Always on a Mountain

by seenonlyfromadistance

Summary:

Things have been going so well lately, John Walker had almost forgotten things could be bad. Then the divorce papers come on a Thursday, in early December, in a plain, large manila envelope.

Notes:

oops I accidentally spent halloween month writing what turned out to be a christmas fic.

The divorce papers come on a Thursday, in early December, in a plain, large manila envelope.

John doesn’t even really look at the envelope. Doesn’t think to glance at the return address. He’s busily chatting with Yelena and Bob in the sunshine of the kitchen, basking in the success of a mission gone perfectly, adrenaline and pride and a warm pleasure running through his blood and a laugh building in the back of his throat.

It’s all been going so well lately. Seven months into being New Avengers and they’re finally hitting their stride. Today was a good one, a really good one— big hero shit and good press. All the press has been good lately. Nice write ups in the Times, good chatter on twitter, columns in the Post that are always about Yelena’s eccentric fashion and never about all their horrible pasts, a bunch of exuberant posts from civilians on Instagram where no one calls him a murderer. Pictures where everyone is smiling. It’s been impossibly good.

He’d almost forgotten that things could be bad.

He sees an envelope with his name on it and rips it open without thinking, still mid-conversation.

“No way, Bobby, that’s not something you can do with…“

He glances down at the papers in his hands and trails off. It takes him a minute to even figure out what the papers are. It’s not like in the movies. There’s no big heading that says, IT’S OFFICIALLY OVER, DIPSHIT, YOU BLEW IT. Nor is there even one that says Declaration of Divorce. In fact, the Dissolution of Marriage section is halfway down the page. It’s all so… sterile. Legal.

Final.

He knew it was coming. Of course he did. He’s been on the phone with Olivia and the lawyers negotiating the details for four months. Since his form of negotiation was to accede to everything Olivia wanted, and the fact that he signed his part and mailed it back two weeks ago, he should’ve known the final papers would show up sooner rather than later.

And here they are.

It still hits like a train.

His mouth goes dry.

“Walker? Walker, what is it?”

His ears are ringing. It’s so stupid. It’s stupid. He knew this was coming. He’s known it was coming since Olivia walked out on him. They’ve been separated for so long now. He hasn’t even seen her in person in almost a year. So why is his head spinning now, of all fucking times? This should be nothing. This is nothing more than a formality, signed, sealed, and delivered. Easy breezy lemon squeezy. Instead his head is reeling and he can hardly swallow.

“John?”

Bob touches his arm and it’s all John can do to keep upright. He feels like he’s about to faint. His vision goes dark around the edges and he starts to panic, a surge of horrible panic rising, rising, rising, about to overwhelm him—

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Whoa, okay, sit down.”

Yelena pulls out one of the kitchen stools and pushes him onto it. Bob hovers next to him, and even checks his temperature with the back of his hand.

“What is this?” Yelena plucks the papers out of his limp fingers. She reads them over, even flipping to the second page. “Oh.”

“What?” Bob leans over her shoulder and looks too. Then his face falls in the exact same way. “Oh geez.”

Yelena lets the papers fall onto the counter. The three of them stare at them. That’s it. End of marriage. Long time coming but finally here, set down in clean, clear, black and white.

The stupidest thing is that John is still wearing his wedding ring. He should’ve taken it off a year ago, or when he moved into the Watchtower, or after Bob had asked him why he was still wearing it two months ago, aren’t you like, super separated? Why didn’t he take it off? It’s not that he had any hopes of ever getting back with Olivia. He knew better than that. It was just… habit. Bad habit. Stupid habit. It had been on his hand, a part of him, for more than a decade, approaching two. He hadn’t known how to take it off as much as he hadn’t wanted to. Having to face the tan line would be too much. Having to see how his finger had shaped around it, how his hand had been formed by that ring and everything it had once meant to him. Everything it symbolized.

He hadn’t been ready to admit it was a failure. That he was a failure. Even though he knew he was. He’d failed in his marriage, failed his partner, and taking off the ring would be the final nail in the coffin of John Walker, family man. Not like he was ever a very good one.

He’s dead anyway, so he crawls into the pit.

The ring comes off. More easily than he thought it would. Maybe he’s lost weight lately, and the ring was a little loose to begin with, but it slips off his finger without any resistance. When he drops it onto the counter, next to the papers, it makes a hollow, horrible clank.

