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Gravity's Favorite Couple

C's corner: I toned it down this week from the smut and headed into rom-com vibes territory. Hope you enjoy.

🎉MASTERLIST 🎖️J.W. MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: none really, just stubborness, slapstick fall on ice, accidental crotch landing, holiday fic.

SUMMARY: John Walker refuses to make two trips from the car in icy holiday weather because, in his mind, that’s basically surrender. You’re behind him scolding the whole way… right up until gravity intervenes, the groceries explode, and you slip trying to help, landing in the worst possible place. The eggs survive. His pride does not.

The cold bites like it's personal.

Your breath ghosts out in little puffs as you trudge up the last stretch of walkway, boots crunching over salt and stubborn patches of ice that refuse to admit defeat.

The porch light paints everything a warm, honeyed glow that would be romantic if you weren't currently carrying exactly one bag with exactly two sad onions in it while John Walker has decided to become a one man grocery convoy.

He's got plastic handles looped around both wrists, stacked up his forearms, two more clenched in his hands like trophies. A baguette sticks out of the crook of his elbow like it's trying to escape the situation.

"You're being ridiculous," you call, your voice sharp with worry and the kind of affection that always sounds like a scolding. "John, you are not a pack mule. We live on the second floor."

He doesn't even turn around. He just lifts his chin like a man who's survived war and refuses to be taken out by a second trip from the car.

"I'm not making two trips," he announces, like he's delivering a mission briefing. "It's cold. It's slippery. I'm efficient."

"You're stubborn."

"Same thing," he says, and you can hear the smile in it.

You close the distance behind him, the single bag in your hand swinging like a very passive aggressive purse. "If you slip, I'm not carrying you."

"You couldn't carry me."

"You'd be surprised what rage can do."

He huffs a laugh, steps up onto the first stair… and then the universe decides it's time to humble him.

It happens in slow motion and also too fast, like your brain can't pick a lane.

His boot hits an ice patch. His foot shoots forward. His arms, full of bags, flail in a heroic attempt at balance that has the exact energy of a man trying to out stubborn physics.

For half a second, he looks over his shoulder at you with wide eyes. There's a brief, wounded betrayal in his expression, as if he's personally offended the ground would do this.

Then he goes down. Not gracefully, not even a little.

He lands on his backside with a WHUMP that echoes off the building, the bags exploding around him like confetti at the world's most humiliating parade.

A bundle of bananas skitters across the walkway. A carton of eggs makes a miraculous, wobbling stop two inches from disaster. Something in a bag clinks like it's judging him.

And you?

You lose it.

A laugh bursts out of you so sharp it almost hurts, the kind that sneaks up and steals your dignity. You clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes watering.

John is frozen on the step, half sitting, half sprawled, staring at the sky like he's considering pressing charges.

"You done?" he manages, wincing. "Or you need to reenact my death scene a few more times?"

You laugh harder.

"Babe," he warns, voice low and scandalized. "This is an injury. I'm a victim."

"A victim of your own hubris," you choke out, wiping at your eyes. "Y-you looked like a tree falling in a storm," you gasp, clutching your stomach. "Just… timb..." Another peel of laughter cuts you off.

His glare flickers into a reluctant smile, because even he can't argue with that. "You are the worst caregiver."

Eventually, you wrestle your laughter back under control, wiping at your eyes.

Guilt nudges its way in past the hilarity when you see him still sprawled there, trying to shift with all the bags tangled around his arms.

"Okay, okay," you say, stepping forward carefully. "Are you... are you hurt? Tell me you're not hurt."

"I'm fine," he says immediately, then adjusts and winces in a way that suggests he is, in fact, not fine.

"John."

"I'm fine," he insists, but the words come out slightly higher pitched, which is always a bad sign with him.

You crouch, reaching out a hand to his shoulder. "Let me help you up."

He takes your hand like he's accepting assistance from an enemy combatant.

"Slow," you tell him, gentle now, because the laugh is still fizzing under your ribs but worry has slid in beside it. "Don't move too..."

He shifts his weight to sit up and you, in your concern, step a little closer.

Your boot finds the same traitorous ice patch.

The world tilts.

Your stomach drops, your arms windmill, and your brain has time for exactly one thought:

Oh no. Not like this.

You slip, feet shooting out from under you, and gravity snatches you by the ankles and says, go meet your boyfriend.

You go.

Directly.

Right into his lap.

Except his lap is… not a lap. Not really.

Your body lands with full, unfiltered certainty right on top of his most delicate pride and joy region.

His breath leaves him in a strangled, high pitched sound you have never heard from him before.

"NGH—!"

The world freezes.

His eyes go wide. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out for half a beat, and then he sucks in a breath like he's just been personally unplugged from the universe.

"Oh my... John!" you gasp, scrambling instantly, hands splayed on his chest for balance. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."

He grabs your wrist, not rough, just desperate, like he needs to anchor himself to Earth. His face is locked in a strained expression of someone trying to stay conscious through sheer spite.

"Give me… a second," he manages, voice strangled.

You shift instinctively, trying to take weight off him, but the slight drag has him sucking in another pained breath.

"Stay still," he chokes. "Stay exactly where you are. Do not move. You're… making it worse."

