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“Hey, you’re okay, c’mon. Just breathe.”
It’s low, meant to soothe, to bring him back, but he ignores it. He’s not meant for it, not built for it, the softness.
“Shit, fuck, bud, okay, let’s just— uh, hold hands.”
Warmth envelopes his trembling hand, and he nearly flinches, stops himself only through sheer willpower. Everything is so dark, so cold, but not that touch. Not that voice.
“There we go, doin’ great.”
You’re not, something within him hisses, sharp and mean and ugly, and it has him curling into himself that much tighter, a strangled noise catching in his throat. You’re fucking useless, falling apart at every little thing. There’s something wrong with you—
“Okay,” That voice— John’s voice— drawls, and another hand settles at the nape of his neck, steady and firm and grounding. “Yep, we’re not doing that. No weird shadow shame rooms today, pal. Sorry. We’ve got shit to do.”
They have nothing to do. Nothing but wandering around this empty, dead tower and staring down at the city crawling along without them. Nothing but drowning in the emptiness echoing around them.
“Aren’t you tired?” He whispers, and it doesn’t even sound like him at all. Walker goes rigid against him. “I am. ‘M so tired.”
“Hey,” Walker’s voice has softened into something unfamiliar, something quiet. “I need you to look at me. C’mon, open your eyes, it’s okay.”
He does, only because the darkness has leached into every part of himself and he wonders if there was ever anything good to begin with, wonders if the light still exists.
Walker is crouched in front of him, hair tousled and eyes so, so blue, looking at him like he’s something worth knowing. Worth saving.
Bob lets out a shaky, shuddering breath.
“There you are,” Walker murmurs, and part of him wants to shy away from the closeness of it, the intimacy, but another part of him basks in it. Leans towards that steady assurance and cool calm and drinks it in. “Not goin’ anywhere, man, ‘m right here with you.”
“‘M so tired.” He says again, a little more broken, a whimper on the tail end that he can’t quite snatch back, and Walker’s fingers tighten on the back of his neck. “I—“
“Just breathe.” Walker says firmly, pressing that bit closer until their foreheads touch and stay there, locked together. Bob shivers through the aftershocks and brings his hands up to clutch at Walker’s dark hoodie. “Stay with me, that’s all you’ve got to do. Only thing you need to be worrying about.”
Stay.
The order clangs through him, ringing through his skull. All he has to do is breathe. Stay. Stay pressed up close, breathing the same air and feeling the warmth of those calloused hands.
It’s easy, simple.
To just— be.
Walker must feel the tension leave him, must be able to see the shadows start to lighten, because he lets out a relieved breath and loosens his hold the slightest bit. “Fuck,” He says, mostly to himself, eyes sliding shut for a moment, before they open again and find Bob’s. “Good job, bud. You’re doin’ great.”
It’s almost jarring to see the change in Walker’s demeanor. All rough, jagged edges blunting themselves for him, warping into something cajoling, something giving.
He makes a noise, small, and Walker thumbs at the hinge of his jaw, a quick motion, there and gone.
“I’m sorry,” Bob whispers, feels his chest threaten to crack under the weight of it. He’s always doing this, creating problems. Making the others drag him back and piece him together. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.
He’s startled by Walker giving his head a little shake, like he’s an unruly dog. “Uh uh. Nope. Eyes up.”
He hadn’t even realized they’d drifted, and he lifts them back to meet that startling blue and blinks, slow and stupid.
“There,” Walker hums, unyielding, firm. He’s as steadfast in this as he is in everything. “Stay with me, no thinking.”
No thinking, as if it was ever really that simple. It was hard not to think when he was drowning in the man’s scent, burning from his touch, falling apart from the inside out.
“No thinking,” Bob repeats, a little numbly. He can do this. He has to, because the rest of the team is out on missions and John is all he has, injured and sidelined as he is. He’s surprised the man had found him when he did, curled up in the common room, shadows lengthening along the walls. “No thinking.” He says again, mostly to himself.
But that’s impossible, because if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s spiraling, and right now, he has a hell of a lot to overthink.
What are we, he wants to say. Why do you hold me, and let me hold you, but you won’t talk to me? What am I to you?
“Good,” John murmurs, and his hand is tangling in the ends of Bob’s hair, threading through and tugging lightly. It’s beautifully distracting, but instead of leaning into it, something in his chest constricts tighter, something aching and yearning. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”
Bob is silent for a beat, contemplating the merits of just maintaining his silence and dying with this, the fondness that threatens to burst from his chest, the want that floods through him every time John’s face goes pink with embarrassment and they brush against each other in the halls.