A year ago he would have been angry. He would have been so violently, painfully, angry it would have driven him into a blind fury. The accompanying need to hurt, to wreck, would have probably gotten him killed. Back when he was a mercenary, working alone, diving headlong into deadly danger to expel the black miseries in his heart.

The anger bled away long ago, a slow and steady leak caused by the people currently standing next to him, awkwardly viewing his grief. Now he feels numbly empty. Like a trapdoor opened under his guts and his entire soul fell out. Is this better? He’s not so sure.

Bob carefully drapes an arm around John’s shoulder and presses his weight against John’s side. Hangs off him. Digs his chin into the space between John’s neck and arm. Steady and quiet and present. Still looking at the papers.

Yelena presses in close to his other side, adding her warm presence to the pile. Her little arm slides around his waist to hold him.

It’s nice, he decides. It’s comforting.

It doesn’t really help the plummet happening in his stomach. But it’s nice to have company.

Company expands— Alexei wanders in and sees the three of them still staring at the papers on the counter. He shoves his way in, dropping his elbows onto John’s shoulders and digging in, applying his weight like a hard massage, breaking up the developing knots before they can solidify into angry tumors that would kill him.

“Ah yes,” he sighs, resting his big hands on the top of John’s head, holding his thoughts inside his skull. “Been there. Very hard. Melina… love of my life. Was very sad to part ways, but—” Yelena interrupts with a forceful scoff, throwing her dad an angry look. It’s not the same, him and his spy ex-wife. Fake wife. Something like that. John’s not totally clear on all the details, despite the amount Alexei mentions her. Her beauty and strength and the things she did with her thighs. Things none of them really want to hear about. And Yelena’s scoff is right— hearing about Alexei’s dearly beloved and deeply missed one-that-got-away is not about to improve John’s mood. Alexei scoffs harder, louder, bullying Yelena’s scoff out of the way. “But!! Opened many doors for me. New experiences, new opportunities, new loves. Cannot be too sad. Whole world ahead of you now.”

“That’s not helpful,” Yelena chides. “Whats wrong with you?”

“Not helpful?” Alexei ruffles John’s hair, knocking Bob in the cheek as he does it. “Very helpful. What’s one divorce between friends? Nothing.”

John echoes limply, “Nothing. Ha.”

Is it nothing? It doesn’t really feel like nothing. It doesn’t feel like a brand new world of opportunity either. It feels more like a bridge collapsed on him.

Bob’s arm tightens around him. A gentle squeeze. Yelena does the same, around his waist. Alexei heaves a big sigh, leaning more weight onto John’s back.

“Just saying,” he breathes, a warm brush through his hair. “World is there when you’re ready. Life is not over, that’s all. Who knows what waits out there?”

“Yeah,” John agrees, just to say something.

Olivia was his whole life, for most of his life. The only thing that mattered. The job mattered less than her, everything did. And then there was Captain America. And his priorities changed. And now he’s lost her. He is capital D divorced. Their relationship is dead as a doornail, and grass is starting to grow on the grave.

He reaches a shaky hand out to flip through the papers. Signed and notarized and done. He can feel the embossing of the notary’s very official stamp. These copies are just for his records. The legal part was done days ago, probably. After all, he signed his part and mailed them back the day after Thanksgiving.

He wants to shrug Alexei and Yelena and Bob off of him, but he doesn’t know what he’d do once he did. Go to his room and cry? Go down to the gym and break a punching bag? Go to the bar on the corner and try to get drunk? No. None of those sound very good.

He had Olivia for a long time. Now he has these weirdos. It’s a lot better than being alone.

---

Eventually the pity party breaks up. Ava comes in and, after hearing all about it, insists they all go out to dinner. To celebrate, she says in her sly English way that’s so obnoxious.

“Come on, big boy,” she purrs at him, teasing. “You’re a free man now. Let’s have some fun.”

It’s the last thing he wants to do, but he doesn’t have the gusto to fight her about it. So he agrees to her outing. He puts on decent clothes and goes down to meet them in the lobby. To his annoyance, he’s the first one down. Except Bucky.

Bucky looks positively gloomy. In short, he looks how John feels. Miserable, forced to come, but willing to do it for the good of the team.

