SUMMARY: It’s clear to anyone watching that you and Bob like each other. But whether it’s fear of rejection or comfort in the familiar will-they-won’t-they tension, neither of you dares to make the first move. Then comes the night of the charity gala, pushing both of you to your limits. Will it finally be the moment one of you breaks the stalemate, or will you keep pretending not to notice what’s right in front of you?
WARNINGS: Includes slight Thunderbolts* spoilers! Jealousy, idiots in love, mutual pining, slight angst, steamy kiss, self-deprecating thoughts, fluff galore, cursing, meddling teammates, lots of POV time skips, Bob is literally husband material, suggestive ending but no smut (sorry)!
A/N: I have been wanting to use this song on a one-shot ever since it came out!! Jealous!Bob has to be my favorite to write so far! Hope y'all enjoy, thanks for all the love on my first Bob fic! Divider by @luxifrv <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ bob reynolds masterlist
➩ read part two here!
For once, the Watchtower was silent. Not the eerie kind of silence that meant something was wrong, but a rare, peaceful quiet that settled over the usually chaotic space like a warm blanket. No echo of Walker and Bucky bickering over strategy. No sharp, exasperated Russian-accented scolding from Yelena as she tried, again, to convince Alexei that inside voice was not a myth.
Bucky was the only one moving. You could hear the soft rustle of pantry doors opening and closing, the metallic clink of a spoon against a mug, the hush of a coffee machine heating up. His movements were deliberate, quiet, almost tender, like he didn’t want to wake the moment. You and Ava sat perched on the cool granite countertop, shoulders bumping occasionally as you both tried to blink away sleep.
Ava cradled a mug of tea in both hands, steam curling into the space between you. You had your legs tucked beneath you, hoodie sleeves draped past your fingers as you absentmindedly picked at the assorted berries Bucky had placed in front of you. The quiet hum of appliances and the rhythmic sound of Bucky moving around the kitchen felt almost domestic, like the kind of normal you rarely got here.
Then, with a cheerful ding, the elevator doors slid open. The calm broke, but not in a bad way. Yelena was the first to step in, eyes sharp and expression unreadable as always, though a rare smile tugged at her lips when she spotted the three of you. Behind her, John carried an armload of grocery bags that looked one second away from slipping out of his grasp. Bob trailed in behind them, slightly out of breath, balancing two bulging paper sacks filled with produce.
Alexei, true to form, was juggling what looked like an oversized bag of kettle corn and an entire watermelon. “Hey, how was the farmers market? Get anything good?” You asked, eyes flicking between the group as they deposited their haul onto the counter. Normally, this would be the part where Yelena launched into a dramatic monologue about Alexei’s inability to stick to a list, usually punctuated by her chucking a random jar of pickled something at him.
But this time, she stayed surprisingly quiet. Too quiet. You caught the quick glances exchanged between her and John, an amused smirk on both their faces, like they were in on something you weren’t. Before you could even raise an eyebrow in question, you heard the shuffle of footsteps and turned just in time to see Bob making a beeline for you. You straightened up instinctively, suddenly very aware of your appearance, sleep-mussed hair, oversized hoodie, and socks that didn’t match.
Yet Bob didn’t seem to mind. His cheeks were dusted with the softest shade of pink, like he’d jogged over from the elevator, or maybe, maybe it was something else. He held a small paper bag in one hand and a cup in the other, both trembling slightly. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, then immediately dropped to the cup, as though he needed the courage to keep going. “H-Hi,” He greeted softly, his voice shy but laced with warmth. “They, uh… had a matcha booth. I got you a kit so you can make it at home.”
Your breath hitched, but he wasn’t done. “I, um, also got you one for now,” He added, extending the cup toward you like it was an offering. “Since I remember you said you ‘can’t function’ without it in the mornings. Extra matcha foam, a splash of vanilla, whole milk, not oat milk, because, well you hate it.” You blinked. He remembered all of that?God, could he be any more perfect? You laughed, a soft and breathless, fingers brushing his as you took the cup from him. The contact sent a spark up your arm, subtle but unmistakable.
“Thanks, Bob,” You murmured, your voice low and sincere as you looked up at him. “That was really sweet of you.” He opened his mouth to respond, but words never made it past his lips. Because in a rare burst of bravery, or maybe recklessness, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his warm cheek. You felt the way he froze for half a breath, how his shoulders stiffened, and then relaxed with a nervous chuckle as his other hand came up to scratch the back of his neck.
Across the room, John looked like he was trying not to fist-pump the air, and Yelena shot you the world’s most obvious finally face before elbowing Alexei, who just looked confused and whispered something about “young love” under his breath. “I don’t know how you drink that.” Bucky muttered from the kitchen as he grimaced at your bright green drink, breaking the moment with all the timing of a sledgehammer. He lifted his mug of black coffee in judgment.
You took a dramatic sip, eyes fluttering shut as if it was the best thing you’d ever tasted just to spite him. “Touché,” You scoffed, pointing at his cup with mock offense. “Although, you drink battery acid.” Bucky raised his brows in mock offense. “I drink coffee. You drink grass.” Ava chuckled beside you, shaking her head. But your attention drifted back to Bob, who was still standing just a little too close, still looking at you like he was stunned by what just happened.
His fingers lingered at the edge of the counter, tapping nervously. You took another sip of your matcha, watching him over the rim of the cup. That blush hadn’t faded. And the way he kept sneaking glances at you, like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t trust himself not to fumble it, made your chest ache in the best way. “Are you lot mentally prepared for the gala tonight?” Ava asked, her voice too casual to be innocent as she popped a grape into her mouth and leaned against the counter.
Her words cut clean through the pleasant haze you’d been floating in, one brought on by Bob’s lingering smile and the subtle hum of his presence next to you. Your gaze snapped away from him. “Shit,” You muttered, eyes widening as the reality slammed into your brain like a freight train. “I forgot that was tonight.” You let out a groan and dropped your head into your hands, the cool skin of your palms pressing against the heat rising in your face. The gala. Of course.
Between the back-to-back missions, late-night debriefs, and that impromptu grocery run, the fancy evening fundraiser had completely slipped your mind. Somewhere, buried beneath a pile of laundry you hadn’t had the emotional stamina to fold, was a garment bag Mel had sent over weeks ago. You hadn’t even unzipped it yet. It was probably crumpled and hiding behind your winter coats, tangled in a forgotten scarf and a rogue SHIELD-issued jacket.
“Who isn’t ready for an evening of kissing up to potential new investors and getting glares from Valentina across the room because we’re somehow 'misbehaving' and 'ruining our image'?” Yelena scoffed, rolling her eyes as she flopped into the nearest chair like it had offended her. “Don’t forget making small talk with politicians who couldn’t care less if we saved the planet or set it on fire.” Bucky added dryly.
The banter swirled around you, loud and familiar, but your mind was already spiraling, mentally calculating how much time you had to shower, tame your hair, find that dress, steam that dress, fix your eyeliner after inevitably smudging it, and somehow look like a person worthy of attending a gala where half the room would be dressed in five-figure gowns and tailored tuxedos. And Bob. Oh god. Bob would be there too. You dared a glance at him from the corner of your eye.
He was still beside you, watching the group with quiet amusement, his fingers lightly tapping the paper tea cup in his hand. You could just barely see the curve of a dimple when he smiled at something Bucky had said. He hadn’t said much about the gala, just that he’d remembered and already arranged to pick up his suit. Of course he had. He probably knew where his cufflinks were too. Probably even had a backup tie.
Meanwhile, you were a sleep-deprived goblin with chipped nail polish, half a to-do list scrawled on your hand in blue pen, and absolutely no idea what jewelry matched your dress, or if the strappy black heels you wore to last year’s gala were even still intact. They were probably at the bottom of your closet, missing a buckle, or chewed on by the mysterious Watchtower dust bunnies that lived beneath your bed. “Kill me.” You muttered under your breath, dragging your hands down your face until your cheeks were warm from the friction.
“I can fake a head injury,” Ava chimed in helpfully, straight-faced as she leaned back on her elbows. “You’ll be out for the rest of the week. No questions asked. We’ll even throw in a dramatic backstory.” You let out a weak snort. “Tempting.” You replied, voice muffled through your hands, though your attention was already drifting again, gravitating toward the quiet figure moving just a few feet away. You glanced over in time to catch Bob as he bent to retrieve something from one of the grocery bags.
The hem of his navy hoodie lifted just slightly, revealing a flash of worn flannel waistband and a sliver of skin at his hip. The way the fabric stretched across his back, the way his strong shoulders shifted beneath the soft cotton, it was criminal, honestly. He straightened and absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. But it did. Oh, it did. The simple act sent your heart into an entirely unreasonable flutter.
You quickly averted your gaze and took a long, too-large gulp of your matcha to distract yourself. The condensation of the cup in your hands was the only thing grounding you. Well, that and the caffeine threatening to jumpstart your entire nervous system. “I’m gonna need a lot more of this if I’m going to survive tonight.” You grimaced, holding up your half-drunk cup like it was your savior. “It’s a good thing Bob has you covered then.” Yelena sang, her voice teasing and smile positively feral as her eyes bounced between the two of you.
Your cheeks instantly flushed with heat. Across from you, Bob choked slightly on the sip of water he’d just taken, coughing once as the tips of his ears turned unmistakably red. Yelena’s smirk deepened. She looked far too pleased with herself. “Yelena.” You hissed through your teeth, but she just wiggled her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders innocently like she’d done nothing wrong.
Bob cleared his throat, recovering admirably, though he was now suddenly very focused on reorganizing a bag of apples. “I can make you another one,” He offered, shrugging a little as his voice dropped to something quiet, gentle, like a secret just for you. “I watched the lady at the booth make them. I, uh... took notes. Kind of. She even showed me how to whisk it so it doesn't clump.” You blinked. He watched the demo just so he could make your favorite drink correctly?
Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest and do a somersault on the kitchen floor. If you weren't already smitten, that alone would have had you swooning. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his voice was soft, hopeful. God, how were you supposed to survive an entire night by his side? Standing beside him during red carpet photos, exchanging polite smiles for photographers, whispering jokes under your breath while pretending to listen to politicians drone on about defense funding.