And it’s not like it’s all John’s fault. He’s contributed, sure, with the way they’re both dancing around the obvious, forcing his brain to do cartwheels to try to figure out what it is they’re doing, but Bob is also just— down. Like, pretty much all the time, and even though it’s been getting better, sometimes it just creeps up on him and sinks its teeth deep when he least expects it.
He can’t say any of that, though, because most people don’t understand, and so he sticks with something relatively safe. Simple and painfully true.
“You.”
John goes still. His hands pause.
“What do you mean?” He says slowly. He pulls back until there’s a bit of distance between them, until he’s left crouched there by the couch, Bob perched atop it.
Frustrated, Bob groans and tugs at his hair. “Just— everything. It’s like I can’t even think half the time, you’re just— you’re driving me crazy, and I keep thinking that it’ll get better but it doesn’t, it just keeps getting worse. You’re killing me, man.”
John doesn’t flinch. Not full body, he would never allow himself a reaction that strong, it’s smaller, a shift in his eyes, like he becomes aware of himself. He eases back further, carefully, like Bob is a rabid dog poised to snap and not a pathetic sap glued to the couch.
“Oh,” John says dumbly, uncharacteristically quiet. The change is so abrupt, so sudden that Bob can only watch him, dread sinking like a stone in his gut. “‘M sorry, I thought—“
It hits him, then, that he’s made John uncomfortable. That he’s the one ruining things, making something out of nothing. So what, John’s been following him around the Tower like a lost puppy and vice versa? So what if they’ve been cooking together these past few nights, lingering on the couch afterwards with the Tower all to themselves? It obviously didn’t— doesn’t mean anything, not to John.
And that’s okay.
“No, no, no,” He hurries to interrupt, waving his hands through the air, ignoring how they shake. “I don’t— Oh God, don’t like, apologize or anything, that’s not what I wanted, I’ve just been kinda down lately and it’s been hard to, uh, keep my head on straight, I guess. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”
John is frozen, won’t even look at him. And maybe it’s because the Void is so close to the surface, but Bob swears he can feel the wave of mortification wash over him. The self hatred, the hurt, and it has him frowning.
“Are you okay?” He asks softly, because for him to be the one being rejected, John looks fucking gutted. It doesn’t make any sense.
“Yeah,” John says, the cheer in his tone just as forced as the smile he sends his way. When they finally make eye contact, Bob nearly recoils from the emptiness in them. “Yeah, all good. I’m, uh, glad you told me, so I can— leave you be. Let me know if you need anything.”
And then he’s climbing to his feet and disappearing from the room, so quietly Bob barely hears him leave.
For a moment he can only sit there, feeling vaguely nauseous, trying and failing to keep his breathing even. His eyes are burning, which is stupid, because he’s been rejected before, for fucks sake, he doesn’t know why it’s hitting him so hard.
“Shit,” He murmurs, feeling small and pathetic, the imprint of John’s hands still burning on his skin.
He decides, somewhat later on while wallowing about in the kitchen, that this definitely qualifies as an emergency, and so he’s pulling his phone out and tapping at the screen until Yelena’s contact pops up.
He doesn’t think twice about hitting the call button, and it only rings twice before she’s picking up with a sharp, “Bob?”
“Oh, uh, hi.” He says eloquently, cringing a bit and stirring lazily at his bowl of cereal. It’s not the kind he likes, it’s John’s, and he pushes it away with a tight throat. “How’s everything going?”
“Oh, it’s great. Lots of fun, lots of bonding. Very productive.”
Bucky, somewhere in the background, says, “She’s lying, Bob. She’s a liar.”
It has Bob’s mouth quirking in a small smile, already feeling lighter. “Are you a liar?”
She makes a frustrated noise. “We are getting off track.” Which is as beautiful a non-answer if he’s ever heard one. “Why did you call?”
Ah. Right to the meat, then.
“I needed some advice, actually. Or maybe— encouragement?” He groans, slumps over until his cheek is pressed to the tabletop. He always has to ruin everything. Always has to push, to ask questions. “I don’t even know, I just think I might have messed up.”
Yelena hums, and the distant sounds of the team bickering die away, indicating she’s moved somewhere more private. “Messed up how?”
Bob lets his eyes slide shut. “I told Walker how I feel, and he… didn’t take it well.”
“You— Oh.” She sounds a bit dumbstruck, like this was the last thing she’d expected from his call. “I thought you only like his abs.”
“You— what?” Bob sputters, “What does that even mean?“
“You kept staring in gym, I thought you only appreciated—“
“His body has been studied by fucking M.I.T,” He hisses into the phone, feeling a sudden need to defend himself, because seriously, what the fuck? “Of course I’m going to be looking at it. I’m saying that it’s not just that, though, I like, actually like him.”