“Hey,” he grunts, shoving his hands into pockets of his too cool leather jacket. “Ava filled me in. Sorry, man.”

That’s all the sympathy John is ever going to get from Bucky. Which is fine. It’s all the sympathy he deserves. He did this to himself, after all. As Bucky is so fond of reminding him, he made his choices.

“Yeah, sorry you have to come out and pretend this won’t suck,” John grunts back, matching Bucky by shoving his own hands into the pockets of his considerably less cool canvas barn coat. It’s not a warm enough coat for New York in December, but he hasn’t gotten around to buying a heavier one. Whatever. A little discomfort will suit him just fine tonight.

Bucky grumbles something that sounds awfully close to, “Don’t push me.”

Alexei is down next, all dolled up in his brightly colored, obnoxiously patterned finest. His coat has a big fur collar. He swaggers over to wrap his arms around both John and Bucky’s shoulders and give them a hearty shake.

“My super soldiers. We could drive this town crazy, us three. Hot single guys, yes?”

Thankfully, the elevator opens and saves them. Yelena, Ava, and Bob come tumbling out, chatting and giggling. And they all look great.

Over the past five months, Ava has figured out a way to make her suit fit under street clothes, more or less. Now, under a big coat with a deep blue scarf tucked around her neck, her makeup done and her hair blown out, she looks very close to beautiful.

Yelena cleans up nice too. Not quite as nice, but that’s obviously not what she’s going for. She looks punk hot, from her slicked back hair to her very high platform boots.

Alexei whistles at them and Yelena blushes and ducks behind Bob to hide.

And Bob… Looks great. All dolled up in nice dark jeans, boots John’s never seen him in, a crisp white shirt, a little string tie, and a houndstooth overcoat. He’s done his hair too, leaving it curling in waves over his temples and around his ears.

John’s never seen him like this. Not ever. Bob is the most chill, comfort-first person he’s ever met. He didn’t even know Bob owned any of this. This is a completely different man than the straggle haired, sweatpants clad guy who had parted ways with him in the kitchen not even an hour ago.

He looks so good, John has a sharp stab of envy and a passing thought that he should go change. Bob puts him— in a sweater and jeans and his best boots— to absolute shame.

“Shit, I didn’t know we were dressing up.”

“We’re gonna hit the clubs, Walker,” Ava laughs, putting a silly spin on the words. “Gotta look fierce.”

“The clubs? I thought the plan was dinner.”

Bucky rolls his eyes like it pains him. “Christ.”

“You look fine, whatever,” Yelena says in a hurry, shooing them all towards the door. “Let’s gooooo.”

Bob sidles up to John’s side and bumps their arms together. “If we’d gotten ready together, you would’ve known how to dress.”

“Girls do that,” he bites back, remembering how Olivia and her friends used to hog the bathroom for hours, giggling and whispering, before going out on their girls' nights. “Guys don’t do that.”

Bob shrugs. “They could. We could.”

“You got ready with them?” It’s not an accusation, just a question. He's not even that surprised— Bob’s almost one of the girls anyway, by virtue of being Yelena’s bestie and pet project. And since Bob is apparently totally comfortable with being one of the girls, it’s all fine. Not like John and Bucky have a great well of male camaraderie or fashion advice to offer him anyway.

“Yeah. I don’t really, uhm, know how to put this kind of thing together.” He gestures at his outfit, ducking his head shyly.

“Well, it looks good. You look really good.”

Bob looks up at him with bright, shining eyes and a smile that shows a hint of his teeth.

“Thanks, Walker.”

“Gonna have girls hanging all over you.”

Bob twitches, his head tilting to the side. He looks confused, like he never thought about getting the attention of girls. Though that is, in John’s underinformed opinion, the entire reason one goes to the club.

Before Bob can say anything, Yelena coughs loudly from where she’s holding open the door to get their attention. “Helloooo, come on, let’s go!”

Startled, John burrows his hands deeper into his pockets and starts to move. The last thing he needs is for Yelena to get grumpy on him.

His goal for this whole night is to make zero impression whatsoever. Let Yelena and Ava and Bob and Alexei have their fun. He’ll just… be there. He’ll have a couple beers to be a good sport and make sure everyone gets home safe. But he doesn’t want to cause a scene or make himself noticeable in any way, and definitely doesn’t want to ruin anyone’s night. He won’t get drunk (he can’t), he won’t dance (he couldn’t), he won’t pick up some stranger (he wouldn’t), and on top of that, he won’t get so depressed that people notice (hopefully). He’ll remain totally neutral, totally nothing. He’ll disappear into the background, and then the night will be over.

