise.
He’d been patient about romancing you—old-fashioned, even. The Bucky treatment, Steve would call it with a grin, which entailed absolutely no funny business until you were exclusive. Dinner after missions, walks back from the market, letting the thing between you build at its own pace.
At first, Bucky worried that it was too slow for you.
After all, you were a modern woman, and dating had escalated into something he barely recognised these days. He’d spent nights lying awake, half convinced you’d get bored and wander off before he figured out the new rules. People swiped left and right now; they didn’t wait weeks to hold someone’s hand.
But you never once pushed. You were happy to linger after movie nights, to kiss until the streetlights clicked off, to let the quiet stretch between you without demanding anything more. Every time you smiled at Bucky across a dinner table or leaned against his arm during a walk, he felt a clean rush of relief—proof that slow wasn’t scaring you away.
Eventually, he’d worked up to what he thought was the big step: exclusivity. He’d asked in what he still considered a perfectly obvious, twenty-first-century way. Over take-out noodles one night, he’d nudged your foot under the table and said, “Guess we’re making this official, huh?” You’d grinned, clinked your chopsticks against his, and said, “Pleasure doing business with you,” before launching into a story about a disastrous mission briefing.
For Bucky, that was it. You were official, exclusive. He’d walked you back to your room that night, floating three inches off the floor, certain the air between you had shifted into something solid. He’d even texted his group chat with Steve and Sam the next morning—asked her to be exclusive. she said yes.
And now, weeks later, the ease of it still steadied him. Because you’d let him take his time, because you’d agreed to be his without hesitation, he could finally let himself imagine the next step.
Not a leap, just a careful slide forward. A hand under your shirt, the warm weight of you against him. Little things that meant trust, not just desire. You knew he was serious; you knew this wasn’t a fling. And because of that, Bucky could touch you like this and know he wasn’t crossing a line.
It was worth every second of taking it slow.
He’d wanted tonight to be a reward. You’d wiped the floor with him in the last sparring round, and he’d loved every second of it. A kiss in the corner of the gym before you both hit the showers. A private victory lap. But the way you moved now—hips rolling, fingers sliding under the edge of his shirt—made the idea of stopping feel cruel.
You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe. “You’re dangerous, Barnes,” you murmured, eyes bright.
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “You started it.”
Your grin flashed. “Pretty sure you tackled me first.”
“I’m not the one wearing the sexy workout outfit.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, a small claim that felt bigger than it should. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
You answered by catching his bottom lip between your teeth.
Every sane thought disappeared from his head.
Bucky had been planning your next date all afternoon. Real food this time, something nicer than the take-out containers you both pretended were meals. Maybe that little place Natasha kept raving about.
Afterwards, he’d walk you back to the Tower, maybe stop by the rooftop garden where you liked to lean on the railing and tell him funny stories. He wanted to see you there again, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands, laughing at his deadpan jokes.
A relationship, exclusive dating after months of doing it casually and slowly. That’s what this was.
Bucky had been careful, giving you space, but the signs were obvious. Movie nights that ended with you asleep against his shoulder. Early morning texts about coffee orders. The way you started wearing one of his hoodies and never gave it back. People didn’t do that if it wasn’t serious.
And now, the way you fit against him, warm and trusting, made the truth feel solid enough to lean on.
You shifted again, a slow drag of hips that sent a jolt of pleasure through him. Bucky tightened his grip, metal fingers spanning your waist, holding you steady while you moved.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice breaking low. Not a warning. More of a plea to give him a second to keep it together.
You only smiled, wicked and sweet, and stole another kiss.
Bucky’s heart hammered a steady backbeat, climbing higher every time you shifted against him. He felt young again, as if the world had tilted toward something good and he was allowed to stand in the middle of it.
He thought of Steve and how he used to talk about simple pleasures, about not waiting too long. Maybe this was what he meant.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Your pupils were blown wide, a question shining there.
Bucky smoothed his thumb along your jaw. “Tell me if I’m pushing,” he said quietly.
Your smile softened. “You’re not.”
He leaned in, forehead against yours, and let the next kiss start slow. A promise disguised as a reward. He’d wait as long as you needed, but tonight felt like the start of something bigger.
His girl, his doll, his future.
Bucky’s room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and cedar, the clean scent that comes from someone who actually follows the instructions on a bottle of fabric softener. Show off.
The lamp on his nightstand was turned low, casting a warm light over the bed where Alpine, a small white cloud with whiskers, was already perched as if she paid rent. You’d been in here enough times to know the lightbulb was the soft kind that made everyone look ten times kinder, which felt on brand for a man who pretended to be grumpy while secretly rescuing cats.
“Movie night with a critic,” Bucky said, toeing off his boots. “She likes to meow at the plot holes.”
“You’re just jealous she’s smarter than you,” you teased, settling cross-legged on the edge of the mattress. The comforter dipped beneath you, soft and heavy. It smelled faintly of clean cotton and something warm—Bucky, probably.
He shot you a look of mock offence while fishing for the remote on his bedside table. “Careful, doll. I can still veto your pick.”
Bucky queued up the movie and slid down beside you, long legs stretched out and arm braced on the mattress, brushing your thigh. A barely-there touch, but enough to make your nerve endings sit up like they’d just had a double espresso. The screen lit up with the opening credits of your favourite movie.
Alpine gave a chirp, turned a slow circle, and then—betrayal of betrayals—padded across Bucky’s lap and plopped squarely into yours.
“Oh, c’mon,” he groaned. “Every time!”
You grinned, scratching behind Alpine’s ears as she head-butted your palm with the force of a tiny, determined marshmallow. “Face it. I’m her favourite.”
Bucky leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed in dramatic suffering. “I rescued her from a busted fire escape. Nursed her back to health. Bought the fancy grain-free food. And this is the thanks I get?”
“Maybe she appreciates quality company,” you said, wiggling your fingers to make Alpine’s tail swish in delight. “I have sparkling conversation and adorable charm. What do you bring to the table?”
“Trauma and good cheekbones,” Bucky deadpanned.
You snorted, nearly startling the cat. “Wow. Irresistible package.”
“She used to sleep on my chest,” he went on, ignoring you. “Now she hears your voice and suddenly I’m chopped liver.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, though you were enjoying every second of his mock sulk. “You’re still her giant food dispenser.”
“Thanks, doll. Real boost to the ego.” Bucky tilted his head toward Alpine, who was now purring loud enough to be heard over the movie. “You hear that, snowball? Dad’s feelings—obliterated.”
Alpine flicked an ear and nestled deeper into your lap like a queen receiving tribute. You gave Bucky a wide, innocent smile. “Maybe she just senses my aura.”
“Your aura?” He arched a brow.
“Yeah. Cats can tell when someone’s a good person. Or at least when someone’s not secretly plotting world domination.”
“Guess I should’ve hidden the plans better,” Bucky said, eyes glinting.
The banter slid back and forth like an old routine—effortless, balanced, as easy as breathing. You’d fallen into this rhythm months ago: Bucky’s dry humour, your quick jabs, both of you quietly delighted whenever you managed to crack the other wide open.
He laughed now, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the mattress and settled somewhere under your ribs. You filed it away with all the other Bucky details you weren’t supposed to notice: the way his laugh always started in his chest, the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the ridiculous fact that it made you feel lighter every single time.
Halfway through the movie, Alpine stretched a paw across your stomach, claiming more territory. Bucky reached out, fingers brushing yours as he pretended to coax her back.
“Traitor,” he whispered.
“She’s perfect,” you whispered back, though your focus snagged on the tiny graze of his metal knuckles against your skin. Cool and smooth, a contrast sharp enough to send a little electric zing racing up your arm.
Bucky caught the flick of your eyes and smirked like he’d felt it too. “You’re spoiling her.”
“Maybe I just have a magic touch.”
“You don’t say.”
On screen, the hero made a questionable decision that earned a disgusted chirp from Alpine. You and Bucky burst out laughing at the same time, the sound overlapping until you couldn’t tell whose laugh belonged to whom. He nudged your knee with his, just a small bump, but he didn’t move it away.
The rest of the movie blurred in a haze of shared snacks and whispered commentary. Bucky pointed out continuity errors. You defended the cheesy dialogue. Alpine purred as if she were personally invested in the debate.
If happiness had a sound, it might have been this: a cat’s rumble, a soldier’s laugh, and your own heartbeat trying to keep up.
By the time the end credits rolled, Bucky stretched with a satisfied groan, his shoulder brushing yours. “Not bad,” he admitted. “A couple plot holes, but the cat critic seems pleased.”
Alpine yawned and pressed her head into your palm.
“Five stars,” you said, giving the cat a final scratch. “From the only opinion that matters.”
Bucky’s eyes softened as he watched you. He didn’t say anything, just reached over to gently lift Alpine from your lap and set her on the pillow. But his fingers lingered for a beat, like he wasn’t quite ready to break the contact.
With Alpine safely out of the way, Bucky leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, as if he’d been waiting all night for the chance. It was the kind of kiss that felt inevitable, like the next logical step in a perfect night in.
The debrief wrapped with Steve’s trademark mix of stern professionalism and sweet encouragement. “Good work out there,” he said, setting the file down like it hadn’t just survived three explosions and a questionable landing courtesy of Peter. “Take the night off. Dinner’s on me.”
A chorus of cheers and applause rippled around the conference table. Chairs scraped back, jackets were shrugged on. The post-mission buzz was alive and well in the collective joy of finally getting to sit somewhere that wasn’t a Quinjet.
You stretched, rolling a knot out of your shoulder as Bucky fell into step beside you. His hand brushed the small of your back for half a second.
“Dinner?” Natasha asked, leaning against the table with the confidence of a woman who already knew everyone would say yes. “Pizza? Burgers? Anything that involves carbs and regret?”
“Carbs are a therapeutic necessity,” Steve said dryly.
“Carbs keep me sane,” Kate added, slinging her bow case over one shoulder. “I vote for pizza.”
“Seconded,” Peter said, already halfway to his phone, texting Joaquín. “I’ll find somewhere with those giant garlic knots.”
The group hummed with agreement, overlapping suggestions flying. Ava and John debated deep-dish pizza versus thin-crust pizza with the seriousness of a nuclear treaty. Yelena quietly pilfered the last of the conference room snacks, unwrapping a protein bar like it had wronged her.
Sam’s eyes flicked to Bucky and then to you, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Buck, you bringing your girlfriend or what?”
Yelena snorted so loudly it should have counted as a war crime. “Ha. Good one.”
You blinked. “Wait—what?”
Bucky’s frown was immediate and sharp. “Why is that funny?”
Your laugh came out higher than intended. “Oh, uh… I think she meant—”
“Meant what?” Bucky asked, still frowning. “Why would that be a joke?”
Across the table, Steve froze mid-water bottle sip. Ava’s eyebrows shot up.
“Because it is funny,” Yelena said, pointing to you with a grin. “She is not his girlfriend.”
Sam looked suddenly, violently confused. “But… she is Bucky’s girlfriend?” He turned to you for confirmation. “Aren’t you?”
Your heart jumped. “No,” you exclaimed, while Bucky declared, “Yes.”
A silence followed so heavy you could practically hear your heart drop to your stomach.