All while pretending you were a fully functioning human being who wasn’t halfway in love with the boy who remembered your drink order and how you hated oat milk? You were a disaster. No dress plan, no jewelry plan, possibly no working shoes, and absolutely no idea how you were going to stand next to Bob all night without your brain short-circuiting. You were so screwed. It was safe to assure that it was going to be a very, very long night.
The charity gala. Even the phrase sounded intimidating, but nothing could have prepared you for this. The grand staircase unfolded beneath you like something out of a baroque painting, sweeping marble steps carved with painstaking detail, lined with golden banisters that shimmered in the warm light of antique chandeliers. Everything glowed in soft amber, like time itself had paused for this one evening.
The ceilings arched high overhead, frescoed and grand, while the walls whispered with centuries-old elegance. Ornate sconces flickered along the balconies, throwing gentle light across clusters of diplomats, donors, and operatives dressed to the nines. People moved like brushstrokes across a canvas, flowing down the double staircase in slow, graceful waves. Laughter drifted on the air, mixing with the faint sounds of a string quartet echoing from one of the upper halls.
And yet, even surrounded by diplomats, high-profile donors, and operatives in couture, you felt like you were the one out of place. You felt dizzy. The dress Mel had picked out arrived in a box so pristine you didn’t dare touch it until tonight. The sapphire gown hugged your frame like it had been made with you in mind, the fabric falling fluid over your hips and moving like liquid when you walked. A deep neckline drew the eye without giving too much, while the daring open back dipped low enough to make even Yelena raise a brow when she first saw it.
Thin, crisscrossing straps shimmered across your shoulder blades like stars strung in place. A thigh-high slit added an edge of danger, the hem brushing the floor with every step like a promise. And as fate, or fashion, would have it, the color perfectly matched the deep hue of his eyes. Unfair, really. “Stop fidgeting! You look gorgeous.” Yelena snapped behind you, swatting your hand away as you adjusted the neckline of your dress for the fifth time. “I feel like I’m one wrong step away from a wardrobe malfunction.”
“If you do fall, fall into someone rich. Or Bob. Preferably Bob.” Yelena’s deadpan delivery was so casual it made Ava snort. "Would you stop it! I have told you both a million times, Bob doesn't like me like that!" A synchronized eye roll rippled through the room like a perfectly rehearsed performance. Ava arched a brow in your direction. “You are either painfully oblivious, or actively choosing to be stupid, because Bob worships the ground you walk on.” She quipped, adjusting her earrings in the nearby mirror.
“Don’t even get me started on that lovesick puppy look he gives you.” Yelena muttered under her breath, pretending to inspect a non-existent chip in her nail polish. You scoffed, arms crossing defensively over your chest, the thin fabric of your dress pulling taut. “What look?” Ava met your eyes through the mirror, her expression softening just enough to make the jab land sweeter. “The same one you get whenever you’re looking at him.” You didn’t have time to respond, or argue, as if you could, because footsteps echoed down the upper landing.
You turned your head, and there he was.
Bob stood at the top of the staircase like some old-world portrait come to life, dressed in a sleek black tuxedo that fit like it had been sculpted onto him. The crisp white shirt beneath was buttoned perfectly, his tie was tied tight and straight down the center of his chest, and a subtle silver tie clip caught the light as he moved. His hair was swept back neatly, but a few rebellious strands had fallen across his forehead, softening his sharp jawline and giving him that boyish, just-barely-undone look that made your breath hitch.
But it was his expression that really undid you. Because the moment he spotted you, halfway down the stairs, bathed in chandelier light, wrapped in a dress that mirrored the color of his gaze, he stopped walking. Freezing, just for a second, as if he’d been hit by something. His eyes widened just slightly, lips parting, and he didn’t blink until he started moving again, descending the stairs slowly, carefully, like approaching something fragile and sacred. You couldn’t look away and frankly you didn’t want to.
Your pulse thundered in your ears, your fingers clutching your tiny clutch bag like it was the only thing keeping you upright. When he finally reached you, his gaze swept from your heels to your collarbones, and then, almost shyly, met your eyes. “I—” He cleared his throat, his voice low, almost reverent. “You look... incredible.” It wasn’t just a compliment. It sounded like something sacred. Your chest tightened, heat blooming under your skin.
“You clean up really well, Reynolds.” You murmured back, resisting the urge to bite your lip as your eyes traced the lines of his suit. His smile twitched, a little crooked, a little bashful, but the way he offered his arm was nothing short of classic. Chivalrous. “Ready?” You looped your hand into the bend of his elbow, fingers barely grazing the fine fabric of his suit sleeve, but even that tiny contact sent something fluttering under your ribs. “I think so." You whispered, but it sounded like a lie. Because you weren’t ready.
Not for the way he looked at you.
Not for the tension crackling between you like an invisible tether. And definitely not for the idea of surviving an entire night next to him, pretending not to fall deeper every second. As you descended the rest of the stairs together, surrounded by glittering lights and polished conversation, you felt his arm shift closer to yours. Protective. Steady. A quiet promise between the noise. Above you, Yelena leaned toward Ava and whispered with glee. "There’s absolutely no way they don’t crack tonight.”
Not that you or Bob had the slightest clue what was coming.
The grand hall was no less stunning than the staircase. If anything, it was overwhelming. Vaulted ceilings glittered with gold leaf, chandeliers dangled like constellations in glass, and a soft orchestral arrangement drifted from the far end of the room where a quartet played beneath velvet drapes. Candlelight flickered in sconces mounted on carved pillars, casting a warm, amber glow over the polished floor. You and Bob hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the ballroom when— “Group photo. Now.” Came a voice that made your spine instinctively straighten.
Valentina.
She stood to the side of the press station in a gunmetal-gray gown, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, brows raised in expectation. A very polite “smile for the donors” kind of threat behind her smirk. You barely had time to exchange a glance with Bob before the rest of the team was being herded like misbehaving students on picture day. “Let’s make it quick.” Bucky muttered under his breath as he straightened his collar beside Yelena.
You positioned yourself in the middle, as instructed, heels clicking as you moved into place between Ava and Bob. The photographer gestured animatedly behind the lens. “Big smiles! We want you to look like you’re changing the world and having fun doing it!” You barely heard him. Not with Bob standing beside you, his arm ghosting just behind your back, his presence impossibly close. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, your heartbeat fluttered.
Then, as if by accident, but you knew better, Ava shifted, bumping you just enough to send you leaning subtly further into Bob’s side. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she straightened, eyes fixed ahead like she hadn’t done a thing. He didn’t move away. If anything, you felt him steady you, his fingers briefly grazing the small of your back before settling just out of sight. He didn’t speak, but you could feel his eyes on you every few seconds. You could only hope he didn’t notice how wildly your heart was racing.
Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.
And then, thankfully, it was over.
Yet before you could so much as step away from the group, a manicured hand slipped into yours. “There you are,” Mel’s voice purred from behind. “I’ve been trying to track you down. Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.” You turned, startled but obedient, catching Bob’s eyes briefly, he looked like he wanted to say something, his brows slightly furrowed, but Mel was already tugging you away with the quiet precision of someone used to getting things done.
You mouthed sorry to him over your shoulder, but then you were gone, swallowed by the swell of chiffon and silk and champagne. She led you toward the bar tucked elegantly into a corner of the room, polished mahogany gleaming under rows of backlit bottles. The crowd had thinned in this pocket, replaced by quiet, murmuring conversations and the occasional clink of crystal glass. “That man there,” Mel murmured low as you both slowed, nodding toward the tall figure at the bar.
“Elias Mercer. Powerful contacts. More interested in policy than politics. Be charming, but don’t make promises. Just listen.” Then she was gone, disappearing like a shadow before you could protest. Elias turned toward you just as you approached, and you understood immediately why Mel had bothered. He was handsome in the well-tailored, effortless power kind of way. He had that cultivated confidence that dripped from every movement: blonde hair slicked back, not a strand out of place; a navy suit pressed so sharply it looked dangerous.
“Well, well,” He drawled, eyes scanning your gown with a slow appreciation that bordered on bold. “They weren’t exaggerating. You’re the prettiest thing this event’s seen in years.” You forced a polite smile, though something in your chest already itched. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or ask who they are.” He chuckled, clearly pleased by your response. “Let’s go with ‘thank you’ for now.” He leaned against the bar casually, lifting a glass of something amber and expensive-looking.
“First round’s on me.” He flagged the bartender before you could protest, ordering for you like it was habit, something sweet, floral, and definitely not your taste. The glass arrived rimmed with sugar, the kind of drink chosen for aesthetics rather than preference. Your eyes flicked to the bar, your brain still playing catch-up with how fast everything had shifted. The hum of music still lingered in the air, and across the room you could just barely make out Bob standing by the photo backdrop, eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for someone.
Elias leaned closer. “So,” He murmured, voice smooth like silk over ice. “What exactly does a woman like you do when she’s not dazzling rooms like this?” Across the ballroom, laughter rose like a tide, but Bob wasn’t listening to any of it. He stood near the edge of the photo setup, posture stiff, barely hearing a word John was saying about security coverage or potential press questions. His eyes kept flicking through the crowd, scanning for one very specific figure. You.
“I swear, if Valentina drags us into one more round of photos—” John was mid-rant when Bob finally cut him off. “Have you guys seen Y/N?” Bucky, who’d been standing quietly beside them sipping from a lowball glass, lifted a brow at the shift in Bob’s tone. “Didn’t Mel pull her away?” Bob’s jaw clenched. “That was fifteen minutes ago, I haven’t seen her since.” He scanned the crowd again. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest, a tension building behind his ribs that had nothing to do with the suit or the heat of the crowd.
The ballroom was crowded, sure, but he knew how to find you. He always did. And then, he saw it. You were near the bar, half-sitting on a velvet stool, your posture angled slightly away from the man seated beside you. Clearly uncomfortable. He also noticed something else, the man’s hand, resting far too comfortably on your bare thigh, fingers splayed against the slit in your dress. Your smile looked tight. Wrong. Bob saw red. But more than that, his eyes actually flashed gold. His jaw locked so tight it might have snapped.
Without another word, he’d already handed Bucky his untouched drink and was moving through the crowd. Every cell in his body buzzed, not with rage, but something deeper. Primal. Protective. “This is about to get really interesting.” John muttered, watching Bob stalk off like a predator. You weren’t even fully sure how Elias’s hand had ended up on your thigh. It had been gradual, subtle, the kind of entitled, calculated confidence that crept in like fog. He hadn’t asked. Just leaned closer, his drink in one hand, the other brushing your skin like it was owed to him.