“God,” Yelena whispers. “Don’t say ‘like’, makes me feel like a little girl.”
“Oh my God, can you not.” He whines, embarrassed and hot and feeling a little bit like he’s dying. This is so humiliating.
Yelena finally seems to take pity on him, because she sighs, gentling her tone as she says, “Okay, then, walk me through it.”
“Well, I had another episode—“
“What? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, he caught me before it got bad and he helped me through it. That’s when I, uh, kinda dropped it on him.”
There’s silence for a moment.
“You’re being purposefully vague,” She accuses, “What did you say? What did he say? I need details.”
Bob huffs, picking distractedly at his nails. “He asked why I was freaking out, what triggered the episode, and I told him that it was— well, him. I’m serious, ‘Lena, it’s been driving me up the wall, the way he’s been touching me and staying close but never doing anything. I told him he was driving me crazy, that I couldn’t think straight, and he just shut down. Said he was sorry and left.” He closes his eyes and fights the burn in them, because fuck it, he is not going to cry over this. “I’ve never seen him that uncomfortable before, there was just— nothing in his eyes.”
“Bob.” Something about the tone of her voice, the way she says his name, has him opening his eyes and straightening. She sounds almost angry, or maybe frustrated. “Tell me exactly what you said.”
And so he does, thinking back to the way his brain had still been all jumbled from coming back to himself, the heat of Walker so close, the blue of his eyes.
“Okay, and tell me what he said.”
That part is a bit harder to remember, but comes easier when he thinks about how sad he’d sounded, the way he hadn’t even been able to look at Bob, all uncertain movements and hesitant withdrawal.
“He said he was sorry, that he would give me space. That was pretty much it.”
“Oh my God.” Yelena is groaning, and it sounds like she’s banging the phone against her forehead. Repeatedly. “Oh. Oh my God. Do you not understand?”
Bob bristles instinctively, defensive. He frowns down at his phone, at the smiling little picture of Yelena that looks back at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You rejected Walker.”
Bob squawks, outraged, and swipes his phone so he can hold it up to his mouth. “What the hell! No I didn’t, I…”
Oh.
Oh, no.
“You see now?” Yelena says gently, sounding fond despite herself. “You must understand how that sounded to him.”
“I am so stupid.” Bob mutters, dropping his phone on the counter to put his face in his hands. “I thought that it was, like, pretty obvious what I meant, but— okay, yeah, this is making a lot more sense.”
He’d told John that he was killing him. What the fuck.
Yelena hums. “You have to tell him. It will only get worse if you don’t.”
He thinks of John, injured and hurting, still choosing to be vulnerable for him. Letting him check his wound and sleep beside him in his bed. Thinks of all the gentle ribbing and small smiles that he’d reserved just for Bob, the way he’d been gravitating closer, trusting slowly, but trusting all the same.
And he’d ruined that.
“I doubt he’ll even want to see me.” He says, letting out a miserable breath. “I wouldn’t.”
“No spiraling,” Yelena orders, tone firm. “I see the way he looks at you. He will want to.”
“Yeah, okay.” Bob agrees, dragging a hand down his face. “Hey, I’m sorry for bothering you, I kind of freaked out.”
Yelena hums, and she must have moved back towards the team, because he can hear them in the background again, talking amongst themselves. “I’m always here for you. Now go get ‘em, tiger.”
“Jesus,” Bob murmurs, and hangs up to the sound of her laughter.
He spends his next few moments tapping an anxious rhythm on the countertop and staring down at his phone.
He could text John, maybe, a simple hey, can we talk? but knowing John, he wouldn’t even see it until the next day.
Which leaves him with the option of wandering around the Tower trying to find him.
“Great,” He murmurs, rubbing hard at his eyes. “Okay, no big deal. This is— I’ve got this.”
The lie falls flat.
He finds him in the gym.
Bob guesses he should have led with that, instead of tearing their suite floor apart looking for him, because it’s so very John.
He slips in quietly, the repeated thud of fists against a bag matching the frantic pound of his heart, and then he just— freezes.
John’s hands are streaked with blood, staining the bag and spattered across the floor, and it’s only because he’s shirtless that Bob can see the bloom of red on his bandages, slipping and loosening from his side.
“John,” He calls quietly, and when that doesn’t get a response, he moves a little closer, tries again, “Hey, stop.”
John jumps a bit and turns, surprised, hands slipping in sweat and blood as he tries to balance against the bag. “What?” He says, blinking like he’s not sure if Bob is even real, then frowns. “You need something? Everything okay?”