“Interesting,” Natasha said, stealing Yelena’s protein bar with the calm of a woman watching a soap opera unfold in real time. “Please, continue.”
Bob’s eyes ping-ponged between you and Bucky like he was watching the world’s most stressful tennis match. “Um. Did we miss something?”
“We’re—” you started.
“We’re dating,” Bucky said, voice firm, like he was reciting mission intel.
You gaped at him. “We are not dating.”
Ava arched one perfect brow. “This is going to be good.”
Bucky turned to you, confusion etched deep. “What do you mean we’re not? We’ve been—” He broke off, gesturing vaguely with both hands, as though the universal sign for making out on couches would help.
Your face went hot. “That’s not dating, that’s us letting out some steam once in a while. Friends with very occasional, very PG-13 benefits!”
Sam’s mouth dropped open. “Occasional? You two are attached at the hip. You leave missions together. You do grocery runs together. Bucky refers to the both of you as a ‘we’ like he can’t bear to do anything alone. I thought that was relationship-level stuff.”
“That’s just… logistics!” you protested, which sounded weak even to you.
Kate leaned forward, delighted. “Okay, but the movie nights?”
“Friends have movie nights,” you said.
“With tongue?” Yelena asked flatly.
You flailed. “Sometimes!”
Bucky stared at you, blue eyes wide and wounded. “You thought this was friends with benefits?”
Your stomach twisted. “You thought we were in a relationship?”
Sam rubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
John was trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly. Natasha wore an expression that suggested she was mentally drafting a memo about emotional communication for the next team briefing.
“Wow,” Ava said, grinning. “This is like watching two different movies at the same time.”
“Alternate universes,” Peter murmured. “One where Bucky’s a committed boyfriend. One where he’s a very dedicated situationship.”
“Okay,” you said, holding up your hands before the word situationship could set the room on fire. “Let’s all just take a breath.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “I asked you to be exclusive.”
Your brain replayed the sentence like a faulty recording. “When?”
“That night after we got Chinese food,” he said, voice rising slightly. “I said, ‘I don’t want to share you.’”
You stared. “I thought you were talking to the spring rolls!”
Sam made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Bob buried his face in his hoodie to avoid second-hand embarrassment. Natasha bit into Yelena’s protein bar as if it were popcorn and she was at the cinema.
Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “I meant you. And then I asked if we were official, and you said something about being happy to do business with me.”
“Oh.” Your voice squeaked on the single syllable. “That… does clarify things.”
Steve, who had been silently observing like a patient kindergarten teacher, finally cleared his throat. “Maybe the two of you should talk privately.”
“Great idea,” Kate said brightly. “Before Sam combusts.”
“I’m fine,” Sam said, clearly not fine.
The room erupted into overlapping chatter—Sam defending his assumption, Yelena narrating every awkward beat, Peter mumbling something about how communication is key. Through it all, Bucky kept his eyes on you, a mix of hurt and hope twisting behind the blue.
You swallowed hard, heart pounding like it was trying to hammer out a coherent sentence.
So much for perfectly normal friend behaviour.
“Okay,” you said finally, meeting his gaze. “Maybe we do need to talk.”
Bucky nodded once, slow but certain, like a man accepting a mission. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We do.”
Steve and Natasha began shepherding everyone out of the conference room. When the door clicked shut behind them, the room felt too silent all of a sudden. The scent of burnt coffee and adrenaline clung to the air, a reminder that superhero drama apparently came with office-breakroom ambience.
The rest of the team’s laughter echoed faintly down the hall.
Bucky stood near the table, arms crossed but not in a threatening way. More like he was trying to keep all his pieces inside. Your stomach did a neat little backflip.
“So,” you said, voice wobbling toward cheerful. “That was… fun. Nothing like a room full of superheroes arguing about your love life to keep a mission debrief lively.”
His mouth twitched. “Could’ve been worse. Sam could’ve made a powerpoint.”
You laughed—short, nervous. “He probably has one ready. Charts. Graphs. Pie slices of evidence.”
Silence settled again. Bucky uncrossed his arms, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, doll, I’m sorry. I should’ve— I don’t know. Made things clearer.”
You stepped closer, shaking your head. “No, I should’ve—”
But he ploughed on, words rushing. “I just thought— hell, I assumed. We do everything together. You stay over half the week, Alpine’s basically picked you as her human. I figured you were happy to take things slow for me, but then I assumed we made things official. And tonight—” His voice cracked. “I feel like an idiot. Like I set myself up for this.”
“Bucky—”
“I should’ve said something. I should’ve asked. Instead I’m standing there like a chump while half the team thinks I’m your boyfriend and the other half thinks I’m delusional—”
“Hey!” You caught his sleeve before he could spiral farther. The fabric was warm from his skin; the metal of his arm cold through the seam. The contrast shot straight to your heartbeat, a reminder of how many contradictions made him Bucky. “Bucky, stop. This isn’t a one-sided screw-up, okay? We both failed at communicating what we thought we were.”
Bucky finally looked at you, eyes stormy and searching.
You took a breath, steadying the racing pulse in your throat. “I didn’t think we were dating because we never said we were. But that’s on me too. I never asked, never clarified. I just liked what we had and didn’t want to scare you off.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. “You liked what we had?”
You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Obviously. Have you met you?”
That earned the tiniest smile.
“I like us,” you continued, softer now. “I like movie nights and bad diner coffee and the way you always walk on the street side. I like how easy it is to talk to you, even when you’re grumpy and pretending not to care. And yeah, maybe I wanted more, but I didn’t want to risk losing the friendship that’s basically my favorite thing in the world.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked down, then back up. His voice came out low, careful. “You’re my favourite thing too.”
Your chest squeezed in equal parts terror and relief. Apparently, your ribcage had decided to moonlight as a vice. “So maybe we stop assuming and actually start communicating.”
He stepped closer until the air between you warmed. “Communicating,” he echoed. “Like, I want to be your boyfriend. Present tense. Clear as day.”
You grinned, heart hammering. “Exactly like that. Because I want to be your girlfriend. Also present tense, clear as day.”
The grin softened into something else as Bucky reached up, fingertips brushing your cheek like a question. You answered by leaning in, closing the space. His lips met yours in a slow, careful press, the kind of kiss that asked for trust instead of taking it.
His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, steady and warm, the faint scrape of calloused skin sending a quiet thrill through you. You angled closer, a subtle pull that left you swaying toward him until your chest met the solid line of his.
His thumb traced a small circle against your jaw, patient and deliberate, like he wanted every second to count.
When you pulled back, breathless and a little dizzy, Bucky rested his forehead against yours. His eyes stayed half-lidded, the corners soft with something that made your stomach flip all over again. “Worth the public humiliation,” he murmured.
The door banged open.
“Please tell me I’m not interrupting more feelings,” Tony said, strolling in with a tablet. “Steve just told me you—” he pointed at you “—thought you weren’t dating the Hot Topic Terminator over here. Congratulations, you are officially the least perceptive spy I’ve ever met.”
You groaned. Bucky chuckled against your hair.
Tony smirked, already tapping on his tablet. “Great. Now that the sitcom subplot is resolved, can we schedule the next mission?”
You buried your face in Bucky’s chest, laughing despite yourself.
—summary: bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it.
—pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader
—word count: 5k (wow)
—content: ultimate husband material boss. pure fluff tbh, bob's insecurity and low self-esteem, his need to be loved and approved. he is literally starting to act like your house-husband. he wears an apron!!! you reassure him as he deserves. bucky is such a dad. love confessions, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that. bob loves the reader so much it's crazy.
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Bob.
He had been quite special since you had met him, really.
Yelena had told you that he liked you. Then Bucky had told you so too. And so had Ava. And Alexei. And John.
But how could Bob not like you, in all honesty? You'd been unnecessarily nice to him since you'd met. You didn't know him, he was a complete stranger, and yet you still showed him compassion and kindness. You stood by his side when you all together escaped the death trap that Valentina had set for you, and you defended him when Walker was getting especially mean to him.
How could anyone not like you? That was the real question. You were perfect. In every sense of the word. Both figurative and literal. From your soul to your mind. You seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven. Something ethereal, something crafted by his own mind, made in the most beautiful dreams.
Bob would normally think of himself as a big idiot, a loser. That he could never have you. A part of him insisted that never, not even in a million other universes could he ever deserve you. He wanted you as his lover or his friend? It didn't really matter, he just wanted you in his life.
And yet, he was flirting with you anyway. Or at least that's what he thought he was doing.
“Here,” he'd told you every morning since you'd set up at the tower as the New Avengers... you insisted that you all should think of a new name. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, your favorite coffee, and on his face there was a sheepish little smile, your favorite smile. His eyes held that softness all over, that slight, hardly visible gleam, that you could always see it anyway, always, you caught a glimpse of it. Every time he looked at you. As if stars were hung from your hands. Well, technically they did, due to your superpower, that is.
“Thank you, Bobby,” you would say, offering him a warm smile, pronouncing that nickname so fondly and gently, that it had become a favorite nickname for his name. After so long hating it, after having caused him so much pain. Sure, now, his heart pounded when he heard it, his breathing quickened as well, but his chest swelled with tenderness. It was a good emotion, coming from a nice place. It didn't make him feel pain or sadness. Quite the opposite.
Bob was used to being an alien, isolated, left behind, to be hurt and broken. But you, you never left him behind. You always turned to look for him, to walk beside him, to gaze at him with those pretty eyes filled with concern and caring. You owed him nothing, you barely knew him, and yet, you were willing to walk in the void, in the darkness that concealed his heart and illuminate through with your light. You had saved him. And since then, you were his anchor.
You were patient. With his mood swings, his stuttering, his lack of confidence and his self-proclamation to inclination to ruin everything. He could never ruin you, you always assured him.
Love.
Bob had never even thought that he would ever have love in his life. That he would never truly grasp the concept of love, of loving. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you.
You were the closest thing to love he will ever know. There was love in everything you did, in everything you said, in the way you called his name and in the way you looked at him.
He loved you.
“Relax, kid. You miss your Romeo that much?” Bucky blurted out in a tone that bordered near teasing, giving you an amused glance as you both walked over to the entrance of the Watchtower of the (New) Avengers, your home.
A mission had been assigned to the both of you as a duo. To locate the position of a small but potentially dangerous group of terrorists in the suburbs of New York city. There was an indication of where their base might have been. With your super senses it had been easy enough to just stumble upon it and with Bucky covering your back, you had arrested them all in less than twenty minutes.
It had been a successful mission. But the anxiety of being out in public had never really been something you could ignore, so the urge to go home was always lurking in the back of your mind.
To return to Bob, as well. Bob was a lingering thought in your mind now, an incessant remembrance. Something worth coming home safe and sound for.
“Drop it, Barnes,” you replied to your old friend, mumbling softly.
Bucky cracked a little chuckle, pressing the button to the top floors on the elevator once you were both inside. You could feel his intent gaze on your face and you could also sense all that he was trying to talk to you about.