You shifted away slightly, giving him a tight lipped smile. “I think that’s enough bourbon for you tonight—” But before the sentence could finish, a hand closed firmly around Elias’s wrist and yanked it away from your leg. The man let out a sharp exhale in surprise, and you gasped. Bob. He was suddenly there, towering over both of you with a look you had never seen on his face before. His usual warmth, his steady gentleness, was gone. In its place was something cold, crackling, and barely leashed.
The golden flicker in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable, made your heart stutter in your chest. “That’s enough.” He murmured, voice low and even. Elias blinked, startled. “Excuse me—?” Before he could finish, Bob smoothly stepped between the two of you, placing himself squarely in Elias’s line of sight. One hand still gripped the other man’s wrist, while the other slid gently onto your thigh, right where Elias’s had been. You could feel the heat of him through the silk, anchoring you and igniting you all at once. Only this time, it wasn’t unwelcome. You weren’t scared. You weren’t uncomfortable.
You were dizzy.
The heat of his palm on your skin sent a jolt through your body. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide as Bob’s fingers splayed possessively against the slit of your dress. You could feel the shift in him, the quiet tension in his muscles, the steady weight of his presence protecting you. “Didn’t realize she came with a guard dog.” Elias slowly raised both hands in mock surrender, lips twitching in annoyance. “She doesn’t,” Bob replied, voice calm yet razor-sharp.
“She comes with people who know the difference between being charming… and being a creep.” Elias chuckled low under his breath, stood, and tossed back the last of his drink. “She’s pretty, but not worth this much trouble.” With that, he walked off, disappearing into the crowd with the arrogant swagger of someone used to getting what he wants. But you weren’t even looking at him. You were looking at Bob. Still close. Still with his hand on your thigh. His fingers didn’t move, not yet, as if anchoring you, reminding both of you that he had been the one to step in.
To claim what someone else had touched without permission. And suddenly, your skin felt electric. Flushed. Hyper-aware of every point of contact between you. You blinked up at him, throat dry. “You—um, you didn’t have to do that.” Bob’s gaze finally shifted down to yours. His expression softened, but his hand didn’t move. “I know,” He murmured. “But I wanted to.” His voice was rougher now, softer somehow, like something inside him had cracked open and started pouring out. The orchestra swelled somewhere behind you. For the first time all night, you were speechless.
Bob’s hand eventually dropped from your thigh as the two of you walked, slowly, toward the long round table nestled near the center of the ballroom. Candlelight flickered over polished crystal and untouched hors d'oeuvres. A string of golden name cards decorated each seat with militaristic precision. As you approached, you could feel the weight of the group’s attention before you even reached the table. Yelena looked up first, elbowing Bucky with zero grace.
He arched a brow, then glanced between you and Bob, eyes narrowing. John, seated on the far side, was nursing a whiskey and doing a poor job of hiding his smug grin. Ava straightened in her chair, her brows raised high mouthing something behind her wine glass. Only Alexi remained blissfully unaware, focused entirely on buttering a roll with the intensity of a man dismantling a bomb. Bob pulled your chair out for you, subtle, careful, but the gesture burned in the back of your neck.
You could still feel the ghost of his hand on your skin. Your body hadn’t quite calmed down. Every part of you still buzzed like static under silk. He sat beside you, and though his posture had returned to calm, shoulders squared, hands resting easily, there was a tension in his jaw that hadn’t quite gone away. Bob cleared his throat, stiffening slightly as he unfolded his napkin. His cheeks still held the faintest pink hue, though whether it was from possessiveness or proximity, you weren’t sure.
Yelena leaned toward Ava, not bothering to whisper. “Who knew he had that in him?” Ava smirked from beside her. “I’m never letting her live this down.” You pretended not to hear them, focusing instead on the champagne flute in front of you, hands a little too still in your lap. Then the lights dimmed, and a hush swept over the room. A spotlight clicked on above the stage. Valentina glided to the podium wearing the kind of practiced smile only politicians and devils wore well.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to welcome you all tonight. As you know, we are entering a new era. A better era. One guided by clarity, strength, and people who aren’t afraid to do what’s necessary for a safer world.” She gestured toward your table with a graceful sweep of her arm. “The New Avengers.” You felt Bob’s arm brush against yours under the table, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers flexing. He hated this part. You all did. Your eyes flicked toward the others. Ava looked like she was trying not to gag. Bucky had tuned out completely, arms folded as he stared somewhere past the chandeliers.
Even John, ever the polished soldier, looked like he was barely tolerating the performance. But it was all for the donors. The money. The future. And you smiled, because that’s what was expected. Polite applause followed. Investors, politicians, and old money donors gave their obligatory nods and toasts. Valentina basked in it.“With your support, this team will do more than protect borders. They’ll protect ideals. Influence outcomes. Ensure peace. Permanently.” Her voice sharpened on that last word.
You shifted in your seat, feeling Bob shift slightly next to you too. The whole thing was so carefully curated, so slippery in its language. She was selling the image of power. Of control. Of all of you. Eventually, the speech ended. Applause rose again, more enthusiastic this time. Cameras flashed. Servers moved between tables, offering more wine and champagne. That’s when Yelena’s hand snuck into yours beneath the table. “Bathroom. Now.” She whispered, dragging you to your feet before you could process it. Ava followed immediately, muttering something about needing to “re-apply her lipstick.”
You barely caught the way Bob looked at you as you left, his blue eyes warm, slightly curious, like he was still thinking about what had happened the bar. The hallway outside the ballroom was cool and quiet, lit with soft sconces and lined with velvet curtains. “Okay,” Yelena declared as soon as the bathroom door shut behind the three of you. “Are we going to talk about the fact that your man just went full golden-eyed possessive alpha male out there or—?” You rolled your eyes, but the pink hue of your face betrayed you.
“He’s not my man, Yelena.” You blurted, though it sounded hollow even to your own ears. Ava crossed her arms, tilting her head. “You’re glowing. You look like you’re on the verge of short-circuiting.” You groaned, leaning over the sink. “It was just… instinct. Right? He was just protecting me.” Yelena snorted. “Protecting you from thigh-grabby Mercer and staking a very visible claim are two very different things.” You stared at your reflection, heart still beating unevenly.
You took a breath, multiple sips of water, and composed yourself. Then reluctantly stepped back into the ballroom, because you couldn’t hide out in the bathroom for the rest of the evening no matter how much you wanted to. Ava and Yelena right behind you as you visibly froze. Your table was just ahead, and someone else was sitting beside Bob. A blonde woman stood beside him, hips tilted, her red dress criminally low-cut, practically a second skin. Her hand rested lightly on the back of his chair, like she was considering whether to touch his shoulder next.
Bob wasn’t leaning toward her, but he wasn’t exactly recoiling either. Then you saw it. Her fingertips grazed his shoulder, and lingered, before sliding down to his forearm. And Bob smiled. Not the full one, the soft one. The one you knew. The one that had made you fall harder than you wanted to admit. Your lungs didn’t quite expand. A quiet, unexpected knot tightened in your chest. That heat in your chest? It wasn’t embarrassment this time. It was jealousy.
Jealousy hit hard, sharp and acidic, curling beneath your ribs like heat. Hot, sharp, and unrelenting. You took a breath and walked back toward the table, slower this time, heart thudding painfully loud in your ears. The blonde noticed you approaching and barely shifted, still smiling at Bob like he was dessert. But then, before you could psych yourself out, you slid right into his lap. Sideways, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your dress shifted to reveal a little more leg, and the silk of it draped over both of your thighs as you curled an arm loosely around his neck.
The other hand came to rest gently, but possessively, over his abdomen. His entire body went still. The air around the table thickened. Your fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of his jacket, right over his ribs. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. “Oh,” You murmured innocently, leaning into the curve of Bob’s neck, breath ghosting his skin. “I didn’t realize we had company.” His hand found your hip instinctively, fingers tightening like a reflex. The blonde blinked, her smile immediately thinning. “I don’t think we’ve met—”
“No,” You replied monotonously, effectively cutting her off. “We haven’t.” Bob was absolutely motionless beneath you, save for the subtle flex of his jaw. His arm moved to wrap around your waist like gravity, pulling you just slightly closer. The blonde stood after an awkward beat, murmured something about needing to “go freshen up,” and walked off, her heels clicking sharply on the marble. You didn’t look away until she vanished behind a curtain of guests.
The orchestra struck its first chord, warm and elegant, notes blooming like silk petals in the air. Laughter bubbled from the dance floor as couples swept into each other’s arms, dresses twirling and polished shoes gliding over the marble. Yet, you remained where you were, perched sideways across Bob’s lap, hand pressed to his chest, rising and falling with every one of his increasingly uneven breaths. His arm curled around your waist as if it had been molded there, unmoving, unwilling to let go.
Your pulse stuttered beneath your skin, too fast, too hot. You knew he could feel it. He hadn’t spoken in nearly a full minute, but the tension in his body spoke for him. Then, he cleared his throat. A soft, barely-there sound that somehow made your stomach twist. You didn’t let him get a word in. “Dance with me.” The words came out breathier than intended, but they hung between you like an open invitation. Bob blinked, startled, then hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if you meant it.
You didn’t wait. You rose smoothly from his lap, your hand sliding down his arm until your fingers found his. You didn’t tug. You just looked at him. And of course, he followed. The two of you stepped into the glow of the chandeliers again, the hush of music guiding your steps toward the edge of the dance floor. You slipped your hand into his, placing the other on his shoulder, heart stammering in your chest as his hand settled cautiously on the curve of your waist.
You began to sway. Neither of you were dancers, but it didn’t matter. The moment held its own rhythm. Your dress brushed against his leg with each turn. His thumb caressed a soft, unconscious circle against your lower back. And though your eyes kept meeting, neither of you really spoke. You were both still pretending. Still holding back. Even with the air thick between you. Even with your fingers curling tighter into his jacket, his jaw tightening every time you swayed too close. And for a moment, it was quiet again. Then, Bob cleared his throat, awkwardly, softly, like he wasn’t quite sure he should speak.