That’s the best case scenario. Well, best case might be that Bucky accidentally has some fun and stops glaring at him with his big, judgmental, pitying, this-is-your-own-fault eyes.

They walk. It’s winter in the city, and though there’s no snow in the air, there’s a crispness that’s refreshing and cleansing. Ava and Yelena lead the way, huddled together against the cold. At the back of the pack, Bob tucks in close to John too, linking their elbows together.

John would complain, in other circumstances, but tonight he’s promised himself to be easy-going and amenable, no fuss, no fury. And Bob is so warm. The heat that comes off him is as good as a space heater, cutting through John’s too thin jacket and keeping him comfortable.

In Hell’s Kitchen, seven long blocks over, there are no clubs, but there are busy bars aplenty, and Yelena and Ava strut them up and down ninth avenue until they decide on one that’s got low lighting, flowers covering the ceiling, and a dance floor in the back that’s not too busy. Not yet, anyway.

The group of them commandeer a table. John puts his back against the wall, fully ready to settle in and stay there for as long as this fiasco lasts.

Alexei orders the whole menu for them, food and drinks alike, one of everything that catches his eye— as long as it tastes good, he says, no matter their nutritional or alcoholic content. Pretty quickly, the table is littered with glasses. It’s silly, really— half of them can’t get drunk anyway, for super soldier reasons. Then there’s Yelena, who can hold her liquor better than anyone John knows, and Ava, who definitely knows how to handle herself. Who knows what’s up with Bob. A blue something in a tall frosted glass is deposited in front of him, and he eyes it like it’s a bomb.

He’s sober, John remembers. No doubt Alexei forgot. He tends to forget little things like that. That Bob is a recovering addict, and just because he probably can’t get high on meth anymore (though he hadn’t tried, he’s constantly telling them all, like a promise, like a mantra, he hasn’t tried, he hasn’t tried, he won’t try), it doesn’t mean he should be adopting other vices.

Is a drink out with friends a vice? Is it a dangerous first step on the slippery slope back to hard drugs and minor crimes? If Bob wasn’t a nuclear powered super freak, that would be a much different question.

Bob twists the glass around on the table, building up a wall of condensation around the base.

“I’m kinda… you know, kinda curious,” he whispers to John. “If I can get drunk anymore at all. I haven’t even tried, I just assumed, because of you guys…”

John looks at him. His nose is still a little pink from the cold outside.

“We’re here for you, man. If you want to try it, we’ll be here to take care of you whatever happens.”

Like if he spirals and voids out.

“Right,” Bob laughs, “like if I get really drunk and puke.”

Or that.

“Then I’ll carry you home.”

“My hero.” He smiles, sweet and earnest. Too earnest for the playful turn of the conversation. Then he pulls the blue drink towards himself and catches the end of the straw between his teeth. “Here goes.”

He takes a sip, neither big nor small. Waits a second. Shrugs and pushes the drink away.

“Well?”

Bob scrunches his nose. “It’s really sweet.”

John drags the glass over and takes a sip of his own. Bob’s right, it’s really sweet. It tastes mostly like fruit, but the sugar in it is cloying. He scrunches his nose up too, and Bob laughs.

“Hand me one of those beers,” Bob asks, gesturing for a bottle across the table. John hands it over.

Bob sips at that one beer for the rest of the night. The bar gets busier and Yelena and Ava drag Bob to dance, which he does. They don’t have to drag Alexei. John stays at the table with Bucky. He watches and picks at a plate of fries.

“This is nuts,” Bucky groans, loud enough to be heard over the music. “How can you even talk with all this noise?”

“We’re talking,” John deadpans at a volume only slightly below a shout. He basically agrees, but being stubborn with Bucky comes naturally.

Next to him, Bucky snorts. “New York used to have supper clubs.”

John lets his attention drift back to Ava and Yelena, who are shimmying and shaking, singing along to the music, basically screaming into each other's faces. Bob is right there with them, laughing big and boisterous, his head thrown back. He’s grinning. A giant smile with all his teeth. The kind of smile John only rarely sees on him. It’s so bright, so joyous, he lights up the dim dancefloor. It’s like he’s got a spotlight on him. It helps that he’s a head taller than everyone else around him.