Bob takes a deep breath, and then says, in one big rush. “Actually, no, because I’m kind of an idiot and didn’t say anything right and now you’re here breaking your hands over it, and I just— Shit, man, I did not mean any of that the way it sounded. I was pretty sure it would be received as, like, you’re driving me crazy in a sexy way and not an annoying way, but looking back I can, y’know, understand how that could be interpreted differently. But I did mean it in a sexy way, so.” He trails off awkwardly, fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie. “Yeah.”
John is just staring at him, chest heaving with short little pants as he comes down from what must have been one hell of a workout, shorts slung low on his hips. He’s got a light sheen of sweat on his skin, the overhead lights giving it a dull shine, and Bob thinks that this might be his punishment, being denied him when he looks like this.
“That’s a lot to take in.” John finally says, flexing his hands and wincing. “Say what you mean.”
“I want you.” Bob blurts out, a little too eagerly, and John blinks, taken aback. “Like, all the time. It’s— That’s what’s driving me crazy. Every time I’m with you, and even when I’m not, you’re the only thing on my mind. I’ve tried ignoring it, thought it might go away, but it’s only gotten worse.”
John is eerily still again, in the way Bob has come to recognize as him being overwhelmed and not sure how to proceed. It’s endearing, the way he can practically see his brain working.
Then, finally, “I’m not… good.” John says, huffing a laugh, and it makes Bob’s chest ache for him, the way he believes it. “Not good for you. You need somebody who can give you what you need, who can be there for you and who won't let you down.”
“You won’t—“
“Trust me,” John says, and he drops his gaze to inspect his hands, twisting them this way and that, cataloguing the damage with bland disinterest. “If there’s one thing I can do for you, it’s that.”
This isn’t going the way he thought it would. He knows John feels the same, has seen it on his face, felt it in his actions.
“Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll go.” Bob says, crossing his arms and lifting his chin. He knows he’s right. He knows.
John closes his eyes. “It’s not about what I want.”
“But it is.” Bob argues. “And what about what I want, huh? Is that not a good enough reason for you to at least consider this? Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”
John snaps his head up and glares. “Of course I’m listening. I’m listening, and I get it, it’s everything I’ve wanted to hear for the past fucking week, but think logically, Bob. Think like an adult. This. Will. Not. Work. And deep down, you know it.”
“Maybe,” He shrugs, and doesn’t let John sit with the victory too long before he continues, “But I’m willing to try. You know why? Because you are a good person.” He ignores John’s scoff. “I’m serious, I know you like to think that your past defines you, but it doesn’t. I don’t see your mistakes, I just— I see you.”
Blood is dripping in a steady, rhythmic beat from John’s knuckles. They’ve probably already begun healing, but they still look nasty, look like they hurt.
“Why can’t you understand that?” He asks, stepping closer. John doesn’t move, just watches him. “Why are you so scared of this? Of me?”
“Because I don’t get good things,” John snaps, and it’s so painfully honest, so vulnerable, like he’s been carrying the weight of it for ages. “And if I do, I don’t get to keep them. I don’t want to lose you, not like the others, and if that means keeping my distance, then— Fine.”
Bob tilts his head, fighting a smile. “I’m invulnerable, you know.”
“Jesus.” John says quietly, bringing his hands up to rub hard at his face. It leaves little smears of blood in its wake, and Bob might be a little fucked up for thinking that it looks good. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Nope.” Bob drawls. “Is this you giving up?”
“Christ,” John mumbles, but Bob can still pick it up. “It’s not giving up, it’s a tactical surrender.”
“Well in that case—“
John sways. Only slightly, just enough to where he has to plant his feet to regain his balance, pain flickering across his face so quickly Bob almost doesn’t catch it, and his eyes drop to the bandage immediately.
The red splotch has definitely grown larger, enough to where it needs to be addressed sooner rather than later, and he steps forward and reaches for John’s wrist.
“We’re going to medical.”
“I’m fine.” John says, but it's such an automated, rehearsed response that Bob ignores it. “Seriously, it’ll stop in a second.”
“Don’t care, the bandage needs changed anyway. You’ll thank me later.”
They step into the elevator, and he’s suddenly painfully aware of how little clothing John has on, and how warm and damp his skin is. He doesn’t gawk, because despite what Yelena thinks, he does have some self control, fuck you very much.
He stares resolutely at the doors and tries to think of puppies and rainbows, innocent things, and not the peak of human advancement standing next to him.
John seems to notice, though, and his smirk is infuriatingly smug when he says, “Something wrong?”
Bob refuses to look at him, even as his face grows hot. “Asshole,” He accuses, but John just seems to preen under the title.
“You like it.”