“S-So are we just not going to talk about it?” Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and your stomach clenched. “Talk about what, Bob?” The response came sharper than intended, a defense before you could stop it. “The fact that you nearly ripped a guy’s arm off, or the fact that you were eyeballing that girl’s tits as she was blatantly eye-fucking you.” He froze, his hand on your waist tensed. “W-What, Y/N? She came onto me, I wasn’t looking at her, I swear. I was just… caught off guard.” You arched a brow, your voice dipping dangerously.
“So what, you just let her? Let her paw at you like you were on display?” His voice cracked under the weight of his urgency. “And what about you? That guy was making you uncomfortable, I saw it all over your face. I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there while he—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched, that familiar gold hue resurfacing, swallowing the blue of his eyes. You were quiet. Your chest rose and fell in rhythm with the music, with your own chaotic thoughts. “Just…” You exhaled. “Come with me.” You didn’t give him a chance to argue.
You simply slid your hand down his wrist, fingers curling around his, and pulled him off the dance floor, past the swirling couples and flickering candles, toward a hallway bathed in soft light. Each step echoed with tension, yours, his, shared and unnamed. You reached the terrace doors and pushed through, cool night air kissing your overheated skin. The terrace was quiet, stone beneath your heels, stars scattered across a dark velvet sky. Only the distant hum of the orchestra floated through the open doors behind you. You turned to face him again.
Bob’s chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running, not dancing. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, but from everything he hadn’t said. The silence wrapped around you was thick and fragile. For once, neither of you spoke first. Your eyes flicked to his tie, crooked now from when you’d pulled him into you. Your fingers moved on instinct, reaching up, smoothing it gently. His breath hitched. “You didn’t have to defend me.” He scoffed incredulously. “Yes, I did.” You looked up at him. “Why?” You knew the answer, you just had to hear it from him.
Bob’s lips parted, and the glow in his eyes deepened, flickering like molten gold behind glass. His jaw flexed, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. So you did something instead. You stepped in closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Your chest brushed his. You looked at him through your lashes. “Admit it Bob, you were jealous.” His hand found your waist again, stronger this time, steadier. “And you weren’t?” You didn’t answer.
Because the answer was already written in the way you leaned into him. In the way his breath fanned against your cheek. In the way your eyes dropped to his mouth for just a second too long. And maybe, just maybe, you both finally realized this game was nearing its end. You stood so close you could feel every breath Bob took, every shift in the way he held your waist like it grounded him. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore, it pulsed with something deep, charged, and entirely unspoken.
The golden flicker in his eyes had softened now, but it hadn’t gone. He opened his mouth. Closed it. And then, finally, he let it out. “I’ve been in love with you for months.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was solid. Unshakable. A truth he’d been carrying so long it had carved itself into the marrow of him. Your heart stopped. “W-What?” You breathed, barely trusting your own ears. Bob didn’t flinch. Didn’t backpedal. His gaze never left yours. “I know I’m not supposed to say that, not like this, not here,” He murmured, voice rough with the edges of vulnerability.
“But I’ve been trying to keep it down, to keep it quiet, and I can’t anymore. I just, I need you to know.” You could only stare. He took a breath, his thumb brushing absently over your waist like he didn’t realize it was still there. “Ever since that first mission we got benched on together,” He continued, softer now. “You were pissed. You paced the hangar for twenty straight minutes, muttering under your breath, and I—God, I couldn’t stop watching you. Not because of how you looked. I mean, you’re—” He swallowed.
“You’re stunning, but it was more than that.” His voice dipped, vulnerable and almost reverent. “You didn’t treat me like I was fragile. Like I was broken. Everyone else, they hesitate. They talk to me like I might crack if they say the wrong thing. But you? You’ve never done that. You joke, you push back, you talk to me like I’m just, me. And that, that means everything.” Your breath caught in your throat. “I notice everything about you,” He went on, eyes burning into yours now.
“I know you hate oat milk. I know you hum when you’re wiring explosives because it helps you focus. I know the exact look you get when you’re over-caffeinated but pretending you’re not.” He chuckled, low and self-deprecating. “And yeah, I learned how to make that matcha drink exactly how you like it. Extra matcha foam, splash of vanilla, whole milk. Took me five tries before it didn’t taste like chalk.” Your chest was aching. “But it’s not just that,” He coaxed, quieter now.
“It’s the way you light up when you come back from a mission. Even exhausted, you have this, spark. And every time I see you step into a room, something in me settles. Like everything’s okay if you’re okay.” You could feel your throat closing, emotion swelling like a wave. “I leave you those notes because I never know what to say in person. Because you make my brain short-circuit. So I write it down. And when you’re out there getting bruised and saving the world, I refill your water, I tidy your gear, because it’s the only way I know how to say I care.”
His hand slid gently from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye, like he’d already guessed you were trying not to cry. “I didn’t mean to fall for you,” He whispered. “But it’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.” You stood frozen, then your voice finally cracked through the silence. “Bob…” You blinked, your lashes wet, your chest tight. “I’ve been falling in love with you this entire time.” His breath hitched. “You… have?” Your laugh was barely a whisper. “Of course I have. You idiot. Do you think I just let anyone touch me like that?”
He laughed through his nose, but you stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest. You felt his heart stuttering beneath your palms, just like yours. “You learned how to make my favorite drink. You leave me the sweetest, dorkiest notes when I get back from fieldwork. And I know you always refill my water bottle even though you pretend you didn’t.” You looked up at him, and this time, you were the one who couldn’t look away. “I notice everything about you too, Bob,”
“The way your voice softens when you're calming someone down. The way you always take the corner booth because you know I hate sitting with my back to the door. How you’re the first one to offer help and the last to ask for any.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “I didn’t want to admit it. I thought if I did, I’d ruin what we have. But the truth is, I’ve been yours this whole time.” He stepped forward. “I don’t want to pretend anymore, I’m tired of dancing around it. I want this. You.” His thumb traced slow circles along your ribs. “Then take it.” You breathed.
It happened fast. One step too close, one last look that lingered too long, and then the space between you disappeared like it had never existed. His mouth crashed against yours, months of repressed emotion and barely-contained tension igniting all at once. There was nothing careful or tentative about it, just teeth and heat, lips dragging hungrily over yours, and the immediate slide of his tongue demanding entry. He tasted like the Diet Coke he had been sipping and something utterly Bob.
You gasped into the kiss, but it only gave him more access. He swallowed it greedily, his hand rising to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin just enough so he could deepen it, tongue sweeping over yours in a hot, bruising stroke that made your knees buckle. Your hands were already tangled in his jacket, gripping lapels like your life depended on it. When his teeth tugged at your bottom lip, just enough to sting, you whimpered, and that sound broke something in him. The kiss turned desperate. His hands roamed like he’d been dying to touch you for years.
One gripped your waist, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body, while the other slid down, trailing over the exposed curve of your bare back, the silk of your dress offering no resistance. His fingertips skimmed the base of your spine, then lower, slipping under the open edge of your gown. He groaned low in his throat when his palm met bare skin, smoothing over the curve of your hip and down your thigh, fingers grazing the slit in your dress that had tormented him all night. Your leg lifted almost instinctively, wrapping around his as your bodies melted together, the slit parting even further to let him in.
His grip shifted to your thigh, strong fingers curling under it, anchoring you to him like he couldn’t possibly stand the thought of ever letting go, now that he was able to touch you like this. You could feel every inch of him, his chest heaving against yours, the twitch of his jaw as he fought for control, the hard press of arousal against your lower stomach. Your back hit the cool marble of the terrace wall. A gasp spilled from your lips, swallowed by his mouth again in a kiss that burned like wildfire.
He pinned you there with his body, hips flush against yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your leg, pushing the fabric higher so his thumb could drag slowly along your inner thigh. Your breath hitched. A soft, helpless moan escaped, and he echoed it with a guttural noise, his tongue sweeping into your mouth again with a new kind of hunger. It was messy. Urgent. Dizzying. The taste of each other. The soft drag of your nails down his neck. His teeth grazing your lip again. The low, desperate sounds vibrating in your throat. His touch, leaving fire in its wake.
And the way you both kissed like it wasn’t just lust, but the breaking point of everything unsaid finally crashing through. Your body arched into his. His mouth barely left yours long enough to breathe. And the gala went on behind the doors, utterly irrelevant now. "Took you both long enough!" Yelena’s voice cut sharply through the thick fog of lust hanging around you like smoke. You and Bob tore yourselves apart, panting, flushed, his lips kiss-bitten and your dress now visibly wrinkled in spots that revealed far too much about where his hands had been.
"Poor guy almost lost his arm." Walker added with a grunt, nodding toward Bob, whose tie was still clutched tightly in your hand. His smirk betrayed no real annoyance, only amusement. "You gotta admit, it was entertaining as hell though." Ava drawled, one brow raised, arms folded as she leaned against the terrace rail like she’d been watching a soap opera play out in real time. That’s when it hit you. "You guys fucking planned this?" You and Bob yelled in unison.
“It was painful seeing both of you pining over the other, we had to do something.” Bucky stated, entirely unapologetic. "You also think Mel coincidentally got you a blue dress that matched his eyes?" Yelena deadpanned, eyes flicking pointedly to the leg slit and the exposed sweep of your back with zero subtlety. Your brow lifted. You narrowed your eyes. Then, slowly, the grin spread across your face like gasoline catching fire. "Well, I hope you all have noise-cancelling headphones."
They froze. Some blinked. Ava’s mouth twitched. Yelena cocked her head with an intrigued hum. But you leaned in, melting into Bob’s side, fingers slipping past his jacket lapel to trail lazily over the spot where his chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths. "Cause Bob and I have a lot of lost time to catch up on," You purred, tilting your chin up toward him. His hand dropped to your hip again, almost on instinct. Possessive. Firm. Like he was already thinking about what he was going to do to you the moment the others vanished.
“It’s gonna get real loud.” You didn’t wait for a response. You yanked him down by the tie, lips crashing together with a loud, unapologetic smack. His arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling you up onto your toes as he devoured you right there in front of everyone. Tongue thrusting into your mouth without hesitation. His teeth grazed yours in the heat of it, and a growl, raw and deep, rumbled low in his chest as you dragged your fingers up the back of his neck.
You were keenly aware of the reactions behind you: exaggerated gagging, muttered curses, dramatic footsteps retreating, someone snorting with laughter. But it all faded under the hungry slide of Bob’s mouth, under the way his hand slipped lower, palm pressing just beneath the curve of your ass. They’d planned this? Fine. Only, they had no idea what they’d just unleashed. Because this wasn’t tension anymore, no, this was a reckoning. The night was still young.