“Look, I've never seen you like this before, okay? In all the years I've known you." He began to lecture you in a 'fraternal speech' mode, turning around so he could look at you, noticing how your cheeks were slightly flushed. “You're happy. It's been months since I've seen you as happy as you are now. You've been smiling and laughing more, you even started playing the piano again. And that's good, sweetheart,” he offered you a small smile, completely sincere and gentle, “You deserve to be, you know? Happy. You've been through a lot. And you have helped to protect this world longer than all of us. You deserve everything you want.”
You smiled back, but it soon twisted more into an apprehensive grimace, “Yeah, I just—” you heaved a sigh of concern, sensing that Bucky wanted you to talk to him, not from the exterior, but from your inner self, about how you felt. “It scares me....”
Bucky shook his head lightly, extending his flesh-and-blood hand to rest it on your shoulder, expressing sympathy. His fraternal demeanor always managed to make you feel comforted.
“It's normal to feel fear” then he cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his face grew full of playfulness, “But, sweetheart, have you seen him? He's the strongest guy currently on planet Earth. What I know is that anyone who would try to hurt him or you is the one who should be afraid. He almost wiped out all of us together at once. It was kind of humiliating...”
“That wasn't him” you immediately replied using a low tone, remembering how chaotic and painful that day had been. You had had to fight the Void, you were the strongest among all the others, after Bob of course.
“I know,” Bucky replied, sighing softly, “What I'm trying to say is that you both deserve to be happy. Shit, the guy looks at you as if the stars hung from your hands. You both deserve to have something to fight for and protect. How are you going to protect a place that has nothing to protect?”
“That doesn't even—”
Bucky rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “Makes sense, I know—” he shook his head, frowning and gesturing with his hands in exaggerated fashion, “You know what I mean, kid.”
“Yeah... I know” you smiled softly at him, thoughtfully.
Once you had entered into your floor, you had gone straight to your room. You took off your suit, tossed it in the laundry basket, and then changed into more comfortable clothes.
You were combing your hair when you heard three soft knocks on your door. You didn't have to look to know who it was, you had already recognized his racing heartbeat from the moment he had turned around the corner.
“Come in!” you exclaimed, concentrating on combing your hair, letting it loose.
The door opened to reveal Bob. He was wearing a chef's apron, with an adorable cat pattern design. And his face was even more adorable. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were soft all over, and a sheepish smile graced his thin lips.
He was wearing that beanie again.
He had been wearing it for more than two days now, for some unknown reason, making it impossible for you to see his hair. It wasn't even cold in there, the building's heating system was perfect.
“Hi,” he greeted you, raising his hand to wave at you with it, making you smile, “I cooked for you”
He watched you put the hair comb on your vanity desk, his blue eyes fleetingly roaming over all of you.
Bob thought you always looked beautiful. In the suit or in a shirt of some really old band you'd never heard in your life. But the suit truly looked good on you. The colors were perfect and even though you said the cape was ridiculous and over the top, it made you look magnificent when you flew.
It was like a second skin, the fabric clinging tightly to your body, molding your curves so perfectly. He never thought he would be jealous of a piece of fabric.
Before he kept picturing you in your suit, he let his gaze wander across your room, falling on your record player, playing a Jeff Buckley song, from your favorite albums, he knew. Many times he had listened to it with you, sitting right there on the bed next to you.
His eyes then fell on the pair of small pictures you had on your nightstand next to your bed. In one of the pictures, he could see himself sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder, your self also sleeping on the couch, just having a Disney movie marathon. Alexei had taken the picture, of course, and you had begged him to give him a copy. Bob had also asked for one, keeping the picture next to his bed. It was a cute photo, you looked so cute in it.
“You cooked for me, Bob?” you asked back, your face expressing the tenderness you felt inside. “Again? You know you shouldn't—”
He turned back to you and nodded his head, interrupting you, “I know you like tacos, you said so the other time. I thought you might like to eat them after the mission.”
Realizing you weren't saying a word back and just stared at him, he grew even more nervous under your powerful gaze, his fingers fidgeting at his sides and his gaze dropped to the floor, puffing out a small awkward chuckle.
“But— uh— if you don't want to eat them, it's okay‒ you must‒ you must be tired. I don't think I cook very well either—”
“Why are you wearing that beanie again?” you interrupted his rambling, genuinely confused.
You had noticed the way he was pulling the edges of the fabric down his forehead, preventing any strands of his hair from slipping out and being seen.
“Uh?” he stammered, his brow furrowing slightly, “Oh, this? It's nothing, it's just—” he gestured with his hands anxiously, making it impossible for him to look you directly in the eye, “It's a bit chilly in here. I don't want to catch a cold.”
You sighed softly, looking at him with concerned eyes, “Bobby, I can literally sense you're lying to me.” You then slightly shook your head, “You can't catch a cold since Project Sentry, honey. And it's almost twenty degrees in here.”
He shifted his body weight down between his two feet, still staring at the ground, resembling a child who was being scolded. When he eventually looked up from the floor, his eyes held a dull, sad look.
“It's just...”
This time he interrupted himself, growing quiet and letting the silence carry his words away. It took him a few moments to reflect on an answer for you, sorting through the words and phrases that were rushing through his head.
You waited so patiently for him. As always.
“The bleach is wearing off and I have a horrible mix of colors. My hair is just a mess now,” he was finally able to express, motioning with his hands, in some way to detract from what he was talking about, but you could see beyond that. You understood that this was something important to him, something that had been troubling him.
You patted the bed, sitting down on it and inviting him to sit down as well, “Come here, Bobby."
He obeyed you, of course, making his way to your bed, awkwardly tripping over his own feet on the path.
Once he was seated next to you, he made an effort to maintain eye contact with you, but just couldn't, casting his eyes down to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting, revealing sheer nervousness and anxiety.
“You don't want to be seen with your brown hair?” you asked him in a soft tone, intending to seek his gaze and attempting as well to let him allow you to let you see beyond his mask and beyond what he usually pretended to be. “I like your natural hair color.”
“Brown?” he questioned back, appearing genuinely troubled, even more gloomy now. His brow was furrowed and his voice wavered into disbelief, “But it's so.... lame.”
“Let me see” you pleaded and Bob immediately gave in, sighing shakily before raising his hands to his head, tugging the cap off and allowing you to see the, as he put it, mess that was his hair. But it wasn't at all.
Sure, the ends were still affected by the bleach, they were mainly burned and dehydrated, and now most of his hair was brown, gradually returning to its natural color. A couple of wavy strands fell on his forehead, contrasting so beautifully with the color of his skin.
Bob looked embarrassed now. Still gazing down at his lap, his hands clenching the beanie between his fingers. He was expecting you to make fun of him, to make some joking remark about how ugly his hair was or how ridiculous he was for even giving so much thought to how it looked in the first place.
But you, you just offered him a gentle smile. And then your hand ran down the side of his head, picking up a brown lock and brushing it back away from his forehead. That's when he finally looked back up at you, awestruck.
“Your hair is so pretty just the way it is, Bob” you began to tell him and your voice delivered so much reassurance and comfort, it was so soothing. The way you pronounced his name made him feel his heart flip in his chest. “You don't need to change anything about it. You don't have to prove anything. You're not him.”
“I know,” he whispered, holding your gaze, pressing his face against the palm of your hand, clawing desperately for your touch. He didn't want to beg. He didn't have to. He knew you could feel it, his longing, the aching, the need for love, for your love. “I just thought that.... well, they all said that blond was better, to be the Sentry, to look stronger and— and‒ and attractive. I thought, that way you'd like me better—blond, I mean.”
“Does the opinion of others matter much to you?”
Bob shook his head, just barely, so as to avoid under any circumstances straying far out of your hand, and then murmured, shyly, “Only yours.”
“I like you in any way, Bob” you replied, assuring him, and when he placed a kiss on the palm of your hand, you felt your heart halt, “Every side of you. The good side, the bad side. I like you. All of you.”
Bob swallowed saliva, parting his lips to let out a soft shaky sigh, “With you it's only the good side. You bring out the best in me.”
“Can I kiss you?” you even had the audacity to ask. When he was looking at you like that, as if you were the most precious creature in the entire universe. When you had never felt or known love as pure as the love Bob was extending to you through his mere gaze.
“Y‒yes, p‒please” he begged.
You kissed him.
And the world stopped. All the noise muffled around him, the voices whispering that he'd made a mistake once again hushed. The darkness was succumbing to the light. Your light.
His lips followed yours like an instinct, like something they had been used to in another life, in another universe. Like picking up an old habit. Like second nature, his hands landed on your waist, a tentative but yearning touch.
Your mouth connected with his like old pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, fitting as if they were made for each other. Now, everything seemed to make sense, the whole universe, all the pain, all the suffering, all the mistakes, everything that had brought you there, to that very moment.
“You're everything I've dreamed of” he whispered against your lips once the kiss was over, still with his eyes closed, like it was all a dream, if he dared to open them, you would disappear from his arms. So he held you close, pulling you desperately against him.
You kissed him again.
Eventually Bob opened his eyes and they instantly softened as they found yours looking back at them. It wasn't a dream, no. It was reality. This was really happening.
He had kissed you- well, you had kissed him. But you were there, in his arms, his hands molding the curve of your waist as if they were made to hold you. All of a sudden, he realized he wasn't really meant to be anyone in this life, not some superhero, some weapon, some asset, no, Bob was meant for you. He was made to be yours.
His hands were not made to destroy, they were made to hold you. To protect you.
His whole being was made to love you.
Bob loved you.
“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, his eyes lowering from yours to your lips again, and again, and again....
His fingers caressed your hips, nudging your bare skin below the hem of your shirt, and the very touch sent shivers down your spine.
“Don't hesitate, just kiss me” you assured him back in a whisper and he savored the breath of your utterance, kissing you again, most passionately this time.
Your hands embraced his neck and you pulled him close to you, leaning back against one of the many pillows on your bed. He kept kissing you, like a starving man, careful not to crush you with his weight, one of his hands rested on the side of your body against the bed.
His hair brushed against your face, tickling you.
“I'm bad at this, I'm sorry—” he suddenly apologized, as if he just was coming back down to the ground and snapping back to reality, detaching himself from you, only barely, just enough to be able to look at you. Above you he looked like a god. Looking down at you with those eyes, darkened by love and longing. His face was all red and his pupils dilated. Up close, you could distinguish the tiny greenish shades within all the light blue of his orbs. “I haven't kissed anyone in— God, I can't even remember— I'm sorry.”
“Hey, it's okay” you tried to reassure him, looking up at him with doting, soft eyes. He took the moment to just admire you, his lips parted, reddened from all the kissing. “Me neither.”
“What?” Bob displayed his incredulity at your words, his brow furrowing faintly, barely a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. His unoccupied hand trailed up your body, tracing your curves, all the way to your jaw, his fingers fondly caressing your skin, looking down at you with adoration, not even missing a chance to marvel at you to blink, “That makes no sense— You're a good kisser. The best kisser.”
Now it was your turn to blush, shifting your gaze down to his chest, avoiding his, feeling flushed and really hot all of a sudden. But Bob didn't let you stray too far from him, as he kept his hand on your chin, lifting your face so he could gaze directly into your eyes.
“Don't look at me like that” you pleaded in a quiet whisper, locking your gaze with his again. The blue of his eyes sparkled in reflection of yours, all threatening to surround you entirely and pull you into the serene indigo sea they held within them.