He glances over, his gaze cutting through the crowd, and finds John’s eyes like he’s laser guided. His big grin goes soft and dewy, and he starts to cut through the crowd, wriggling his way back towards the table. He’s still dancing, still moving to the beat. When he’s two yards away, he points at John with both hands, goofy, and then starts to crook his fingers in a totally silly, totally cutsie, you-yes-you move as he dances towards him.

“John,” he mouths, exaggerated and laughing, maybe shouting, though John can't hear. “Come here.”

John shakes his head. No way.

Bob winks, squinting in an absurd faux sexy pout. It’s funny. John can’t help himself but laugh, giving in to the buoyant mood of the moment, the night. Suddenly Bob’s at his side, tugging at his arms, trying to get him up.

“Come onnn,” he pleads directly into John’s ear. His hands on John’s arms are hot, and he’s sweating. Having lost his overcoat before ever going to dance, he’s now got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and damp spots are starting to show under his arms and on his stomach. A damp strand of hair is hanging loose in a devilish curl over his forehead. His grin sends a weird stab through John’s guts. “Come dance.”

“No, no thanks.”

“Leave the grump—” he jerks his head in Bucky’s direction— “and come dance with me. It’ll be fun.”

Bucky laughs at them.

“I don’t dance. I don’t— I don’t want to.”

He doesn’t want to have fun— doesn’t want to let himself have fun. Maybe Ava thinks a divorce is something to celebrate, but he doesn’t. He’s here to keep everyone company, and mostly to punish himself. To wallow. He’s been doing a good job of it so far too.

Now Bob has his hands in his hands, and is using his not insubstantial strength to pull him to his feet.

“Please,” he says, bent over to pin John with eye contact. Next thing he knows, he’s standing. Bob, still grinning, still holding his hand, guides him to the dance floor and directly into the pulsing center of the mass of moving bodies. Yelena and Ava are there, and they scream in delight when they see him and pull him towards them, drawing him into their dancing that’s mostly jumping, but is energetic and exuberant and totally without a care.

Bob grabs both his hands and shimmies him, trying to get him to loosen up. Ava pinches his waist.

They get him moving, bouncing and jumping and yelling along to a song he hasn’t heard since he was 24, and it’s almost enough for him to forget himself. Forget his problems, forget his failures. Forget that he has divorce papers waiting for him back home.

For twenty minutes, he doesn’t think about anything. He dances. Badly. With Ava and Yelena. And Bob.

---

The night ends, and they all wobble home. Yelena begs to be carried, and John allows her to jump up onto his back. Turns out her giant platform shoes aren’t as comfortable as she’d insisted they were at the start of the night. She leans her head against his back.

“You’re not so bad, Walker,” she mumbles sleepily. “I wouldn’t divorce you.”

“I wouldn’t marry you.”

“See? No problem then.” In spite of himself, he laughs.

It’s probably the best night he’s had in years, he thinks. He can’t remember the last time he danced. Or drank. Or laughed so much.

Ava’s stupid plan worked. Even Bucky admits he had a decent time.

Back at the tower, they all head to their rooms, ready to collapse into bed. Bob sticks quietly at John’s side all the way to his door. His room is down the same hall, John reminds himself. So it doesn’t mean anything. Except Bob lingers, leaning in the doorway oh John's room as John pulls off his jacket and starts to unlace his boots. The divorce papers are waiting right where he left them, tossed on his bed. With his ring. Of course. How could he forget, even for a second?

“It was fun tonight, right?” Bob asks casually.

“Yeah.”

“You had fun?”

John looks up. Bob’s acting very cool, but his eyes are glinting like the answer really matters to him. He lost his little tie sometime during the night and has his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

“Yeah, Bobby. I had fun.” As much fun as a recently officially divorced fuck up could have. He tugs off his boots.

Bob’s smile flutters, twitches. He watches John turn to the dresser, pulling off his sweater.

“Uhm. How are you doing?”

He doesn’t turn around. “Doing?”

“You know, with the, uh. Divorce. That’s rough. I know it was a long time coming but… but still. Are you okay?”