It was going to be a very long night indeed.
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For being the strongest man on Earth, he looks downright nervous.
He can take the force of a thousand bullets without a single scratch and fly at the speed of sound. Shit, he even brought Manhattan to its knees in a matter of minutes.
But here, in front of you? With his large, calloused hands gently resting on your parted thighs like they're sacred?
He's trembling.
"I just. . ." Bob swallowed, a loose curl falling onto his flushed forehead, slick with sweat and nerves. "I watched some videos online and—and I just want to do this right."
You ran a soothing hand through his hair. "You will, baby. I'll teach you how. Just listen to me."
He pouts and nods furiously. It makes your heart ache a little bit. This man could fly you to the next galaxy and pluck the stars out of the sky for you, and he would still believe that he isn't good enough.
Lying half-naked on the bed with your thighs spread comfortably around his warm body, you lean back on your elbows. Bob is still dressed in his cozy forest-green crewneck sweater and cream-colored corduroy pants. You feel rather vulnerable being more exposed than him, but the thought of soaking his clothes with your juices and leaving your mark made you absolutely drip.
There is no doubting he could see how wet your pussy is. He seems too anxious to look directly at it, still wanting to play the perfect gentleman. Instead, he opts to take quick glances and then dart his eyes away before you can catch him staring.
You reach down and intertwine your fingers with his, trying to ground him. He offers you a shy, crooked smile that makes your heart leap. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to absolutely ruin this man; to make him cry, to make him scream, to turn him into your pliant little play-thing.
But that was for another time.
Tonight, you were teaching him how to worship you like a devoted acolyte at the altar.
"Okay," you murmur, "start with some kisses."
Bob leans down, practically folding himself over you. One of his massive hands snakes around your outer thigh, anchoring him in place as he turns his head inwards. He begins by nuzzling his nose against your inner thigh, breathing in the intoxicating scent of your soft skin. Then, he places a single, hesitant kiss.
And another. And another. And another, until he's trailing soft and reverent kisses all the way up to your core.
Just when he's hovering where you need him the most, mere centimeters away from your dripping cunt, he shifts to the other thigh to continue the exact same ritual. The way he's taking his time, so gentle and focused on doting on you, makes your head spin.
With each kiss, he starts to gain more courage. He brushes higher and higher until—
A sharp gasp escapes you as he finally kisses your center. There was no tongue yet. It was just sweet and tentative, like he was afraid to break you.
"That's good," you breathe. "Keep going. Don't be afraid to get a little messy, baby."
Bob's eyes flick up to you, tears already threatening to spill out while silently begging for permission. You nod.
That's all he needs.
He shifts in closer, parting your puffy lips with two thick fingers. Then, in a sudden burst of courage, he leans in and drags his tongue through you in one long, slow, mind-numbing stroke.
"Ohh—fuck."
He dives back in, repeating the motion. His head moves with growing enthusiasm, curls splaying against your tummy as he buries himself deeper within your thighs. It's sloppy. Unpracticed. But fuck, it feels so unbelievably good.
The way he groans against you is almost animalistic, like your taste shattered something in him and is currently rewiring his brain chemistry.
"Holy shit," he pants, pulling back just enough for air, his chin glistening with your slick. "You taste—fuck. Fuck you taste so good."
Before you can respond, he's back on you, devouring you like a starving man. He experiments with every flick and stroke of his tongue, eyes intently watching you—watching, listening, learning. He hones in on the spots that make your hips jerk or thighs clamp around his head.
Each moan you give him is answered by a deep, guttural sound from his throat, like he's getting off just from pleasing you. It's raw, unfiltered, and so undeniably desperate.
Then he pauses, breath warm and heavy against your skin. Slowly, carefully, he adjusts his position. His thumbs come up to gently pull back your hood, revealing the sensitive bundle of nerves underneath.
And then, ever so lightly, he starts to kitten-lick your clit.
He definitely learned that trick from the dozen of videos he watched for 'educational purposes'.
"Oh god, right there," you gasp, throwing your head back. "Right there. Just like that."
A high-pitched whine escapes him, almost as if he has been waiting his whole life to hear that he's doing a good job. His grip on your thighs tightens as he pulls you impossibly closer. He buries his face even deeper in your pussy, dragging slow and reverent strokes over your clit.
Wet clicking noises fill the air, mixing in with the grunts, pants, and your ragged cries.
You start to grind against his face, chasing that sweet, mounting pleasure in your abdomen. "A-ah—you're so good. Bob, you're doing so good."
He groans again, much louder this time. The vibration against your core makes your legs twitch.
His mouth is eager and deliciously sloppy, tongue flicking experimentally then circling with new precision when he hears your broken moans.
He's learning you inside and out—hungrily, obsessively. Every whimper and desperate cry to God you give him is fuel.
Then, his lips close around your clit and suck.
Your back arches. The sensation is pure electricity; it is magical yet almost painfully overwhelming.
"Fuck! Right there. Don't stop, don't stop."
He would rather die.
His fingers flex on the plush of your thighs to ground himself. This is the tightest he has ever held onto you. He's always worried about hurting you with his strength, opting for feather-light touches that never leave you feeling quite satisfied.
But now?
Now he's undeniably pussy-drunk, and the fear has vanished entirely.
"You're so pretty," he pants in between strokes, his words muffled against your cunt. "I want—to do this—forever. I'll—get better. Let me—make you come. Please."
You're already right there.
With your hips jerking, thighs trembling uncontrollably, and his name spilling out of your mouth like a prayer, you are coming undone. It's the worship in his voice, the way he presses adoring kisses to your clit between licks, and the primal desire he has to be good for you that sends you over the edge.
You wail, clutching his hair as your orgasm crashes over you. Your thighs clamp around him, your juices spilling out all over his lips and chin. He licks it up, greedy and reverent, not daring to waste a single drop.
But he doesn't stop.
Being as inexperienced as he is, he keeps going with the same eagerness and fervor. It helps you to ride out your high, but quickly leaves you feeling overstimulated. A part of you wanted to push through the pain and get lost in the pleasure again. However, that familiar sharp ache in your clit makes you flinch.
You squirm and push his head back. Only then does he finally pull away, eyes glazed over, like he just tasted heaven.
You're still catching your breath, thighs twitching as your body tries to recover from the storm he just dragged you through.
His voice cracks through the silence. Soft. Unsure. Raw.
"Did I do okay?" Bob asks, slowly rising.
You blink, trying to focus your vision on him once again. And fuck, he looks absolutely ruined.
His lips are pink and puffy. Your slick coats his chin and cheeks. His lashes are clumped with moisture, like he cried from overstimulation. Maybe he did.
Your chest aches again with that same devious desire to wreck him. The way he looks at you—like a sinner pleading for salvation—makes you feel like a goddess; divine and beautiful, with his animalistic devotion dripping from every glance.
You sit up on trembling elbows. "You did so good, baby. You were so perfect."
Relief washes over him. That same crooked little smile appears and his shoulders sag with solace.
"I wanna get better," he whispers, eyes flicking down to the damp spot on your bedsheets. "Wanna learn everything you like. Wanna be good for you every time."
That sends a pulse of heat straight through you. You reach out your arms in silent invitation.
He climbs up your body and you grab his jaw to kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth. You cradle his face as he hovers there. It is sticky and messy, but so painfully intimate.
"My good boy," you whisper against his lips, rubbing your thumbs just underneath his eyes where the tears escaped. "I adore you."
A blush spreads across his cheeks.
He gently lowers his full weight against you and shyly nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. You stroke his hair, over and over, slow and calming. Every pass of your hand helps him relax, to feel safe and appreciated.
"You okay?" you ask softly, careful not to disturb his peace.
Bob nods into your skin. "Never been better."
You press a kiss to the crown of his head. "You're trembling."
"Only a little," he admits, arms wrapping around your waist. "Just can't believe I did that."
You lay there for awhile in the quiet afterglow. His breathing eventually evens out but your fingers never stop moving; they stroke his back, lightly scratch at his neck and scalp, and trace soothing circles between his shoulder blades.
Eventually, his voice breaks through the stillness again. It is low and timid.
"When you're ready. . ." he begins.
You hum, eyes still closed. "Yeah?"
There's a pause. Then, you can feel a bashful grin growing against your neck.
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
Summary: You finally find out the real reason behind Bob’s protective side.
a/n: I saw Thunderbolts* yesterday, and I’m craving more of Lewis Pullman 😛😩
This team gets on your nerves, whether it’s Hangman’s cocky asshole attitude or Roosters constant issues with Mav. Somehow you’re always getting in the middle of something and you’re tired of these damn pushups.
Bob is your weapons systems officer. He’s sweet and nothing but kind when it comes to you. It’s frustrating, though, because you know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but you don’t need him to stick up for you.
It feels like he pities you, he challenges hangman when he says asshole things, he defends your choices when Mav questions you. He just doesn’t understand that you can speak for yourself.
These dog-fights with Maverick have almost been the death of you. Maybe you’re an overachiever, but you’ve never needed to keep redoing and redoing exercises. It’s never been an issue for you to work in a team, but Hangman refuses to.
“Fuck!” you slam your hand against the dash of the plane, tears building in your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you sigh away the anger, letting your head fall back against the seat. Bob tenses in the seat behind you as you land the plane.
“Y/N? Are you okay?” his voice rings out, bringing you back into reality.
“Yep. Let’s just get this over with.” Your tone is more firm than usual, irritation filling your veins as you exit the vehicle.
Hangman begins spewing his usual bullshit, cockiness radiating off him even though you just lost. Bob argues with Hangman in the background as you ignore them, getting ready to get those damn pushups out of the way.
The only thing you need right now is an ice-cold shower and whiskey on the rocks. You’re pulling your uniform off your shoulders while walking toward the bar, Bob is hot on your heels, along with Rooster and FanBoy.
“How’s it goin’?” Bradley wraps an arm around your shoulder, the familiarity of his touch doing little to ease your annoyance. You shift out of his embrace, not wanting to talk to anyone.
Bob and Rooster make eye contact, shrugging as they notice your strange mood. “You got this one, Bob?” he nods in response, following after you once again.
“Y/N?” he settles down next to you at the bar, shifting his weight as you stare down at the counter. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” You ignore him, taking down your drink in one gulp.