Bob soaked his lips with his tongue, catching a glimpse of your gaze dropping to them for just a second. His finger nuzzled up against your cheek, tracing a tender caressing line across your skin. The touch struck an earthquake inside you and your heart thumped unquietly in your chest, menacing to leap out to join his.
“I always look at you like this,” he uttered your name as if it were his own religion, “You are so pretty...”
You are incomparable in his eyes. His love for you is unconditional, even on bad days. His loyalty relies on you blindly, unbreakable.
“Y‒you make me happy” he murmured after a comfortable and serene silence, full of emotions, good emotions. “I'd forgotten what that felt like. But you gave it to me again. Happiness. Belonging. Love.” He breathed out a chuckle, appearing incredulous, “God, I even started cooking. I mean, w‒when had I ever done that?”
You kissed him again, devastatingly gentle, tender, loving, just the way you always addressed him and only him.
And he drank in everything you gave him, every kiss, every caress and every touch, as if you were the reason he existed, the reason he breathed.
He breathed out a raspy whimper against your lips when you pulled his hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers sinking through the brown locks, pressing him closer to you.
“Do that again, please” Bob pleaded in a husky whisper, in between kisses, nearly in despair, breathing out in a cracked voice.
You tugged on his hair once more and Bob's voice broke into a groan, his eyes squinting, gazing into yours as if they were the center of the universe.
“Can I touch you?” you asked him before kissing his lips once more and you could almost feel him vibrate against you as he nodded his head in a frenzy.
He kissed you again, uttering your name like a prayer, “Please touch me, do whatever you want to me, but don't ever stop touching me.”
You breathed out a little giggle as when you realized that he was in fact wearing an apron. He looked so cute in it.
“The apron looks good on you.” he blushed furiously at your words, if it was even more possible. His skin was now crimson, as red as a tomato. “You would be a fine house husband”
The lights in your room flickered just as you pronounced the words, and you knew it had been him. So powerful, so strong, yet he was melting apart under your touch, completely at your mercy.
His skin was warm, it felt like porcelain under your touch.
The lights faded in and out again.
“I'm d-doing okay?” Bob asked, his hands settled on your hips, digits sinking into the fabric of your shorts. His lips quivered, forming a hint of a nervous smile, looking down at you, searching for your approval,
“You're perfect, baby” you assured him, kissing his chest one last time before beginning to make a path of kisses through all his face, making him smile.
“Perfect, perfect, perfect” you murmured several times against his warm skin.
Bob gasped shakily, his hands groping as much of you as they could, slipping under the thin fabric of your shirt, “Fuck-- you drive me crazy. You're so pretty, so good to me... You make me so happy, baby”
And then you hugged him, pressing him against you close, impossibly close. He carefully rolled you both over on the bed, with him now under you, so that he could hold your whole body, feel your full weight pressed against his.
Your eyes filled with tears at his statement, fully understanding that it was difficult for him to express his emotions, to say out loud what he was feeling and what was going on inside his head. But anyway, he had done all that for you.
“You make me happy too” you whispered to him, reassured him, promised him back. He hugged you tightly, snuggling close to you, locking his body to yours.
Bob placed a tentative but loving kiss on your shoulder just as you were pulling away from him, gently tugging on his shoulders to make him sit up on the bed as well, in front of you, with your legs entangled.
“You must be tired. Your mission went well?” he asked curiously, releasing one of your hands to run it up the side of your face and you pressed it against his palm as an instinct, closing your eyes and letting yourself feel the warmth and reassurance his touch provided, “I missed feeling you here.”
He was looking at you in awe. The way you pressed yourself against his hand, the same hand that had hurt so many people, that had caused so much pain and destruction. And now it was holding your face as if it were the whole world.
“Feeling me?” you raised your eyebrows, tone of voice growing teasing.
Bob blushed, and let go of your hand to pass it through his hair, “Y‒your presence, your heartbeat, your breathing, y‒you know.”
“My heartbeat?” you asked him another question just to tease him.
He became even more nervous, his hand returned to yours, interlacing his fingers with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze, asking for silent mercy, but you looked at him attentively with a smirk, “All I can think about is you, h‒honestly.” he watched as your smile quivered with his words, “You're everywhere. I just... feel you.”
He left you speechless once again, looking up at him, holding your breath.
“I'm sorry—I'm just saying what comes to mind” Bob rushed to apologize once again, lowering his gaze to your joined hands, feeling your warmth engulf him all over, as your thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly. His own thumb traced your cheekbone as if he were brushing the most magnificent shape in the world. You were. In his eyes. “I'm not being polite right now. It's nothing—”
“Bob,” you called his name, interrupting him and causing him to look up at you, both of your hands going to cup his face. He fell silent, gawking at you, in utter awe, roaming his eyes over every inch of your face, intending to remember every single detail, every fragment of your complexion, “You're everything. Everything.”
His eyes glistened, crystallizing with a couple of tears, not out of sadness or pain, no, they were from happiness, from feeling complete, from feeling that he finally belonged somewhere. By your side.
“Thank you” he then breathed a few times, kissing the palms of your hands pressed against his face, cupping them with his own.
Your fingers caught a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face, brushing it back once again.
“I like it better this way” you commented, smiling sweetly.
“Yeah?” he asked gently, so happy he could leap.
You nodded your head, humming approvingly, “Blond looks good on you too. But I met you with brown hair, so I like you better that way.”
Bob kissed the palm of your hand once more, looking at you tenderly, “You met me at my worst.”
“We all have bad days, Bobby,” you murmured, trying to reassure him, “You've been through so much. And you're still here, still standing. You're so strong”
“Thanks to you,” he replied and hurried to add, blushing, “And to the others— of course. Anyway, you must be hungry. Your stomach is growling.”
He took your hand, and waited for you to put on your shark slippers, still blushing. Then he led you out of your room, 'Lover, you should've come over' playing from your record player as you closed the door behind you. You smiled affectionately, walking beside him.
But your smile was washed off your face once you passed through the threshold of the kitchen, encountering Alexei and John, devouring the tacos that Bob had cooked, especially for you.
Seeing you appear in the kitchen, with both of you looking absolutely terrorized, Alexei took a big sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows, “What happened to you, kids?”
John, sitting next to him, burped, just finishing munching on the last remaining taco, “These were really good.” he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his way towards the kitchen doorway, patting Bob's shoulder as he passed by him, “Thanks, Bobby.”
Alexei nodded his head enthusiastically, showing agreement, following John, with his half-drunk beer in his hand, “You should be the team cook.”
You turned your face toward Bob, who was staring at the plate, now empty of tacos, with a frown on his face and a small pout curving his lips.
You gave his hand a squeeze, tugging him to walk into the kitchen with you.
“Come on, honey, we can do more tacos” you tried to encourage him, holding back the urge to laugh at the sight of his face all pouty.
“I hope they don't have sex in the kitchen, that would be gross” you heard John say to Alexei with your super hearing.
“I heard that!” you exclaimed, looking toward the open kitchen door.
Then you heard Alexei's guffaw as you turned to look at Bob, pouty and blushing now.
Synopsis: Bucky is a man from a different time. It shows when you start ‘going steady’ and honestly, you love it. Alternatively; Bucky uses 40’s dating etiquette to woo you, and surprises you with a modern turn of phrase.
cw: it’s set in a vague timeline where it’s just before cabnw but also during fatws so no thunderbolts spoilers! Bucky is a FLIRT, reader is a little shy, anxiety representation, lots of casual getting to know you, going on a date flirting, Bucky’s serious about reader tho!
word count: 4.4k
Bucky Barnes prides himself on being able to court a woman. He really does. He knows all the rules, knows all the things to say, and it doesn’t hurt that he can flirt his way through any conversation.
You and Bucky met at the Smithsonian when Bucky was missing Steve a little too much and popped in just to get a glimpse of his best friend again.
You were by the Isaiah Bradley display, reading through before murmuring under your breath, “Those poor men.”
Bucky hadn’t meant to eavesdrop like that, but there was so much concern in your voice and he had to say something lest you think they all suffered — looking back, maybe he wasn’t the best person to break that news to you.
“We didn’t all suffer so bad.”
You had gasped when you noticed him, hand to your chest. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” you weigh your words before adding, “Steve’s best friend.”
That alone had won him over. You didn’t bring up the Winter Soldier, or that Bucky was as traumatised as super soldiers went. Just that he was Steve’s best friend.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “This your first time at the Smithsonian?”
You shake your head, a little heat flushing up your cheeks. “I come every couple of weeks, to see if they have any new stuff to add to your plaques. It’s kinda messed up what they did to all of you.”
Bucky smiles, shaking his head. It is messed up, he knows that. All the super soldiers besides John Walker know how messed up it was. “We came out alright, made it to the 21st century after all.”
You tilt your head to the side, “I guess that’s true.”
Bucky’s eyes light up. “Made it this far to meet pretty girls too.”
Your cheeks flame and Bucky chuckles, you chat a bit more before he gives you his number.
It takes you two days to text him. You’d been overthinking it, if you should or shouldn’t. In the end, if he ignored you at least you’d have tried.
It turns out Bucky didn’t give you his number just to be polite, because he answered your text immediately.
The first time he had used his courting experience was when he’d made it a point to establish the fact that he wanted to take you out every second Friday of the month.
He had it in his head that the effort had to be shown and then followed through the entire time and after two days, he was determined to show you that he was serious.
‘I’m free every other Friday, if that’s good with you doll.’
You had responded four minutes later after looking at your phone in shock and a little bit of bewilderment, when was the last time a man was so forward but not in a pushy way?
‘It’s perfect as long as work doesn’t bleed into my weekends’
From there Bucky had planned three of the dates meticulously, going over places and ideas in his head until he’d settled on the best three according to himself.
The first date was at a new diner near his apartment, one that Sam said did really good milkshakes and Bucky hadn’t been able to let the idea go.
“It’s nothing too fancy, but Sam said it’s a good spot.”
You’d worn a pretty skirt and blouse, and Bucky had worn a grey henley and jeans.
“You look gorgeous,” Bucky was full of compliments as you’d learn as the afternoon went on. He dished them out easily and most of the time you pretended not to hear him because he had a sort of pleased look on his face every time you stammered to keep the conversation going, and that in itself had in your stomach in knots.
He even brought you a bouquet of red tulips which had sat beside you on the sticky diner table all day.
“Oh they have milkshakes!” You say excitedly when you catch a server walking past.
Bucky’s heart sores. God bless the forties for making that a thing.
“Wanna try one?”
You look up at him, eyes brimming with hopefulness, “Will we do the cheesy sharing from the same cup?”
Bucky leans back in the booth seat, blue eyes boring into you. “And the same straw if you really want to, doll.”
He’s so fucking smooth, because you can’t do anything but nod now that his gaze is fixed on you.
Deciding what milkshake had taken nearly five minutes, back and forth between what was a classic flavor and why strawberry was definitely not good (Bucky was very offended) and then settling on a Shamrock Shake even though St. Patrick’s day had long passed.
Sharing the milkshake sitting across from each other was more intimate than you had expected it to be, (you hadn’t ended up using one straw but just the eye contact was enough to fluster you). Bucky walked you to your car after paying for dinner, very offended that you tried to pay half of the bill, and opened the door for you. When you had gotten in, he leant a little into your space, “Did you have a good time, doll?”