It almost breaks him. Is he okay? No, of course not. His left hand feels too light. His heart feels too heavy. One decent night does not okay make.

For most of his life, he’s almost been a winner. Almost being the operative word. Every time things were going really well, just when everything seemed to be going in his favor, something would go wrong. Every fucking time. He was the high school valedictorian who led the football team to back-to-back-to-back championships? His brother died. Olivia agreed to marry him? He got shipped out. He was chosen to be Captain fucking America? Well, everyone knows how that worked out. He can climb the mountain, he can even almost reach the top, but every single time something slips and he falls. Hard.

And now this. He’s a New Avenger, it’s going well, the public is finally, finally, starting to come around on him, just a little bit, and… bam. The divorce is finalized. He’s officially been kicked to the curb.

Just when he’d started to feel stable, secure… out goes the rug from under him. Just like always.

He might as well give up. He’s a loser. It’s become a way of life for him. It would be easier if he stopped trying to climb. Live in the pit. It would soften the falls. It had been like that during that bleak period after Olivia left him and before he’d taken the mission to the vault. He had been low as low could be. But he couldn’t be hurt down there.

He collapses to sit on the edge of his bed. The papers shift under his weight, sliding towards him, and he shoves them away, watching unhappily as they flutter weightlessly to the ground, taking their time. His ring goes flying too with another spiteful flick of his fingers and clatters against a wall, then the floor.

“Fuck, Bobby, I don’t know.” He shrugs weakly, slumping. “It doesn’t feel good.”

“Yeah,” Bob says, crossing the threshold into the room. “Yeah, I bet.”

He comes over like every inch into John’s space scares him to cross. But he does it anyway. He perches at John’s side, sitting close enough to touch. For a second his hands stay folded between his knees, then, gingerly, he slides one arm around John’s shoulders. It’s what he’d done earlier, in the kitchen. A warm, steadying presence and weight.

John shudders. Bob’s so nice. Too nice. And he smells like sweat and aftershave and liquor.

He doesn’t mean to let go of the horrible open wound in his guts and let it all come tumbling out. It’s just that Bob makes it so easy. Bob’s there and he cares. He asked.

“It just… sucks. It really fucking sucks.”

Bob hums. He holds John tighter. Waiting. Listening.

The words start to spill. He doesn’t even have the excuse of being drunk. He’s just being pathetic, and he knows it, but once he starts he can’t stop. “I knew it was coming, I knew it was over, but still— I mean, I don’t even want her back. This is for the best, I know that, but— I, I’m… I’m sick of being such a fuck up piece of shit.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I know I am. Every good thing I ever had, I fucked up. Like this— I had someone who really loved me, and I mean, she put up with so much from me, she really stuck it out through some bad shit, and, and I fucked it up so badly even she couldn’t stand it anymore. I managed to blow up the one good thing I still had after a lifetime of blowing up everything else. She was right to leave. I fuck up everything I touch. I should be alone.”

Bob doesn’t say anything.

It’s awful to whine like this to him. Bob’s had a shitty life himself, way worse than John’s pathetic little unhappinesses by any measure, and now here he is listening patiently while John moans to him about getting rightfully dumped on the street. Boo-fucking-hoo, poor little John Walker, makes himself unlovable and then complains that no one loves him. Built himself a home in the gutter and now he’s angry he lives there.

He basically wants to crawl into a hole and die.

This is just classic him, isn’t it? He was having a good time tonight. Bob was having a good time. But then he had to crash out and drag Bob down with him. He ruins things like it’s his job. It comes naturally to him, like breathing.

Bob leans in, resting his head against John’s temple. His hair tickles John’s ear.

“But now you have us,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We get how it is. We’re not gonna leave.”

“You can’t promise that.” Just because he hasn’t fucked it up over the past seven months doesn’t mean he hasn’t gotten close, or won’t in the future. Just because everyone felt sorry for him tonight doesn’t mean their patience and pity will last. It doesn’t mean they actually like him or will stick around when— and it’s a when, not an if— he gets antsy and shitty and too mean.

“Well…” Bob hedges, understanding where John’s coming from. This is the worst thing about Bob, John thinks. That he always knows exactly the kind of self-loathing John cycles through, because he’s been there himself. John hates to admit it, but they have more in common than he ever would have expected. “I’m here now. I’m not planning to leave. You’re not… You wouldn’t leave me, right? And I’m the worst fuck up I know. You can’t be worse than me.”