You slap a hand over your mouth again, except this time it's to stop yourself from laughing and crying at the same time. "Oh my God, I just... I assaulted you with my entire body."

He grimaces. "You weaponized affection."

"I swear I was trying to help."

"You did," he says, and his voice drops into that familiar roughness even through the agony. "You just… helped too aggressively."

Your lips twitch. "This is why people make two trips, John."

"Don't," he warns, eyes squeezing shut. "Do not 'I told you so' me while you're sitting on my... ngh... reproductive future."

That does it.

The laughter breaks out again, louder this time, spilling over in helpless bursts. You drop your forehead to his chest, shoulders shaking.

He huffs out something that eventually turns into a reluctant laugh too, even through the pain. One gloved hand lifts, slow and careful, to settle on your back.

"Y'know, there are better ways to tell me you're into me," he manages hoarsely. "Less catastrophic ones."

You lift your head, still giggling, breath frosting the air between you.

"Look, if gravity wants you, who am I to stand in its way?" you say. "This is all science's fault."

"Oh, sure, blame physics," he mutters. "Not the human anvil who just pile drove my manhood."

You soften, guilt threading under the humor. One of your hands moves up to his cheek, thumb brushing at the cold-reddened skin there.

"You okay?" you ask quietly, laughter finally ebbing. "Like… actually okay?"

He looks at you for a long second, blue eyes still a little watery, breathing evening out.

"I will be," he says, voice low, "once I can feel my soul again. And once we get off the ice before you finish me off."

"Fair," you murmur.

Very carefully, very slowly, you shift your weight, bracing your boots better this time and pushing yourself up off him. He groans but in a less "I'm dying" way and more "this sucks but I'll live" way.

You bite your lip, eyes darting to the scattered groceries. "The eggs survived," you offer weakly.

John stares at you like the eggs have personally betrayed him too.

Then, incredibly, he starts to laugh, low and pained, the sound shaking in his chest.

"You're laughing?" you whisper, half relieved, half horrified.

"It's either laugh," he says, breath hitching, "or accept that I got taken out by ice and my own girlfriend in the same thirty seconds."

Your laugh bubbles out again, softer this time, more shaky. "I'm never going to live this down."

"Oh, you're living it down," he says, voice hoarse. "You literally lived it down. On me."

"Stop!" you squeal, covering your face.

He reaches up, tugging your hand away so he can look at you properly. His eyes are bright, cheeks pink from cold and humiliation and the fact that he's ridiculous even when he's suffering.

"Hey," he says, gentler now. "I'm okay."

You search his face, serious for a heartbeat. "Promise?"

"Promise," he says. "But we're never telling anyone."

You blink. "Agreed."

"Not Bucky, not Yelena, not..."

"Not even the mailman," you vow solemnly.

He squeezes your hand. "Good."

A gust of wind cuts through the walkway, reminding both of you that you are currently lying on icy concrete surrounded by bananas and dignity fragments.

You glance at the bags. "So… the whole 'no second trip' plan."

John lifts his head just enough to look at the grocery chaos, then lets it drop back dramatically. "The plan," he says, "has evolved."

"Into what?"

"Into you carrying the bags."

You narrow your eyes. "You just said I can't carry you."

He smiles, slow and smug even as he winces. "I didn't say anything about carrying groceries."

You snort, then reach forward, brushing a kiss to his forehead. "Okay, Captain Efficiency. Let's get you inside."

He holds out both arms. "Up."

"John..."

"Up," he insists, voice turning all soft command. "I'm not staying on the ground like a discarded action figure."

You brace your boots, careful of the ice now, slide an arm behind his back, and help haul him up with the exaggerated patience of someone handling a very stubborn piece of furniture.

He stands, shaky for a second, then straightens, rolling his shoulders like he's trying to pretend this didn't happen.

You point at him immediately. "No hero walking. If you're dizzy, if you're hurting, if you..."

"I'm not..."

"John."

His jaw tightens. Then he exhales. "Fine."

"Good." You scoop up the bananas first like they're evidence. "Inside. And you're getting an ice pack."

He grumbles. "I don't need..."

"You do. And you're drinking water."

He looks offended. "Water?"

"You got hit by… me. That counts as an impact injury."

His eyes flick over your face, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "God, you're cute when you're bossy."

"Move," you warn, but you're smiling too.

You both shuffle inside, the warm air hitting your faces, the door clicking shut behind you like it's sealing away the scene of the crime.

You kick off your boots, grab the nearest grocery bag, and start ferrying items inside in rapid, angry efficiency.

John leans against the counter, watching you with the look of a man who has lost a battle but won the war because you're still here, still fussing, still laughing under your breath.

He clears his throat. "You know…"

You glance over. "What."

"If you wanted to jump me," he says carefully, "you could've just said so."

You whip a dish towel at his chest. "I DID NOT JUMP YOU."

He catches it, grinning. "Felt like it."

"You're unbelievable."

"And yet," he says, stepping closer, slower this time, hands settling at your waist with gentle certainty, "you're still gonna kiss me."

You try to glare, but his fingers are warm through your sweater and his eyes are bright with that stupid, impossible tenderness.

So you give in.

You kiss him, quick and sweet, then another that lingers, your forehead pressed to his.

"I'm sorry," you murmur against his mouth.

He hums. "Apology accepted."