Your heart pounds. You had a great time, Bucky was easy to be around, even with your shyness.
“I did, thank you Bucky. Did you?”
He smiled, “Don’t see how I couldn’t with you as company.” In your sputtering for an answer Bucky’s heart beat a little faster, you were the cutest thing ever.
“Any opposition to a gala for our next date?”
You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not the biggest fan of crowds but I don’t see why it couldn’t be fun. Is it for the new Captain America thing?”
Bucky smiles, “I’ll text you the details. Drive safe, doll.”
The gala was fun even if a little anxiety inducing when you note the number of people there.
Bucky’s good though, he doesn’t give you a moment alone to feel that anxiety or have anyone come up to you to ask you a million questions.
It’s a veteran gala and Bucky didn’t want to go through that alone because he was getting another medal post Thanos; not that he really wanted it.
That night, as you sat beside him at one of the tables, it was hard to ignore the feel of his hand grasping your ankle and stroking it.
His palm is warm against your skin but you can feel the twitch in his fingers.
“We can leave early if you really don’t want to get it, Bucky.”
He turns to you with a smile, his cheeks a little warm when you meet his eyes. “No, I can handle it, doll.”
You tut, shaking your head. “Yeah but you look like you’re gonna pass out waiting for them to call your name.”
He rolls his eyes, “I do not.” He can actually feel the acid churning in his stomach.
In the end, the ‘medal’ is Bucky partially funding a veteran support group in honor of his friend Sam Wilson, who’s the new Captain America, and Steve Rogers. He much prefers that sort of medal.
It was only after Bucky had gotten you home from the gala that you noticed the slip of paper in your clutch.
It had the name of the diner you and Bucky had gone to a week and a half ago, but on the backside of the paper was his semi messy scrawl.
You looked gorgeous tonight. Purple’s definitely your colour, doll. I know it’s only the second date, but you’re all I think about most days. I wanna see you again, but I know tonight was a lot with all those people. Sleep well, doll. Dream of me if you’d like.
Yours,
James.
That had made you smile so hard your cheeks ached. He signed it with his actual name, not the cute nickname he got so many years ago, his real, government name and that was not something that went unnoticed by you.
Immediately you changed his name in your phone to James with a little heart next to it.
You’re not really sure you’re sold on Bucky’s affections towards you, till the third date when Bucky pulls up to your apartment with another bouquet of flowers, peonies this time in pretty pinks and soft yellows.
“Bucky, these are gorgeous!” You had rushed back into your house to add them to the vase with the other flowers he had dropped off for you on your doorstep last week.
You can hear him chuckling in your doorway as you flit about.
“Was there any traffic?” you asked over the sound of your tap filling the vase.
“Not too much, but it is lunchtime on a Saturday.”
You had mentioned to Bucky a little bit ago that there was a perfect spot in the park near your house for a picnic now that New York had finally warmed up, and the next text you had received was Bucky asking if you had any nut allergies.
It wasn’t your usual date day, but Bucky had pleaded and begged just a little (although he really hadn’t had to), and had even sent you a photo of the most gorgeous picnic blanket and you were agreeing faster than anything.
“I’m ready to go now.” Seeing Bucky there leaning in the archway of your kitchen makes you feel so many things that you can’t help it when you lean up and kiss just under his jaw before walking towards your door after snagging your picnic basket from on the counter.
“Coming, Bucky?”
He only shakes his head, some of his hair falling into his eyes as he follows behind you. You swear you hear him mutter, “Not a shy thing at all,” but you don’t say anything because your nerve has worn off and you actually can’t believe you really kissed his cheek.
Bucky hadn’t spared an expense on your picnic. He had gotten peaches, plums, two different cheeses, apples, grapes (black ones; your favourite) and even a bottle of sparkling wine.
You had brought sandwiches and salt and vinegar potato chips (those became Bucky’s new favourites), a sketchbook and your camera.
“Were picnics something you did a lot?” you ask Bucky as he makes you a plate - crackers, cheese, some of the fruit and half the sandwich you packets.
Bucky squints at you as he slices a wedge of the plum free from the stone. “If it was, would you be jealous, doll?”
You shake your head, some of the peach juice dribbling down your wrist. Bucky’s quick but gentle as he thumbs it away and presses his thumb to his lips. You’re so grateful that his hands aren’t on you to feel how fast your pulse hammers.
“I’m just curious what the dating customs of the 40’s looked like.” It’s a miracle your voice remains even.
Bucky nods like he doesn’t really believe you. “I think I went on one, but there was never really a good time for more.”
You wince, you had forgotten that he’d gotten drafted.
Your reaction makes Bucky laugh, “I’m glad I get to find out if I really like them now though. There’s a lot more to enjoy about picnics now without all the smog.”
His teeth snap through the wedge of the plum before he continues, “I can see my date better, which feels like an incredible plus.”
Damn Bucky’s flirting.
You spend all evening at the park, and it’s so fun because Bucky poses for some of your pictures and then takes some of you and when you pose for a few together and Bucky stares at you there’s a sort of stillness that overcomes you.
His eyes bore into yours, the blue of them stopping you where your finger is poised over the button to snap the photo.
“Take the photo doll,” he whispers, his lips hovering near yours as he reaches up and presses your finger down just before leaning all the way in, pressing your lips together.
Bucky’s quick to take the camera from your hand after, setting it on the blanket and cupping your cheek to deepen the kiss.
It’s not too long, but it’s more than a peck and when he pulls away you can barely open your eyes.
“Was that okay?” Bucky whispers, the hand still cupping your face warm where it rests.
“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” his laugh rocks you as you press your forehead into his shoulder. “I don’t think you were really frozen in ice all that time, James Barnes.”
Bucky cups the back of your head as his laughs die down. “Whatever you want to believe, honey.”
Bucky gets to your house just after sunset, and you let him walk you to your front door. You don’t really want the date to end, but you’re tired and you have to imagine so is he.
“I had a really nice evening, Bucky.”
He smiles, a hand on your lower back as he stands in front of you. “So did I,” you turn to open the door but he stops you.
“I’ve gotta go out of town for a little bit, so we’re gonna have to rain check next Friday’s date.”
You hold onto the sleeve of his Henley before he can step back, “Is everything alright?”
Bucky nods, “Yeah just some stuff I have to deal with.”
“Winter soldier stuff?” You nearly whisper the words, not wanting to upset Bucky. He only nods with a soft smile. “Be careful okay?”
“You don’t want to be my nurse if I get hurt, doll? That’s harsh.”
You laugh, shaking your head at him. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
Bucky’s chest aches at your care for him. It’s been a long while since he’s been given that kind of affection.
“I’ll be careful, doll.”
“Good.”
Bucky leans in and presses a kiss just at the corner of your mouth, “Goodnight doll, lock your doors.” He reminds you like you’re not a woman in New York City, but it still makes you smile and your chest goes a little gooey.
Bucky doesn’t move from your doorstep till he hears your locks click into place.
-
Bucky’s been gone for a week and a half already and you can’t help but miss him.
You’ve been chatting back and forth and you’ve even started sending him songs to listen to. He’s got a very limited list of favourites that you’ve made it your mission to resolve.
You find another note in your handbag when you decided against texting Bucky and cleaned your cupboards instead.
It was in your bag from the picnic date, and you smiled when you noticed his handwriting on another receipt from the grocery where he got the cheese.
I hope you find this when I’m gone and you’re missing me; I know you are, doll, it’s okay.
I miss you too and I haven’t left yet.
When I get back I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Maybe we’ll go somewhere quiet again? Or I saw they’re reopening one of those antique places with all those retro trinkets; I could show what I used to have at home. Show you what I prefer now.
Keep locking your doors, honey. I should send you new flowers, the old ones will be dead soon.
Yours,
James.
Bucky’s very good at these, these little notes that leave you smiling and giddy like a fool.
You pull out your phone, you have to text him now.
I got your note. What was your favourite ‘trinket’?
Bucky answers only three minutes later.
My sister used to have a silver jewellery box that I had the pleasure of filling every month.
You smile at that, he’s always been a provider it seems.
Another chime comes from your phone.
We also had a gramophone that played the clearest music I’ve ever heard.
You roll your eyes.
You’re such an old man.
I’m not offended, doll. A pretty girl I’m seeing told me recently I’m not old at all.
Even miles away he’s got you grinning like an idiot with a racing pulse.
You can’t say anything to that and your thoughts take you to what a perfect gentleman he’s been to you. Bucky opens your doors, drives you home and waits till you get into your house before driving off. You think you might be falling for him, and rapidly.
He’s still gone by Monday and you’re missing him hard, only for the girls you work with to giggle before coming to find you.
“These were dropped for you,” they hand you a huge bouquet of red and white tube roses and a card.
It’s not Bucky’s handwriting but it’s from him,
Sorry I’m still not back, doll. I should just be gone for another day. Don’t miss me too much, yeah? I need a few kisses when I get back to make up for all this time away. I listened to that song you recommended, it was good. How do I make a playlist?
Yours,
James.
The note had you blushing and extremely flustered. Your coworkers noticed it immediately.
“Are you two going steady?”
You regret telling them who you’d been going out with. When they leave, you’re stuck with the realisation of how different Bucky is to the men you’ve dated before.
It’s a small thing, but you hardly think any of them got you flowers as consistently as he does, and you don’t think you’ve ever received such thoughtful bouquets.
You called Bucky when you got home, happy to hear his voice.
“Thank you for the flowers, Bucky.”
“You’re welcome, doll.”
You have the bouquet from today on your bedside table and smile when you spot it after changing into your pajamas.
“You caused quite a scene when they got delivered.”
You can hear the amusement in his words. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, the girls I work with brought them to me. They were very impressed by the size of the bouquet, Barnes.”
“I’m just concerned about what you think of me.” Was his answer and after that you couldn’t get a full sentence out of you.
He’s so open with his feelings towards you it’s scary, it makes your heart race but you also know he’s not just saying it. He means it and that makes you fall just a little more for Bucky.
“You’re sweet.” Is all you can manage, your face heated with a blush.
“Sam and I are finishing this up tonight, so I should be able to see you when we get back.”
You don’t know if you’re reading into his words, but Bucky sounds relieved at the prospect of seeing you soon.
“Isn’t it going to be a day’s long flight?”
“And I can see you right after I land, honey. So long as it’s not midnight or while you’re gonna be sleeping.”
Bucky Barnes isn’t good for your heart with the way he just wholly shows you how much he wants to spend time with you.
“Do you still need help with your playlist?”
He huffs, “Sam showed me. He’s not a good teacher though, was snippy the whole time; you’d think he’d remember I was in ice.”
You laugh, “I’ll show you when you get back, babe.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything about the pet name, but for the rest of the phone call he doesn’t respond unless you use it.
It’s two days before he’s back and Bucky drives straight over to see you.
He’s at your door a few hours after you get home from work, and when you open the door to see him, he’s there with a single rose in his hand and a tired smile on his face.
“Is it possible you got prettier while I was gone?” He leans against your doorway.