Fuck, I do, he thinks, slightly horrified with himself.
When he doesn’t answer, John shifts so their shoulders brush, a burning line of heat, and Bob huffs.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“‘M not sure what you mean.”
Bob turns to glare at him, and finds that John’s smirk has grown into a full blown, shit eating grin. When their eyes meet, the air suddenly feels a hell of a lot thicker, and Bob swallows around a dry throat. “You’re teasing.”
“I would never.”
The doors open soundless with a short, pleasant chime, and Bob grabs John’s arm and drags him out. “You’re feeling pretty good for the guy who fought this tooth and nail.”
That finally seems to take the wind from John’s sails, and the flush that spreads down his neck and crawls across his chest is a victory in itself.
“Whatever,” John is mumbling, climbing onto a cot gingerly and wincing as he does.
He looks so petulant, legs swinging off the side and hands tucked in his lap, waiting for Bob, and the wave of affection threatens to drown him.
Down, boy, Bob thinks, and takes a deep breath.
“Alright, then. Go ahead and get that off.”
He busies himself with gathering antiseptic, fresh gauze and wraps, keeping a mentally tally of everything he takes as he goes. They hadn’t stitched the wound last time, had just cleaned it as best they could and covered and wrapped it, and he’d watched Bucky carefully, so he’s confident he’ll be able to figure it out as he goes.
John hisses, sharp, as he peels away the soaked gauze and tosses it to the side. His hand hovers over the wound, like he’s trying to shield it from the bite of cool air, and Bob winces in sympathy, dropping his armload of supplies on the cot.
“Well,” He tries for a lighter tone, leaning down to get a better look. “It at least looks better. Can’t see bone this time.”
And hadn’t that been a shock. The fact that John had just been walking around like that, acting as if nothing was wrong, like he hadn’t been toying with death, was more than a little startling to think about.
John hums, pressing his eyes shut. “Hell yeah.”
He smiles at that, and begins carefully wiping the blood from around the wound. The bleeding has slowed, more of a slow ooze than anything, and he can see where it’s already begun to scab over again.
“Oh, yeah, this is totally manageable.” He rambles to himself, reaching for the antiseptic spray. “It’s honestly not even that bad.”
“Whatever you say,” John grits, and when Bob sprays the wound and dabs around it, he grips the side of the cot so hard that the metal warps.
He tries to be quick after that, because seeing John get weirdly quiet, holding his breath and mangling metal rather than make a sound has him vaguely nauseous.
“There,” He says quietly, finishing the wrap and testing its give, running his fingers along the seams. John’s eyes are still closed, and he’s breathing in deeply and out slowly, rhythmic. He knows a breathing exercise when he sees one.
Bob has been pressed up close between John’s thighs, and his hands drop down to them instinctively as he inspects his work. Everything looks in order, seems just as good as Bucky had done all those days ago, and he feels oddly proud of himself.
Useful, he thinks. I feel useful.
“You okay?” He asks quietly, one of his thumbs soothing at the inside of John’s thigh, and it has him letting out a breathless noise, so soft that Bob struggles to even hear it.
John hums in answer, cheeks flushed a pale pink, and Bob wonders if he realizes that he’s started to lean forward, body slowly coming down from the pain.
He’s so warm, so sweet like this, and Bob kind of wants to put him in his pocket and keep him forever.
It’s selfish, is what it is when he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”
John swallows hard, blinks open his eyes. His pupils are so blown they’ve nearly swallowed the blue of his irises. “Whatever you want.”
And isn’t that a dangerous game, he thinks, because at the end of the day, Bob is just a man, and he happens to want a hell of a lot. Enough that it would probably spook John before they were even given a chance to get off the ground.
But he can start with this.
He dips his head and nearly groans at the way John tilts his in answer, perfectly in tune, and then their lips meet and he’s pretty sure he’s somewhere close to heaven.
Bob tries to keep it gentle, painfully aware of how exhausted John is, how much he must be hurting. His hands slide higher, until he’s at upper thigh and his fingertips are teasing at his hips.
John is making small, desperate noises with every breath, pressing forward like he wants to crawl into Bob’s skin, and it’s so ridiculously hot that Bob can hardly breathe.
When he finally pulls back for air, he doesn’t go far, just enough to where he can press their foreheads together and pant hot and heavy in the space between them.
John’s eyes are closed, lips parted and his own breaths stuttering and hiccupy, and Bob says, “Fuck, you’re good at this.”
The corner of John’s lip twitches, like he wants to smile but lacks the energy. “I’m good at a lot of things.”
And it’s then that Bob thinks, slightly hysterical, fuck, what did I get myself into?