But he is worse than Bob. The situation with Bob is different. Bob's different. Bob has a ton of reasons to be difficult; John doesn’t. Bob’s being nice about how John is— being nice, sweet, gentle, kind and considerate, all things John is essentially incapable of being— and they both know it. John’s worse than Bob in a million ways. John wouldn’t walk out on him, sure, but give him enough time and he’ll find a way to drive Bob off, just like he did with Olivia. In answer, John miserably grunts, “I can. I will be. You’ll see.”

“There’re lots of people who’ll stick with you, Walker. Lots of people who love you,” Bob says softly. Like that’s a solution. Like that means anything. Olivia loved him. Olivia left him. Love isn’t enough. It never is. His soft, low voice washes into John’s ear. “Including me. John, I‘m here for you if you want me. Even if you don’t. Because I love you.”

Bob turns and presses his lips against John’s forehead. He lingers long enough for a breath to brush over John’s skin.

Then he stands up and goes back to the door. His face is a little red, and so is his chest where it’s visible under his open collar.

“Goodnight.”

He’s gone before John can say anything back. Before he can fight him on who’s the bigger fuck up, before he can insist that it’s not Bob, could never be Bob, before John can say the wrong thing and prove himself right. Before he can point out that there’s no way in hell Bob loves him, because Bob barely knows him, because Bob is naive, because Bob is too open-hearted, because Bob is wrong about him. Because John knows, like it’s the greatest fact in his existence, written into his very bones for all of history, that he’s unlovable.

He peels off his jeans and puts himself through the motions of getting into bed. Staring at the ceiling, he thinks, what the fuck is wrong with me.

And then he answers himself: Fucking everything.

---

Everyone treats him with baby gloves for three days, then, snap, go back to treating him like normal. Which is to say, they tease him and jab at him and remind him that he’s annoying.

It’s better than being treated delicately. Though he hadn’t minded the amount of snacks that were brought to him during that little time, it had quickly become pretty forced and patronizing. Thankfully, apparently once the team realized he wasn’t totally falling apart and wasn't about to explode, they decided he didn’t need special care. They’re right— he doesn’t. He’s fine. It was a surprise, that was all, to get the papers like that. It shocked him. But it didn’t hurt him. It’s not something he can’t get over. When Olivia walked out, that was something he couldn’t get over. The actual divorce can’t hurt him worse than that did.

So the team’s teasing can’t hurt him either.

So it’s fine. He doesn’t mind. He didn’t like being treated like he could snap at any minute. So he should be glad that everyone is acting now like nothing ever happened. Back to normal and thank god. Yipee. He should be overjoyed that it's over and life can move on.

Instead he gets depressed. Really depressed.

Nothing is happening— no missions, no drama. Life gets boring. It gives him too much time to start feeling lonely. Too much time to get in his head.

So he starts to leave the tower more. Anything to keep busy. New York is the most walkable city he’s ever lived in, and he takes full advantage. Walks 35 blocks up to the Guggenheim. Walks all the way down to Battery park. Walks the length of Broadway. Walks and walks and walks and walks, walking until his feet hurt and his calves ache.

It’s winter, almost Christmas, and the city is busy and glittering with lights and sparkles everywhere. It should be cheery and fun. For him, it’s lonely. For a city full of people, Walker feels completely alone.

Without fanfare, Bob starts to join him on his walks. He doesn’t make a big deal about it, just happens to meet him in the hallway and ask, “Going out?”

At first it’s little jaunts, nothing major. Bob will walk a few blocks with him then peel off to go to the pharmacy or the movies or to get a coffee.

Then one day, Bob says, “Want to swing by that Christmas market in Bryant park?”

It’s barely three blocks away and John figures this walk together will be just like the other times. Bob will tag along with him while it’s convenient, then they'll each go their own ways. Like usual. So they go, they circle the stalls, they watch the ice skaters. Bob buys a small felted guinea pig ornament for Yelena, and a big gingerbread cookie and a hot apple cider for himself. He looks like a Christmas card, John thinks. Pink in the chill and wrapped up in a wool coat and scarf, holding his steaming cup between both his hands to warm his fingers.