“You look dead on your feet, Bucky. Come inside.” you lead him to your sofa, watching him move with heavy but careful steps all the way through your living room.
Bucky’s movements are measured, not a single action wasted as he takes off his boots and socks and detaches his metal arm.
“I really missed you,” he sighs as he lays on your sofa, eyes shut as he takes a long breath.
“I really missed you too,” you brush back some hair from his face. “You could’ve gone home to sleep first, you know?”
Bucky opens his eyes and it takes great effort to do so, the whites of his eyes shot through with streaks of intense red.
“I wanted to see you,” he yawns. “But you’ve trapped me into laying on your sofa.”
You laugh, your fingers still knotted in his hair. “You can take a nap Bucky, or you can sleep the night here. I’m not really excited by the idea of you driving back tired.”
“I won’t doll,” he shuts his eyes again, the feel of your fingers on his scalp lulling him into a peacefulness he’s missed. “Tell me what you got up to while I was gone. I know you weren’t just counting down the days till I got back.”
You roll your eyes as you recount the last two weeks of your life, Bucky’s not even awake to hear what you did on the second day of him being gone.
You cover him up with your throw blanket and dim the lights of your living room. You make the playlist for him while he sleeps, putting all the songs you’ve sent him on the memory stick so he can leave with it.
Bucky doesn’t spend the night, but as he’s leaving he holds your cheek, “I didn’t come with an ulterior motive, just to see you. If you want, we can go have dinner tomorrow. I have something I want to ask you, doll.”
“That’s ominous,” you’re a little nervous by that phrase. No one likes being told that someone has ‘something to ask them’ in a day. There’s anxiety crawling up your chest before Bucky kisses your lips.
“It’s a good question baby, don’t overthink it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
You grab the memory stick off the table before you could forget, “Here, I put all the songs I’ve sent on here.” Bucky kisses you again.
“You’re an angel,” you steal a kiss before he pulls away. “Lock your doors.”
“Sir yes sir.”
You hear him laugh all the way to his car.
Despite Bucky’s well meaning, ‘Don’t overthink it.’ That’s all you did when you woke up and started sifting through dresses to wear.
You’re ready at six and that makes you even more anxious. There’s too much time to do nothing but sit and overthink it.
You’re working yourself up to outright calling Bucky when there’s a knock at your door.
A quick peek at the clock on your stove let’s you know you’ve been overthinking it for forty five minutes.
When you open the door, Bucky’s standing in front of you in a pretty blue shirt that makes his eyes pop, and black dress pants.
He’s not got flowers this time, but he is holding a box of what you think are chocolates.
“Oh my god,” he breathes as he takes you in. You’re in a pretty pale purple dress, white heels and your hair is down in loose curls. You hadn’t gone for heavy makeup but just enough where there’s purple glitter on your eyelids and your lips are a deep red.
“You look handsome.” You say as you fight the blush creeping up your chest at the way Bucky’ stares at you.
“You look,” he trails off like he really can’t find the right words. “Breathtaking.”
You feel as though the blush explodes in your chest and heats your entire face.
Bucky hands you the box of chocolates, “They’re all dark chocolate.” You smile as you take it; that’s another thing Bucky’s remembered you like.
“Do I get to know where we’re going?”
You ask as you slip the chocolates into your purse and shut your door.
Bucky smiles as he watches you lock your door before turning to him. Immediately he links his hand with yours.
“We’re going for dinner somewhere nice,” the entire ride to the car Bucky has you talking. About the last book you read, work, if you think about him every night before bed (the last one was just to make you laugh, but the truth is you do.)
“What about you Bucky? Do you think about me before bed?”
You ask as he parks and he turns to you.
“Oh yeah,” that’s all he says before coming out of the car to open your door. “Think about you more than I think about anything else, doll.”
You manage to hold back your question just before dessert, “Can you please ask me? I’m freaking out and I think my heart might explode from the anxiety.”
There’s a laugh that bubbles from you and Bucky tuts.
“Honey,” you press a hand to your chest. Your anxiety really is at an all time high. You have so many questions rattling around your head that Bucky could want to ask you and you may throw up the lovely pasta you just had if he doesn’t ask you soon.
He leans across the table and holds onto your wrist, feeling the erratic beat of your pulse.
“I’ve been torturing you, haven’t I doll?”
You nod as you try to calm your racing heart.
“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky’s thumb strokes short lines across your wrist. “I had it all set up to come with dessert but I’ll put you out of your misery.”
“Thanks,” you mutter and he smiles.
“I know we’re only going steady,” that gets a smile out of you. He really is an old man, “but I wanted to ask you if I could be yours? Saying boyfriend makes me feel older so I won’t say it.”
You laugh, letting your head fall on his hand where it holds yours.
“Not the other way around?” You ask and Bucky huffs.
“You’re not property, honey.”
You look up with a smile and Bucky’s smile gets a little brighter. “Yeah you can be mine.”
“C’mere,” he tilts your chin a little higher and kisses you; slow and just long enough for it not to be a full make out. “You really missed out on the whole cheesecake with chocolate drizzle writing.”
He says as he pulls away and you laugh.
“Oh, are they not bringing it anymore?”
Bucky shakes his head, mischief in his eyes. “After you just latched onto me in the middle of their establishment? I don’t know, doll.”
“You’re ridiculous.” They still bring the cheesecake and Bucky feeds you the first bite, and like the flirt and menace he is, he gets a little just to the corner of your mouth.
“Let me get it for you,” and steals another kiss, ‘cleaning it off.’
Synopsis: After a mission filled with close calls and bad decisions, the team comes home to find an even bigger threat waiting at the door—your wrath.
Warning(s): THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!! platonic!thunderbolts x reader. no use of y/n. use of the nicknames doll, honey, and pretty girl. canon typical violence. descriptions of injuries. descriptions of explosion, gun use, etc. established relationship. profanities. kissing. VERY suggestive content (minors be advised). talks of having a baby. bucky being a little feral (very briefly). slightly hurt/comfort. basically bucky and reader being the parents of the group.
Word Count: 3.6k-ish
Author's Note: GUYS I saw this fanart on instagram and instantly knew that I had to write something inspired by it!!! I've been itching to post a thunderbolts fic since last week 😭 welcome back 2012-2014 era of avengers' tower fanfics ✨️ anyway I hope they're keeping the revolution hair for bucky in doomsday or else I swear I'm gonna RIOT!!! (I know seb's head is shaved rn but wigs exist yk 😔) don't forget to comment, like, and reblog loveliesss 🩷
Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Bucky Barnes doesn't understand a lot of things since he returned to society.
Cryptocurrency is one of them. Social media is another. Anything that involves more acronyms than actual words is an immediate no on his list.
Above all else, Bucky Barnes struggles to comprehend how exactly he became responsible for the group of walking disasters now hailed as earth's newest, mightiest heroes.
Looking at the pack of hellions in front of him, Bucky has serious doubts about that title.
Right in the middle of the tower's lobby, the Thunderbolts—the New Avengers now, apparently—are scattered like barbie dolls in the aftermath of a toddler's tantrum. John is standing against a column with a tight jaw, his left leg lifted gingerly, wrapped in a makeshift splint that looks suspiciously like someone's utility belt. Beside him, Yelena sits on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her as she cradles a bruised shoulder with an equally bruised hand. Alexei leans atop the front desk with a dried blood streaking down his temple, the young receptionist gone in fright the moment the team walked through the tower's entrance. Even Ava, usually one to disappear before debriefs, is visible for once, propped against the wall with her suit half-glitched and her expression blank.
Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is breathing.
But they all look like they rolled down a hill of bad choices where they banged their heads at every rock.
The mission was supposed to be a quiet recon, a simple surveillance on a rumored underground tech sale in an abandoned shipyard, low risk with minimal engagement. But then someone—Bucky still doesn’t know who—decided that they could handle it.
No heads-up. No plan.
Just four impulsive thrill-seekers interrupting a high-stakes black market deal involving high-tech plasma rifles and an offended buyer with too many goons.
By the time Bucky caught wind of what was happening, it was already chaos. He had to go in solo, extract the squad under heavy fire, disrupt the shipment, and reroute an entire response team of hostiles to avoid further catastrophe. They got out—just barely—and none of them seemed particularly eager to look him in the eye about it, especially after the thirty-minute tirade he launched into somewhere between fourth gear and a traffic jam.
From his place in front of the elevator, Bucky crosses his arms. “If any of you pull something like that again, you're all getting benched. Indefinitely.”
“What?!” Alexei roars.
Yelena scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You don't get to make that call, Bucky,” John protests.
Ava nods. “We're not children. You can't just ground us whenever you feel like it.”
“Sort of?” Bucky screeches, his tone rising. “Walker nearly lost a leg!”
“It's just a sprain,” John clarifies. “Probably.”
“See? It's just a sprain!” Yelena repeats a little too cheerfully. “He'll be good as new in no time. Right, John?”
John nods, failing to conceal his wince when Yelena bumps her unharmed shoulder to his.
Bucky rubs his temples. “I can’t believe I’m in charge of you people.”
The elevator dings again at the top floor.
“You know,” Yelena says as the team stumbles out of the metal trapbox, “we technically stopped the deal. You're not giving us credit for that.”
“That’s because you weren't supposed to stop the deal. You were supposed to observe.”
“Back in my day, observe meant punch first, ask questions later,” Alexei quips.
Bucky lets out a scathing scoff that echoes through the air. “Right. Remind me again how many years you spent rotting in that Siberian prison, Alexei?”
“Well, that's not very nice,” John mutters.
“You know what else isn't nice, Walker?” Bucky growls. “Getting your asses lit up by dozens of machine guns because none of you seem to grasp the basic concept of following orders.”
The group swelters in a momentary silence.
“I mean, in our defense,” says Ava, “none of us actually got shot.”
Before Bucky can tell her off even further, a voice suddenly intercepts, “How fabulous! You guys didn't get shot? Geez, someone really should give you all a medal for that.”
The whole team stops in their tracks.
One by one, everyone turns their head towards the direction from which the voice has come. The view that greets them could probably send a perfectly healthy man straight into an early grave.
On the platform floor a few paces away, they find you standing with arms folded across your chest. Despite the bright lilt of your voice, your eyes are cutting as they assess the entire team with the judgement of a juror who has already decided on a guilty verdict. It's clear from your attire that you were freshly off work before going straight to the tower, and since everyone knows that you were supposed to be on a work trip to Philadelphia for at least another two days, it’s safe to assume that your ticket back was booked right around the time someone shouted “mission compromised!”.
It's a full ten seconds of shared disgrace before Yelena finally breaks the silence.
“You called her?” she hisses, landing an accusatory glare in Bucky’s direction.
“I did not.” Bucky scoffs. “And why does it matter if I did?”
“Bucky didn't call me,” you interject, your posture still rigid, your gaze still icy.
“Then who—no.” Yelena's eyes drift towards the kitchen, squinting as she takes in the figure trying to hide behind the doorway. “Bob.”
Ava snaps her head up. “Bob, you little shi—”
“That’s enough,” you jump in, moving sideways to conceal Bob from Ava's murderous line of sight. “He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you—all of you—and what a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing you just did.”