“I’m alright, Bob, just.. Annoyed.” you sigh, glancing at him slightly. He nods in response, fingers fumbling with his beer bottle.
“Did-” he begins before you cut him off.
“We were so close, Bob!” your tone is laced with irritation, “We almost got him and then you got, distracted.” You roll your eyes, sliding the glass to the side.
“I know.. I know and I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that, you shouldn’t have needed to do all those pushups because of my-” you glare at him, everything he does just annoys you, he’s so nice even when you don’t deserve it.
“Why do you take the blame for every little thing?” Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you’re hot, irritated, and red hot. “Leave it alone, Bob.” You storm out, admittedly a little childish, but you need the fresh air.
Sitting down on the porch, you breathe in the scent of sea water, the wood creaks under a pair of boots next to you.
“I’m sorry, Y/N, I didn’t mean to do anything to frustrate you.” his tone is the same soft and gentle one per usual. “If I can do anything, say anything, get you anything, please just let me know. I wanna help, we’re a pair, Y/N,” he says, settling down next to you cautiously.
“Bob, you’re annoying me.” You groan, hating the butterflies in your stomach, and his heart drops as he straightens up. Your words sting him a little more than intended, and you see it in his demeanor.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that..” you trail off chewing on your lip while watching him fumble with his hands.” I didn’t mean to, you dont deserve that, it’s just frustrating to have you constantly siding with me, being so nice, and sticking up for me.” you groan.
“I know you mean well, but I can fight my own battles Bob.” you sigh, shifting uncomfortably as you look him over.
Bob looks down at his hands, the sound of his fingers cracking fills the air as he processes your words. He hates your irritation being directed at him, but he knows you’re right. He’s been a little overprotective lately, and you’re feeling chafed by his kindness. It’s not what he wanted.
“It’s just…” Bob pauses, his mind struggling to find the right words. “It’s not about thinking you can’t fight your own battles. I mean, I know you can.” Bob leans back, resting his head against a pole.
“I know we’re a team, but we haven’t worked together like this before, not on a mission this important.” you sigh, resting your face in your hands. "I just wish you wouldn't make me look so weak in front of everyone, just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I need pity, Bob." You shut your eyes, taking steadying breaths.
Bob's eyes widen slightly, finally being able to grasp what is going on. He's been treating you like you're fragile, and you're getting fed up. It hits him like a truck, and the guilt instantly seeps into his bones.
"I know... I know, you're strong," he says, the shame evident in his voice. "I don't think you're weak, and I *don't* pity you." Bob's fingers twist together, frustration with himself bubbling up within him.
Bob rubs his face, he’s always had a crush on you, ever since he laid eyes on you. For Bob, you’re not just a talented pilot and a teammate, you’re smart, strong-willed, independent, and absolutely gorgeous.
His protective nature stems from the fact that he cares about you, a little more than he should. He’s scared of losing you, of getting you hurt, and it shows in his overprotectiveness and constant apologizing.
“I’m sorry, Bob, I shouldn’t have held this against you. Hangman is the one who left us to fend for our own. It’s not your fault.” You lean closer to him, brushing your shoulder against his.
Bob's shoulders tense up for a moment, caught off guard by your sudden apology. Your touch, even as simple as your shoulder against his, has his heart beating faster. He relaxes a little, feeling relieved that you're not as irritated with him anymore.
"Thank you," he whispers, his voice soft as he relaxes his tense shoulders, he takes a deep breath. "But I still want to apologize for being so overprotective."
“I guess I just don’t understand why you’re so protective when it comes to *me*,” you scan his face, eyes wandering his features. “I know we’re friends outside of work, but.. I just don’t get it.”
Bob's heart leaps into his throat, his mind racing with nerves. This is the moment, the one he’s been scared of for the past few months. He’s always liked you, but he’s kept it to himself because of his shy nature, and he was afraid of ruining your friendship.
He takes a shaky breath, his fingers trembling as he fidgets with them."I…uhh" Bob struggles to find the right words, the truth on the tip of his tongue.
"Yeah?" you question, scooting closer to him, basking in the gentle heat of his body.
Bob's heart pounds in his chest, his cheeks heating up from your close proximity. He can smell your perfume, and the closeness makes his knees weak.
"I… I care about you a lot," he manages, his voice shaky, eyes refusing to meet yours. Bob's hands twitch with the nervous energy that courses through him, his fingers clenching into fists and unclenching rhythmically.
"A lot?" Your cheeks turn a slight pink. "In what way, Bob?"
Bob's words get stuck in his throat, his breath hitches as he looks up at you, your eyes burning into his soul. He swallows hard, unable to hold your gaze, but at the same time craving it.
"In every way imaginable," he breathes out, his heart pounding against his ribcage, "I care about you, more than I probably should." This is it, all or nothing, he can't back out now.
You take in a shaky breath, eyes focusing on everything but him as his words echo in your mind.
Bob watches your face, his heart in his throat as he waits for your response. The silence between you both is loud, making him almost sick to his stomach as he waits for your reaction. He’s so desperate to know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, but your expression is unreadable.
"Please say something," he mutters softly, his hand twitching to reach out and touch you, but his fear stops him.
You clear your throat, standing up and stretching, and your heart is racing in your chest. Being with Bob, it's what you want, but what if it changes things or makes both of you unable to go on the mission? Your mind is reeling, and you begin to pace.
Bob follows your movements with his gaze, your nervous behavior making his heart ache. He knows he messed up, he should have kept his stupid feelings to himself. Now he's just made everything awkward.
With you moving around so much, unable to sit still, he stands up as well, worry etched across his face. "Y/N, I'm sorry, I didn't-" his voice is trembling as he tries to apologize, but you simply start pacing.
You shake your head, "You don't need to apologize, Bob." Turning back to him, you take a few steps until you're right in front of him again.
Bob stands still, his heart practically beating out of his chest, as you walk closer to him. Your proximity takes his breath away, and he can’t tear his eyes off your face. All he can focus on is your every move, the way your lips are slightly parted, and how your cheeks are tinged pink.
He has to fight the urge to pull you into his arms and hold you close, but the nervousness in his veins keeps him rooted to the spot. "Y/N..” he breathes out, his voice low and unsteady.
"Bob," you whisper, "Please.." Your words, your simple plea, are all it takes for Bob to snap. His brain short-circuits as every thought about consequences and missions leaves his mind, replaced with one sole desire. *You.*
In the blink of an eye, his hands find your waist, and in another, he's pulling you flush against him. His lips crash into yours with a desperate need, as every pent-up feeling, every piece of suppressed desire is unleashed.
Your hands reach up to his face, gripping his face as you pull him closer, desperate for more.
Bob is completely lost in the moment, his hands exploring your waist, your back, your face, trying to touch every inch of you. Your touch ignites something within him, and his kiss deepens as he presses his body against yours.
He pushes you backward until your back hits a wall, his hands gripping your hips as he cages you against the surface, his kiss still feverish, hungry, desperate.
You pull away reluctantly, gasping in a few breaths before speaking. "Bob, we need to go.. I *need* you," you whisper, kissing his face and neck. Bob lets out a soft groan at your words, the feeling of your kisses sending tremors through him, the need in your voice making his knees weak.
"Go... where?" he breathes out, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you closer, afraid that if he lets go of you, you'll disappear. He wants you badly, the mission forgotten in a haze of desire.
"I have a place," you practically moan, enjoying the desperation in his touch. All coherent thoughts leave Bob's mind as your moan is like music to his ears. He practically whimpers against your touch, the need for you nearly overwhelming.
"Lead the way," he mutters, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your neck before reluctantly releasing his grip. Even though he's letting go of you, his hand takes yours, unwilling to lose physical contact.
With your hand in his, Bob follows you to the secluded spot you've chosen, his heart racing in anticipation. The gentle squeeze of your hand reassures him that this is what you want, too. Once you're both inside, the door clicks shut, and the tension in the room thickens.
You turn to face him, the hunger in your eyes matching his own. His hands trace the curve of your waist, pulling you closer as your mouths find each other again in a passionate kiss that leaves you both breathless.
With no more words needed, you both stumble over to the bed, the need for each other overwhelming. Bob gently lays you down, his eyes never leaving yours as he starts to unbutton your shirt. His touch is reverent, his every move filled with a passion that has been building for so long.
You help him, pulling his shirt off over his head, feeling the warmth of his bare skin against yours. As the fabric of your clothes falls away, Bob’s eyes roam over your bare skin, tracing every curve and dip with a hunger that’s been building.
His hands rough yet gentle, his kisses leaving a trail of fire down your neck as he unclasps your bra. The coolness of the air meets your heated skin, sending shivers down your spine. He worships your body, his hands exploring every inch with a passion that leaves you trembling with anticipation.
The feel of his bare chest against yours is electric, his skin smooth and warm as he kisses his way down to your stomach. You gasp as his fingers find their way under the band of your pants, unbuttoning them with trembling hands. The touch of his skin against yours sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making you arch into his touch.
His eyes meet yours, questioning, and when you nod, he pulls your pants down, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His eyes widen with awe, his breath hitching as he takes in the sight of you, fully exposed and desiring him.
His thumb brushes against your inner thigh, sending a rush of heat to your core, making you whimper. His touch is soft yet demanding as he explores you, his eyes never leaving yours, drinking in every reaction you give him.
You're both lost in the moment, the only sound in the room being the ragged breaths and soft moans that escape your lips. Bob leans in, his mouth replacing his fingers, and your world explodes into a symphony of pleasure.
His name becomes a chant on your lips as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, your legs wrapping around his head as you pull him deeper into your warmth. The intensity of the moment reaches its peak as Bob's tongue meets your center, his strokes firm and precise.
You moan deeply, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the pleasure builds. He's relentless, his every move calculated to push you closer to the edge. His hands are everywhere, caressing your breasts, teasing your nipples until they're peaked and sensitive.
The sound of your breathy pleas and the wetness of your desire driving him wild. He can't get enough of you, can't get close enough. You're soaking wet for him, and the scent of your arousal fills the air, making him crave you even more. His mouth is a masterpiece of pleasure, teasing and sucking, swirling and flicking, until you're panting his name and your body is tightening around his tongue.
You're close, so close, and just when you think you can't handle it anymore, he slides a finger inside you, the pressure inside you building until it snaps. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed.
You scream out his name as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath.