Under your scrutiny, the whole squad shifts like a pack of raccoons caught rummaging through the kitchen trash. The weight of your stare seems to age them all by a decade.
“I'm gonna give all of you two minutes to explain yourselves,” you declare, the authority in your tone indisputable. “And I already know what happened, so don't even think about trying to trick me.”
There is a lull in the air where everyone seemingly tries to process your demand.
When their mouths open again, what follows is not so much an explanation as it is a verbal dogpile. Everyone starts talking all at once—too loud, too fast, and entirely contradictory. John tries to lead with the logistics, only to be steamrolled by Alexei shouting something about creative liberty. Ava attempts to downplay the situation with a jovial “it was barely an explosion!” while Yelena throws her under the bus with a hasty “she started it!”.
Bucky—standing to the side with the posture of a man watching his funeral getting turned into a Dollar Store circus—doesn’t even bother stepping in. He knows better.
You hold up a single finger and the room quiets instantly, like someone pressing mute on a trashy sitcom argument. The stillness that follows is so heavy, even the lights begin to flicker in anticipation.
“But we got out fine!” Ava sputters, desperate to fill in the quietness, though her voice immediately thins when she adds, “Mostly.”
“Yeah! I mean, it's just a bruise here, a bruise there—everything's great.” Yelena grins.
Your sharp stare slides towards John, the lines between your eyebrows tightening as you take in the awkward angle of his injured leg. John nearly cowers under your piercing gaze.
“How bad is the damage?” you question, your voice booming throughout the surrounding space.
“What, this? Oh, it's not that bad. Probably just need to ice it then I'll be good as new—”
“Walker.”
It's hardly a secret that John is perhaps your least favorite person in that room, with you still clearly holding a grudge towards him for what happened with the Flag Smashers. The man is used to your constant cold shoulder by now. He expects it, even. More often than not, John finds himself wondering if you would ever warm up to him the way you have with the rest of the team.
And yet, as he now stands at the end of your long stare, John can't help but think that perhaps your silent treatment isn't really that bad. Especially if it means he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of the critical scrutiny you're currently aiming towards him.
The blond gulps.
“There's a forty percent chance it might be broken,” John admits. “But it's likely just dislocated. No big deal.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Get to the medbay and tell them to run a scan,” you command. “Alexei, go with him.”
“That's not necessa—”
The sharp glare you're sending him causes John's words to lodge in his throat.
Alexei springs right into action, steering John away from your ferocious perusal and back towards the elevator.
“C'mon, big guy,” Alexei bellows. “Let's go pay a visit to our doctor friends.”
As soon as the two men disappear into the elevator, your glower shifts towards the remaining two people standing behind Bucky. Yelena pretends to check her nails while Ava's eyes are roaming the ceiling with faux nonchalance, both a pathetic attempt to avoid the clear daggers in your stare. The ridiculousness would've made you chortle were you not livid beyond salvation right now.
“I want you two to go back to your rooms, clean yourselves up, and be back here in no more than thirty minutes,” you proclaim. “We'll continue our discussion after dinner.”
“Wait, hold on—”
“That's not—”
“Just go, you two,” Bucky interrupts, the blue in his eyes colder than the Arctic ocean. “That wasn't a request.”
The two figures slump in defeat, teetering towards the staircase with the speed of a turtle in a morning rush hour. You hear Yelena grumbling something in Russian under her breath, and you force yourself not to think about what the phrase might mean lest you want your skin to crawl in an even higher degree of vexation.
“Good gracious.” Bucky shakes his head.
Behind you, Bob emerges out of the kitchen, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly as he approaches you like a wounded kitten.
“They're mad at me, aren't they?” Bob murmurs. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you guys fight with each other.”
“It's not your fault, sweetie,” you assure him, extending your hand and offering a comforting squeeze around his palm. “They're just being idiots right now. You did good, okay? Give it a few hours and I promise you, they'll forget about this already.”
Bob nods solemnly, his voice quiet as he excuses himself and trudges towards the common area. You release a breath as you observe him diving head first onto the sofa, burying his face in the cushion like a Victorian widow fainting onto her chaise.
Turning around, your eyes lock with another pair in blue. The smile on Bucky's face grows as he takes you in, his arms opening with all the intention to collect you in his embrace.
“Hey, doll. I've missed—”
“No. Stay right there.” You raise your palm, taking a step back. “I'm mad at you, too.”
Bucky blinks.
He watches you turn around and walk away from him, his arms coming down limp by his sides before he scutters after your retreating form. Bucky lingers in the doorway as you move about the kitchen, taking out pots, knives, and pans while slamming the cabinet doors shut in the process. You don't even spare him a glance as you start retrieving fresh ingredients from the fridge.
“Honey?” he calls out, voice meek beneath the echo of your knife slicing through onions on the counter. “C'mon, doll, you're really not gonna talk to me?”
“No.”
The chopping continues.
Bucky rubs his face.
“You know I'm just as disappointed in them as you are, right?” he begins. “Swear to God, doll, I had nothing to do with this. Didn't even know what those rascals were planning ‘till I got the call from Alexei. Told ‘em off as soon as I extracted them outta there.”
“Hm.”
Sighing, Bucky takes a tentative step forward, then another, finally closing the distance when he's sure you wouldn't smack him across the head with the chopping board in your hand. His fingers find purchase around your elbow, halting your movements, the gentleness aching as he spins you around to face him. The knife and half-sliced onion lie dormant on the counter.
“Hey,” Bucky utters, so softly that the air nearly swallows the word whole. “Talk to me?”
You heave in a shaky breath, evading his eyes. “What's there to talk about? I told you I'm pissed.”
“Okay, that part I already got.” Bucky chuckles, brushing the back of his palm on your cheek. “Help me understand why? At least tell me how I can fix it, pretty girl. Hm?”
Your silence quivers at the edges, growing more brittle with each swipe of Bucky’s touch on your skin. The walls around your heart crumble under his infuriating tenderness.
“When Bob called and said the team had gone radio silent, I—” you pause, swallowing hard, “—I thought something terrible happened. I booked the first train out of Philly before I even hung up.”
Bucky stays quiet, watching you with careful eyes.
“I couldn’t reach anyone. Not John, not Yelena, not Ava, not Alexei—not you. And the longer I waited, the worse it got in my head. I pictured the mission going sideways. All of you gone.” You inhale sharply. “I pictured all of you coming home in body bags.”
Bucky's heart breaks at the shudder he feels running through your back. His soul is already mourning over the loss of light he would usually find shining so brightly out of your eyes. It makes him cling to you just a tad bit tighter.
“Bob finally called me again to tell me that you're all fine. That you're on your way back. But that's not the point, Bucky.” You look at him then, your fingers flexing. “The point is, I should've never heard about all of this from Bob in the first place. I should've heard it from you.”
Bucky's shoulders sink. “I didn't want you to worry.”
You shake your head, eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. “But I do worry, Bucky! That’s the point. I worry every single time. The moment all of you step out of this building, I'm counting down the minutes until you guys return to me again. You can't shield me away from that.”
He steps closer, removing what little bit of distance between the two of you until all of your atoms are nearly merged as one. “You're right. You are. I should’ve called. Should've trusted that you'd want to know, even if it might scare you.”
“It did scare me,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want Bob’s voice telling me everything was okay. I wanted yours.”
“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, his arms pulling you nearer. “No more leaving you out. I promise it’ll be me from now on. I'll tell you everything, doll. Always.”
A shuddering breath leaves your lungs, and just like that, you completely melt away under Bucky's touch. Your forehead drops against the line between his shoulder and chest, your fingers gripping his sides as though he was the very force keeping you tethered to earth. Meanwhile, Bucky's lips ghost over the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings, the contrasting temperature of his palms appeasing you with random patterns against your back.
“I don't know how this all started,” you confess. “I'm not sure when I began caring this much about those idiots, but I do. The thought of something happening to them—to you—to all of you…”
Bucky's arms tighten around your frame. “I know, honey. I feel the same way.”
“This is not what I had in mind, you know?”
You tilt your head back to stare at his face, your fingers tangling themselves in the soft waves that Bucky has been growing out over the past few weeks. He almost cut them all off several days ago, but after some convincing on your end—which may have included activities that found your fingers buried in the soft tendrils and his face buried somewhere else—you managed to talk him out of it.
Bucky's eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”
“Well… when you said that you were joining this team, I thought I'd never seen a more dysfunctional group of people in my entire life. I figured it'd be a miracle if all of you last a whole month without someone quitting or accidentally blowing each other up.” You chuckle, your eyes softening. “I didn't think I'd end up pacing the hallway every time you guys went out, worrying like some overworked mother of five.”
Bucky huffs out a laugh, his forehead falling onto your own. “I get it. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined myself stepping into the dad role either, but… here I am.”
“Yeah?” Your lips quirk up. “How did you imagine it then?”
“Well—” Bucky's voice drops, his breath warm where it fans against your skin, “—I figured it’d start with a little house, somewhere quiet. Nothing fancy. Just enough for us to start building a life in. I’d fix the place up real proper. You’d hum to yourself as you whip up one of those famous pies of yours, and I’d pretend not to stare.”
The cheeky grin on Bucky's face grows, prompting a laugh out of your chest. His thumb continues to trace idle circles upon your waist.
“Then, when you feel the time's right, we’d try for a baby. The old-fashioned way. Real slow, real sweet. I’d kiss you like I got all the time in the world, and make love to you like I didn’t.”
Something flutters inside your chest, like stardust stirring in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The way Bucky is looking at you makes you feel as if you were the first breath of the universe itself.
“That's how I pictured us becoming parents,” Bucky adds, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not… this. Whatever this is.”
You smile at the graze of his beard on your cheek, angling your head to capture him in a brief kiss.
“You know what I think this is, Buck?” you ask, teasing your lips against his own. “I think we should view this as a practice run. After all, how hard can it be to parent our own kid if we can do it to a group of five ridiculous, chaotic misfits, right?”
“Doll.” He sighs. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”
“Depends.” You hum, your lips twitching in feigned innocence. “If you think I'm imagining you putting a baby in me… then yeah, you're absolutely right.”
Bucky swallows your cheeky grin with a kiss, grunting against your mouth as he presses you back against the counter. The muffled moans you let out are music to his ears, a lascivious melody that rushes straight towards places he reserves explicitly for you. His hands slip under your blouse, roaming the expanse of skin, drifting lower and lower in search for the one place that could send him straight to heaven and—
“Yelena! Give it back to me!”
“I told you it wasn't me!”
Bucky groans.
The shrill voices resonate all the way down to the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable echoes of footsteps thundering down the staircase. Bucky makes a guttural noise of frustration as his face slumps into the crook of your neck.
“I swear to God, I’m gonna ship them to Asgard one of these days,” he mutters.
You snort, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.
“Let's put a raincheck on the baby-making, soldier,” you purr, smirking when it spurs on a rumble from Bucky's chest. “Looks like I've got a fight to break up before we have two dead superheroes on our hands.”
He groans again, this time at the loss of your warmth as you slip out of his arms. From the kitchen's doorway, you raise an eyebrow towards the common area, perching your palms on either side of your hips as you take in the havoc ahead.
“What the hell is going on here?” you snarl.
“She stole my snacks!” accuses Ava.