Bob pulls away, his face flushed and his eyes dark with lust, as he watches the aftershocks of your climax ripple through your body. He quickly removes his pants, his cock standing at full attention. The sight of him sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making you ache for him.
He positions himself over you, and with one swift thrust, he's inside, filling you completely. Your legs wrap around him as he begins to move, his hips pumping in a rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart.
The feeling is indescribable, a mix of pleasure and pain, of need and satisfaction, as he stretches and fills you over and over again. Your eyes lock onto his, and it's as if you're seeing him for the first time, really seeing the depth of his feelings for you, the desire and love that he's been hiding.
The friction is perfect, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body with every movement. You rock your hips up to meet his, desperate to get even closer. His hands are everywhere, holding you down, caressing you, making sure you feel every inch of him.
Your bodies move in a dance that's been choreographed by months of tension and unspoken desires. Each stroke is a promise, each touch a declaration of his feelings.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another deep kiss, your tongues tangling as your bodies move together in perfect sync. The sound of your skin slapping against his fills the room, mixing with the desperate moans and gasps that escape both of your mouths. Bob's pace quickens, driven by the passion that fuels him, and you can feel him getting closer to his release.
You're so lost in the sensation that you don't even notice when the second orgasm starts to build, creeping up on you like a thief in the night. It takes you by surprise, stealing your breath away as it crashes over you, making your body tighten around him. Bob groans into your mouth, his release following closely behind, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his warmth.
You collapse onto the bed, your bodies still entwined, hearts racing, and skin slick with sweat. The room is silent except for the sound of your panting breaths, both of you trying to come down from the high of finally giving in to the passion that's been burning between you. The weight of his body on top of yours is comforting, grounding, as you bask in the afterglow of your shared ecstasy.
Bob pulls out gently, collapsing beside you, and you roll over to face him, your eyes searching his for any signs of regret. But all you see is love and satisfaction, mirroring your own emotions. You reach out, brushing the hair out of his eyes, and he smiles at you, the tension of the day forgotten as you both drift into a contented silence, the kind that comes from knowing you've found something real in a world full of danger and uncertainty.
Bob's mind is spinning as he shifts to lie there next to you, completely stunned by the intensity of what just happened. His fingers gently trace patterns on your skin, a soft smile playing on his lips as he takes in the blissful expression on your face. Every nerve ending in his body is buzzing, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through him.
"That was..." he finally manages to breathe out, his voice thick with emotion, "That was amazing." Bob's heart still races, his head reeling from the intensity of the connection between you both.
You nod breathlessly, resting your face on his chest, cuddling close against him.
Summary: You and Bob Floyd are long-term roommates. Not fake. Not temporary. Actual “we share groceries, know each other’s schedules, and argue about laundry” roommates. It started out practical. It stayed comfortable. It accidentally became everything.
Robert “Bob” Floyd
Word count: 3.5k
A/N: Idk how i feel about this but i wish i had a bob. This was requested by one of my absolute fav blogs on here, they have the best fic reqs! @obsessedromancereader. Side note: i just watched people we meet on vacation and omg it was so good i love emily! Which makes me think, Bob or Rooster au?
It’s easy in the way breathing is easy. In the way muscle memory is easy. In the way you don’t realize how deep you’re in until someone asks a casual question and your mouth opens on autopilot.
You wake up before your alarm most mornings, not because you’re disciplined, but because Bob moves quietly through the apartment like he’s afraid of startling the walls. The soft click of the kettle. The low hum of the vent fan. The barely-there sound of socked feet on tile.
You don’t even open your eyes when he passes your door.
“Morning,” he says anyway. Always does. Even when you’re half-asleep. Even when you don’t answer.
“Mornin’,” you mumble back, voice rough, face buried in your pillow.
He smiles. You know he does. You can hear it.
By the time you drag yourself out of bed, hair a mess and wearing one of his old Navy hoodies (which is not a big deal, because it’s basically communal at this point), the kitchen smells like coffee and something warm and toasted.
Bob stands at the counter, glasses on, sleeves rolled up, methodically buttering toast like it’s a sacred ritual.
“You’re up early,” he says without turning around.
“You woke me up.”
“I was quiet.”
“You exist loudly.”
That gets a huff of a laugh. He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes soft behind the lenses. “Coffee’s ready.”
You grab a mug from the cabinet you both pretend you don’t have memorized. He already put in the creamer the way you like it. You don’t comment on it. He doesn’t either.
This is how it always is.
You lean against the counter, sipping, watching him move around the kitchen with practiced ease. He’s wearing his squadron tee and gym shorts, hair still damp from the shower. There’s a faint scar along his forearm you’ve traced absentmindedly more than once while sitting on opposite ends of the couch.
You shouldn’t think about that.
“Rooster texted,” Bob says casually. “He’s dragging the squad to the Hard Deck tonight.”
You groan. “On a Tuesday?”
“He says morale is low.”
“Morale is low because Hangman exists.”
Bob snorts, unable to help it. “Fair.”
You tilt your head, watching him. “You going?”
He hesitates. Just a fraction of a second too long.
“I mean,” he says carefully, “only if you want to.”
There it is. That thing he does. Like your opinion weighs more than his own.
You shrug. “I’m in if you are.”
Relief flickers across his face so quickly it almost hurts to notice.
“Cool,” he says. “Yeah. Cool.”
You both sip your coffee in silence, the comfortable kind. The kind that feels earned. The kind that would look suspicious to anyone watching too closely.
-
The thing about being roommates with Bob Floyd is that you fall into patterns.
Domestic ones.
Unavoidable ones.
Like movie nights that start with “we can just watch one episode” and end with you asleep halfway across his chest, his arm automatically adjusting around you without waking either of you up.
Like grocery runs that are supposed to be quick and somehow take forty-five minutes because Bob insists on reading labels.
“This one has more protein,” he says, holding up a box.
“It tastes like drywall.”
He frowns. “It’s… lightly sweetened.”
“You are lying with confidence.”
He sighs, puts it back, and grabs your usual without comment. You notice. You always do.
Like laundry nights where your clothes end up mixed together because separating them feels pointless—and because he once folded one of your shirts without realizing it and apologized like he’d committed a crime.
“You don’t have to ask permission to touch my clothes, Bob.”
“I know,” he said. “Still feels like I should.”
Like the way he always knocks before entering your room, even though you’ve told him a hundred times he doesn’t need to—and the way you still appreciate it every time.
It’s not romantic.
That’s what you tell yourself.
It’s just… Bob.
-
The Squad does not believe this for a second.
You find that out later that afternoon, sprawled on the couches in the ready room while Fanboy scrolls through his phone and Payback argues with Coyote about something deeply stupid.
Bob is next to you, shoulder brushing yours, focused on a Rubik’s cube he’s been trying to solve for twenty minutes.
“You know,” Phoenix says, eyes flicking between you and Bob, “you two have weird energy.”
You blink. “Excuse you?”
“Weird,” she repeats. “Not bad. Just… very married.”
Bob drops the cube.
“What?” you both say at the same time.
Hangman swivels in his chair, immediately interested. “Oh my god, thank you. I’ve been saying this.”
Bob’s ears go red. “We’re not—”
“We’re roommates,” you add quickly.
“Yeah,” Fanboy says, not looking up. “So were my parents for six years before they figured it out.”
You sit up. “Figured what out?”
“That they were in love,” Payback says, smirking. “Duh.”
Bob clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “We’re just… friends.”
Hangman grins like a shark that’s smelled blood. “Friends don’t share hoodies, Robert.”
You glance down at the hoodie you’re wearing.
Bob’s hoodie.
“I have my own clothes,” you protest weakly.
“Name one,” Coyote challenges.
You open your mouth.
Pause.
Bob watches you, expression unreadable.
“…Rude,” you mutter.
Phoenix laughs. “Look, we’re just saying. If it walks like a duck and argues about groceries like a married couple—”
“We do not argue about groceries,” Bob says.
“You bought crunchy peanut butter,” you shoot back instantly. “You know I hate that.”
“That was one time.”
“And it was a betrayal.”
The room goes quiet.
Hangman points between the two of you. “See? That. That right there.”
Bob rubs the back of his neck. “We’re fine.”
You nod, too quickly. “We’re fine.”
No one believes you.
-
That night at the Hard Deck is loud and crowded and smells like spilled beer and bad decisions.
Bob sticks close to you, not in a possessive way—just in a Bob way. Like he’s your anchor in the chaos. You lean toward each other to talk, knees brushing under the table.
Hangman watches with an infuriatingly smug expression.
“So,” he says, leaning back. “You seeing anyone?”
You choke on your drink. “What?”
Bob stiffens beside you.
“No,” you say quickly. “Why?”
Hangman shrugs. “Just curious.”
“Since when are you curious about my love life?”
“Since it started affecting squad morale.”
You glare. “It doesn’t.”
Bob clears his throat. “I don’t think—”
Phoenix kicks Hangman under the table. “Drop it.”
But the question lingers.
You feel it like a weight.
Later, when the music’s too loud and Bob goes to grab another round, Hangman leans in again.
“You ever think,” he says quietly, “that you two are playing chicken?”
“With what?” you ask.
“With your feelings.”
You scoff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He studies you for a moment, unusually serious. “Yeah. I do.”
Bob comes back then, setting a glass in front of you automatically.
You don’t meet his eyes.
-
At home, the apartment is quiet and dim, the familiar comfort settling around you like a blanket.
Bob kicks off his shoes and pauses. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He hesitates, then says softly, “If Hangman said something—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in. Too fast. Too sharp.
He flinches, just a little.
“Okay,” he says after a beat. “Night.”
“Night, Bob.”
You both retreat to your rooms, doors clicking shut.
And for the first time since you moved in together, the silence feels… loud.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, heart doing something annoying in your chest.
In the next room, Bob stares at his own ceiling, glasses set carefully on the nightstand, replaying every word, every look, every almost.
Neither of you sleeps well.
And neither of you admits why.
-
The problem with pretending nothing’s wrong is that your body doesn’t get the memo.
You notice it the next morning when Bob is already awake—again—and you walk into the kitchen half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing one of his T-shirts this time. You don’t even clock it until he freezes mid-pour, coffee splashing dangerously close to the rim.
“Sorry,” you say automatically. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” he lies, setting the mug down too carefully. His ears are red. Again.
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him from under your lashes. There’s something different in the air. Thicker. Like you’re both aware of the same fragile thing and refusing to name it.