“I don't even like Jammie Dodgers, you lunatic!”
“What a lot of crap. We all know you'd even eat chicken off the ground given the chance, you pig!”
“Fucking asshole—”
“Hey!” you interrupt, your voice sharp as you march towards the two fuming Avengers. “You call each other any more names, then I promise you, you're gonna wish you got shot on that mission today.”
Bucky watches the whole interaction from the kitchen with his arms crossed and a slow grin spreading across his face. He leans against the counter, studying you with the quiet reverence of a man who has found the meaning of home after decades of searching. Even in the midst of this domestic madness, even with the team’s antics grinding on his last nerve, he wouldn't trade a single thing in his life for anything else.
There are still a lot of things in this world that Bucky struggles to understand.
But with you by his side, and his entire team watching his six, he knows that he's got nothing to worry about.
Summary- anonymous asked “Hello!!! I was wondering if I could request a Colossus x reader, just a small scenario on how he'd react to the reader being an artist? Maybe new to the team, and he discovers that they're an artist due to finding little drawings on post-it notes, chalkboards, etc. Wishing him to have a good day and such, and finally finding out it's you through his students? So like, reader has a big fat crush and expresses it through drawings? He was already pining for you, but finding out you made him those drawings makes him go totally soft and melts his heart!”
A/n- sorry this took so long my dear anon. This is so cute and I love it I hope I did it justice
Warnings: none I think. (if I missed any let me know)
Tags: Tags: (tag list of open, send me an ask if you want to be tagged, removed or only tagged for certain characters.) @chromecutie @xenomorphique @evelyn120700 @nightriver99 @iamwarrenspeace @this-that-and-every-thing-else @hsk-puma @bungeewabbit @pianomad @lesbianstarkx @hazilyimagine-blog @super-darkcloudstudent @thehuntress26 @siren-lamented-vampire @mooleche @rovvboat @leo-writer @dandyqueen @nitemaremotionless @thewintersoldierswife
-
You stirred from a peaceful slumber to heavy footsteps thudding down the hall.
You tapped your phone to see the time.
6:15am
Those thundering feet woke you up about this time every day, if it was anyone but Piotr, you’d lose your shit. But you just so happen to have a massive crush on the metal man, so you let it slide. You figured he was trying his hardest to be quiet, but 500 pounds of bio steel couldn’t exactly be silent.
Piotr was a morning person; painfully so. He loved his 6:30 am work outs, healthy breakfasts, and protein shakes.
As for you, well, you had no trouble rolling over and going back to sleep.
.
Although your first class didn’t start until 9:00am, you liked to get to the classroom early to prep for the students. And it definitely wasn’t because you passed Colossus in the hall at that time each day.
He always greeted you with a big smile and a simple “good morning.”
As nice as it was to have that interaction, you craved more. You caught yourself staring at him during faculty meetings, and perked up every time someone mentioned his name. It was killing you, that aching in your chest. So you expressed it the best way you knew how; art.
.
Piotr entered the classroom, 15 minutes early as he usually did. Upon putting his stuff down at the desk, he noticed someone had left a sticky note stuck to it.
It read “have a good day!” With the cutest little smiling sunshine figure drawn on it.
He smiled at the note, unsticking it from the desk. The person who left it was obviously an artist, with the incredible detail and calligraphic writing, he could tell whoever drew it was talented.
He stuck the note to the inside of his notebook, giving it a permanent home.
.
Over the following weeks, Piotr received more cute sticky notes and even found more art on the chalkboard in the classroom. He was continually impressed, but he just could not figure out who this person was that was leaving him kind notes.
He flipped through his sticky note collection that had accumulated in his notebook, he was so enthralled with the art that he didn’t hear one of his students come in the door.
“Oh, Miss (Y/n)’s drawings” he student said, observing the doodles on the chalkboard.
Piotr perked up.
“Miss (y/n)?” He questioned.
“Yeah. She draws stuff for us all the time.” He said, like it was obvious.
“Like this?” Piotr questioned, holding up his collection of sticky notes.
“Yeah!”
Piotr hid his feelings well, it was part of being a x-man, and, sometimes, a teacher. But this time he couldn’t help how his heart just melted. (Y/n) must have had her class in the same room he did. He already had a huge crush on her, but seeing just how talented she was made his heart soar.
His heart softened more when the thought of ‘she shared her talent with me’ hit him.
The thought left him smiling like a huge dork the rest of the day.
He could see it now:
Him and her; two artists in love. They’d spend their days on the lawn of the x-mansion, drawing anything and everything. The flowers in the garden, the intricate detail work of the mansion, and he’d kill to be able to draw her smiling at him. He passed her in the hall each morning and sometimes saw her randomly throughout the day. Each time she saw him she dazzled him with a smile and now Piotr knew that the simple smile and polite exchanges were more than that. She liked him.
Maybe their first date would be a picnic in the park, they could bring their sketchbooks. Or maybe just dinner.
The thought only occurred just now to Colossus that he actually had to ask her out and then plan the date.
He chuckled to himself because he was being overzealous, but in reality he was the type of person to have things planned out- Whether that be a date, a lesson plan for the students, or an important mission.
Students started coming into the classroom so he had to push those thoughts to the back of his mind for now. But tonight while he slept, he would definitely be plotting the perfect way to ask her out.
— requested by pookie bear @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
froggi yaps -> these have been kicking my ass for dayssss i'm so happy to finally have finished them :,) wade & logan were kind of hard to do since i've already done this prompt w them but still wanted them to be included. enjoy!
Logan Howlett:
Logan likes to pretend like he isn’t the jealous type, despite him being the most possessive man alive. You’re his, and only his, and he’ll make damn well sure everyone knows it. His scent is definitely all over you.
If anyone is getting a little too close to you for his liking—making you laugh too much, maybe getting a little touchy—Logan is on his feet in an instant, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist.
Maybe gets a little too handsy, hands travelling lower to cup your butt, canines grazing the side of your neck. He won’t say anything, he’ll just loom there so incredibly ominously until whoever was with you gets the message and leaves.
“Logan,” you warn.
He just grunts, “you’re mine, you know that?”
And you sigh, suddenly weak in the knees, and nod along to his words. He keeps you extra close afterwards, usually sitting you in his lap and looking sideways at anyone who so much as glances your way.
Wade Wilson:
Wade is absolutely the jealous type but it takes a lot to actually get him going, and when he does, he hides his insecurity behind humour and substances. Still, it gets the best of him sometimes and he just can’t help it.
If someone’s flirting with you, he’s inserting himself into the situation immediately. He’ll sidle up next to you, prop an arm on your shoulder and grin at whoever you’re talking to.
“Excuse us for a moment.”
He won’t even give you a chance before he’s pulling you in for a bruising kiss, tongue swiping along the backs of your teeth. His hands roam your sides, maybe cheekily pinching your butt.
You pull away gasping, hands on his chest. “Wade!”
“What?” He grins goofily, “I couldn’t help it, you look so fuckable.”
Kurt Wagner:
Kurt’s not really the jealous type, and when he is jealous, he just gets sad. He’ll watch someone else hit on you and wonder if he’s enough, if you would prefer someone less blue.
He’ll go quiet for a while, maybe get a little distant while he thinks it over. He does his best to reassure himself, remind himself that you love him and you don’t want anyone else, but it only gets him so far.
Finally, he’ll cave and come to you, dropping to his knees and pressing his face into your stomach. You rest a hand on the back of his head, tilting yours to the side, “Kurt, baby, is everything alright?”
He sighs, words muffled by the fabric of your shirt. His words all come out in one big jumble, each one mumbled and bleeding into the next. Still, you get the gist of it: he’s feeling insecure, and he wants to know if you’d be happier with someone else.
You blink, stunned. “Of course not,” you frown.
“Really?” He pulls away, looking up at you with wide eyes.
“Yes, really.” You reach for his hands, helping him to his feet, “c’mere, silly.”
And Kurt sighs, letting you pull him in for a kiss.
Scott Summers:
Scott either gets really quiet or really arrogant when he’s jealous.
He’s analyzing the situation, watching you talk with a friend. He’s focused on the way they get a little too close, the subtle contact they make on your arm, the way your smile changes ever so slightly.
When he can’t take it anymore, he’s sidling up to you and throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, doll.”
He’ll plant a sloppy kiss to your lips, lingering just a little too long until whoever’s talking to you gets the message. If he’s feeling extra devious, he’s making a snide comment.
You smack his bicep once they’re out of earshot. “Really?”
“What?” He smiles, feigning innocence, “I just missed you.”
Remy LeBeau:
Remy is so clingy when he’s in love with you so it’s only natural he’d be jealous too. But not the angry jealous type, no, Remy gets sad when he’s jealous.
Someone comes up to flirt with you while you’re at the bar and he’s sitting in the corner pouting, nursing his drink and watching. Someone calls you cute right in front of him and he’s not letting it go for the rest of the day.
“Oh that’s cute of you.” “Mhm, yeah, très mignon.”
However, if someone gets handsy with you, Remy’s on his feet in an instant, cards in hand. Is it too far? Maybe, but he doesn’t care.
“This guy bothering you, amour?”
You take a step back into Remy, letting him wrap an arm around you. “Yes,” you say quietly.
That’s all he needs to hear before he’s sizing him up and sending him on the way, hand clenched around the desk of cards in his palm.
Warren Worthington III:
Warren’s jealousy is a lot more low key, but it’s definitely there. He shrugs it off and pretends like he doesn’t care but inside, he’s in shambles. The minute someone else tries to flirt with you, he’s at your side, wrapping an arm around you and leaning his head on your shoulder.
He smiles but there’s no humour behind it as he stares down whoever’s coming onto you.
Sometimes, if he’s been drinking a little or you’re in a safe space for mutants, he’ll even go as far as to wrap his wings around you, creating a shield between you and the other person. You roll your eyes, turning to face him in the trap of wings he’s created for you.
“Baby?”
“Hm?” His jaw is clenched but his eyes are soft when they find yours.
“Can you let me go?”
He tilts his head down, wings ushering you closer to him for a slow and soft kiss. “No.”
Piotr Rasputin:
He’s not really a jealous person to begin with. He knows you’re his and he trusts you enough to believe you’d never do anything behind your back. The rare times he does get jealous is when someone is doing something for you that he could do.
Someone else holds the door? His brows are knitting together. Someone lifts something heavy for you? He’s frowning for the next hour and a half. He’s your partner, he should be the one doing all that for you. He’ll spend the next few hours trying to show off, flexing his muscles and doing everything for you.
He gets a little sad when he’s jealous, too. Is he not enough for you, would you rather be with someone like that? As secure as he likes to think he is, that all melts away in the face of jealousy.
Finally, he’ll come to you, tail between his legs. “Do I make you feel loved?”
You blink, looking up from your book. “Of course you do.”
“Really?”
You dogear the page altogether, putting it down to look at him properly. His lips are pursed in a frown, eyes big and wide with emotions. You rise to your feet, placing your hands on either bicep.
“What’s this about, Petey?”
He sighs and admits to his jealousy, head hung low in shame. It’s only when you cup his cheek and force him to look at you, planting a soft kiss to his lips, that he starts to feel like himself again.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful weekend /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