“Sleep okay?” he asks.
You shrug. “You?”
A pause.
“Not really.”
That makes your chest tighten. “Oh.”
Silence stretches. The kettle clicks off with a sharp snap that makes you both flinch.
Bob clears his throat. “I’ve got an early brief. I’ll be late tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.”
You hate how disappointed that sounds.
He hesitates by the door, hand on the knob. For a second, you think he’s going to say something—anything—but then he just nods and leaves.
The door shuts softly.
You stare at it longer than you should.
-
Unfortunately your friends seem to have all the time in the world today
By lunch, you’re cornered in the ready room with Phoenix and Rooster while Bob’s stuck in debrief hell.
“So,” Rooster says, popping open a bag of chips, “how’s domestic bliss?”
You glare. “We’re not married.”
“Yet,” Phoenix adds brightly.
You groan. “You guys are impossible.”
Phoenix leans in, elbows on her knees. “Okay, serious question. When was the last time either of you went on a date that wasn’t accidentally with each other?”
You open your mouth.
Close it.
Rooster grins. “That long, huh?”
“We’re busy,” you say defensively. “Work. Life.”
“Bob Floyd schedules his relaxation,” Phoenix says. “You’re telling me he hasn’t penciled in a girlfriend because—what—he forgot?”
Your heart stutters. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” she asks gently.
You don’t have an answer.
-
That night, Bob comes home later than usual. You’re on the couch, pretending to watch something while actually replaying every stupid interaction you’ve had for the past six months.
He stops short when he sees you.
“Oh. Hey,” he says. “Didn’t know you’d be up.”
You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He sits on the opposite end of the couch, careful. Too careful.
The TV drones on. Neither of you is watching.
After a minute, he exhales. “Listen… about last night.”
Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”
“I don’t want things to be weird,” he says quietly. “If they are.”
“They’re not,” you say immediately.
He looks at you then. Really looks. His gaze is steady, searching, like he’s trying to read something written between the lines.
“…Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound convinced.
Another pause. This one heavier.
“Bob,” you start, then stop. Your heart’s pounding too loud.
“Yes?”
You swallow. “Nothing. Sorry.”
He nods, disappointment flickering across his face before he masks it. “Right. Goodnight.”
“Night.”
He disappears down the hall, leaving the couch cold beside you.
You don’t move for a long time.
-
Things get worse before they get better.
There’s a charity event on base the following weekend—volunteer sign-ups, mandatory attendance for optics, the usual. You and Bob end up assigned together because of course you do.
It’s harmless. Easy. Until it isn’t.
You’re sorting supplies when Bob brushes past you in the cramped storage room, his hand landing briefly on your waist to steady himself.
The touch is nothing.
It feels like everything.
You both freeze.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but his hand doesn’t move right away.
Your breath catches. You can feel the warmth of him, solid and familiar and suddenly too much.
“It’s—fine,” you manage.
His hand drops like he’s been burned.
The rest of the afternoon is tense, quiet, careful. Phoenix watches from across the room with narrowed eyes.
That night, she corners Bob.
“You’re in love with her,” she says bluntly.
Bob blinks. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’re bad at it.”
He rubs his face, exhausted. “It’s complicated.”
“No,” she says. “It’s scary. There’s a difference.”
Across the room, Rooster is saying the same thing to you.
“You like him,” he says gently.
You scoff. “We’re friends.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like my jet. Doesn’t mean I don’t know when I’d crash it for something that matters more.”
You stare at the floor.
-
The breaking point comes quietly.
It’s a Tuesday. Nothing special. You’re both home late, passing each other in the hallway like strangers.
Bob stops. “Hey.”
You turn. “Hey.”
Another pause. You’re sick of pauses.
“Do you ever think,” you ask softly, “that we’re… avoiding something?”
His breath hitches.
“Yes,” he says, just as quietly.
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Why?”
He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel him.
“Because if we’re wrong,” he says, voice steady but eyes anything but, “we lose what we already have.”
“And if we’re right?” you whisper.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“Then I don’t know how I’ve been living like this,” he admits.
The air between you hums.
You don’t kiss him.
You don’t need to.
Not yet.
But when you go to bed that night, you both know—this isn’t something you can keep pretending away.
-
The night it finally breaks isn’t dramatic.
There’s no argument. No raised voices. No grand, cinematic moment where everything explodes at once.
It’s quiet. Ordinary. Almost cruel in how normal it starts.
You’re both in the kitchen, late again, moving around each other with the kind of familiarity that’s been earned over years—muscle memory and shared space and unspoken rules. Bob is rinsing a mug at the sink. You’re leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching him like you’ve been doing too often lately.
The air feels… heavy.
Not awkward. Not tense.
Weighted.
Like something is pulling at both of you, insistent and patient, waiting for one of you to stop resisting.
Bob dries his hands slowly. Doesn’t turn around.
“You ever feel like the universe is laughing at us?” he asks.
Your chest tightens. “Define ‘us.’”
He huffs out a soft breath. “That’s fair.”
You straighten. “Bob—”
He turns then, finally, and whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.
He looks tired. Not exhausted—just worn in that quiet way he gets when he’s been carrying something alone for too long. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for impact.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he says.
Your heart stutters. “Doing what?”
“Pretending I don’t feel it every time you walk into a room,” he answers, voice calm but threaded with something dangerously close to breaking. “Pretending I don’t wake up every morning hoping you’ll already be in the kitchen. Pretending I’m not constantly calculating how close is too close and whether I’m allowed to miss you when you’re literally down the hall.”
You swallow hard. “Bob…”
“I know the risks,” he continues quickly, like if he slows down he’ll lose his nerve. “I know we’re roommates. I know this could screw everything up. I know we could lose what we have.”
He takes a step closer.
“But I also know I’m already losing it,” he says quietly. “Because I’m in love with you, and pretending otherwise is killing me.”
The words land softly.
They devastate you anyway.
You don’t speak right away. You can’t. Your throat is tight, eyes burning, heart pounding so hard it’s almost embarrassing.
Bob notices. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he says gently, instantly worried. “You don’t have to—”
You close the distance between you before he can finish the sentence.
You don’t kiss him yet. You just press your forehead to his chest, breathing him in, hands fisting in the fabric of his T-shirt like you need the anchor.
“I was wondering how long it would take you,” you murmur.
He freezes. “What?”
You laugh softly, the sound shaky but real. “To say it out loud.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You… knew?”
“I’ve been in love with you since somewhere between you fixing my sink at two in the morning and you memorizing how I take my coffee,” you admit. “I just thought… if you wanted it, you’d say something.”
“I thought the same thing,” he says helplessly.
You shake your head. “We’re idiots.”
A breath leaves him—half laugh, half relief.
“Yes,” he agrees. “We really are.”
The silence that follows is different this time. Softer. Safer. Like the ground has finally stopped shifting beneath your feet.
Bob lifts a hand, hesitates—then cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw like he’s checking if this is real.
“Can I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod.
That’s all the permission he needs.
The kiss is nothing like you imagined—and somehow exactly right.
It’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s careful and reverent and deeply emotional, like he’s been holding this moment in his chest for years and doesn’t want to break it. His lips are warm, steady, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees go weak.
You melt into him.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling like fools.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you echo.
He rests his forehead against yours again, breathing you in. “So… what does this mean for us?”
You smile, heart full. “It means we’re still roommates.”
He groans. “Tragic.”
“And,” you add, “we’re still best friends.”
He relaxes. “Good.”
“And,” you finish, fingers curling into his shirt, “we’re figuring this out together.”
His smile is slow and sure. “I’d like that.”
-
The Squad finds out within twenty-four hours.
You don’t even tell them. Phoenix does.
She takes one look at the way Bob’s hand rests at your lower back in the ready room and makes a sound of deep, vindicated satisfaction.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Finally.”
Rooster blinks between the two of you. “Wait. You’re—like—official?”
Bob clears his throat. “We’re… yes.”
Hangman squints. “So all that tension was for free?”
You glare at him. “Die mad.”
Coyote grins. “I give it three weeks before they start arguing about thermostat settings.”
Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “We already do.”
Bob doesn’t let go of your hand once.
Later that night, back home, you sit together on the couch—closer than before, but not rushed. Comfortable. Easy. Earned.
Bob kisses your temple.
“You know,” he murmurs, “I don’t regret waiting.”
You tilt your head to look at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “It made this… right.”
You lean into him, heart steady for the first time in a long while.
And for once, the future doesn’t feel scary.
It feels like home.
-
Six months later, the apartment still looks the same.
Same couch with the crooked cushion. Same coffee table with the wobble you keep forgetting to fix. Same kitchen light that flickers if you don’t smack the switch just right.
The difference is Bob.
And you.
You’re barefoot in the kitchen, standing on a chair because you’re stubborn and refuse to admit the top shelf is too high. Bob is behind you, hands hovering at your waist like he’s waiting for gravity to betray you.
“I can grab it,” he says patiently.
“I’m fine,” you insist, stretching higher.
“You said that last time and I caught you with one arm and a bag of flour with the other.”
“That was one time.”
“That was three days ago.”
You finally snag the box you were reaching for and pump your fist in victory. “See? Independent.”
Bob sighs, but he’s smiling when you climb down and immediately lean back into his chest like you didn’t just prove his point.
“Admit it,” you say. “You like catching me.”
He wraps his arms around you without hesitation. “I like not letting you get hurt.”
You tilt your head back to look at him. “That’s basically the same thing.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Not even close.”
The domesticity of it still hits you sometimes—hard and out of nowhere. How easy this feels. How natural. Like your life quietly rearranged itself while you weren’t looking.
You make dinner together. You argue about seasoning. You steal bites off his plate. He lets you, even though he pretends not to.
Later, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled, his arm heavy and warm around your shoulders. The TV is on, but neither of you is paying attention.
Bob’s thumb traces slow, absentminded circles against your arm.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
You hum. “You always do.”
He hesitates. Just a beat. “Do you ever think about… what would’ve happened if we’d said something sooner?”
You think about it honestly.
“All the time,” you admit. “But I don’t wish we had.”
He looks down at you. “Yeah?”
You nod. “We needed to be us first. The dumb jokes. The shared groceries. The unspoken trust. If we’d rushed it, I think we would’ve been scared.”
Bob exhales, relief softening his shoulders. “I’m really glad it was you.”