It’s time to part ways, John thinks. They’ve reached about the amount of time they’ve spent together on one of these little walks before. Bob’s probably ready to head back home, or go do whatever he’s planning to do for the rest of the day. For himself, John figures he might go walk the length of Riverside park.

Instead, Bob smiles at him and casually says, “There’s one of these in Union Square too.” He breaks off a gingerbread arm and offers it up. “Wanna check it out?”

They walk down 25 blocks and wander through that market too. It’s easy and comfortable, and the loneliness eating into John’s heart starts to ease. He doesn’t really notice at first. It’s just that the sinking feeling isn’t as all consuming as it has been. How could it be when Bob keeps dragging him back and forth across the curving aisles of stalls to show him a funny t-shirt or a pretty piece of jewelry or a decadent looking selection of high end vinegars. It’s a wonderful distraction, minimum.

Suddenly it’s dark out. The sun is setting and the air is getting colder, and Bob is pulling him out of the crowded stalls of the Christmas market and heading south. They get perogies at a place John recognizes from movies, sit and drink coffee for a long time, then walk home. They don’t make it back to the Watchtower until well into the evening.

From then on, Bob comes along on a lot of John’s long walks. One day they walk all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge and keep going all the way to the Brooklyn Museum. It’s seven miles to look at paintings and mummies, and Bob decides they should take the subway home.

It’s nice. Easy and nice. It’s company he hadn’t asked for, didn’t think he wanted, or needed, but Bob keeps showing up. Keeps just being there. Appears at the exact moment John is about to step out the door, invites himself along, talks when John is willing to be talked at, is quiet when John is obviously in the wrong mood. He won’t be shaken.

They’re at the top edge of Central Park when John asks, “Aren’t you sick of walking the length of the island in the cold?”

Bob shrugs. “I like it. It's fun and… It's like, I live here now. It’s fun to see it like this. Get to know it, you know. The city. And you. I like, uh, spending time with you.”

That’s it. Bob likes spending time with him. John likes spending time with Bob. All this tourism around New York has become, more than anything, a way to spend time together. Outside of the tower, away from their friends, away from the pressures of missions and the press and being public figures. Even Bob, who can’t use his powers and so isn’t really part of the superhero hoopla but still ends up in the papers sometimes, likes the break, enjoys the time away. Even when people recognize them on the streets, which is less often than John had feared, it’s almost always nice. People say nice things to them. Occasionally girls titter over Bob, giggling at his shyness, making him blush, batting their eyelashes at him, all of which he politely deflects. He’s always a good sport when John teases him about it.

“Well… thanks. For the company.”

“You too.”

They start walking again, ambling with no intentional direction whatsoever.

Somewhere along the way, on one of those long, aimless, easy-going rambles, John stops feeling the weight of being divorced. Stops suffering under the burden of it. Stops feeling like it’s the defining failure in a life of failures, and starts to feel a kind of freedom. A lightness. Almost, sometimes, when Bob laughs at something he’s said, he feels something like… levitation.

Mid-month passes them by, and one afternoon, after getting caught in a flurry of snow that turned the city briefly white and wondrous before becoming wet and gray and slushy, they return from a very long walk to the Seaport to find that the Watchtower has been gussied up for the holidays in their absence. Twinkly lights and garlands of greenery and sparkling tinsel everywhere.

“What is this?” Bob gasps.

Bucky, brooding in the corner of the room, growls, “It’s garish.”

“Good word for it,” John agrees. “Who did this?”

“Valentina’s people. And Alexei.”

“I thought communists were atheists?”

“Like that would stop him.”

Bucky excuses himself, huffing and grumbling. Some of that grumpiness has to be a show, John thinks as he watches him go. He can’t really be so miserable about everything all the time.

After he’s gone, a small, hesitant little voice says, “I like it.”

John turns. Bob is fingering a length of pine that’s been attached to the bar.

“You do?”

“I never… had a Christmas that looked like this.” He shrugs, like he’s embarrassed by the sentimentality of liking a white, glittering Christmas. “It’s pretty.”

As much as he and Bob had been going to Christmas markets and staring at window displays all over town, he hadn’t given this year's holiday much actual thought. Knowing all their luck, they’d be called out on some mission and not get to enjoy it anyway. Last year, after Olivia had left, John had spent the holiday completely alone. Ignored it as much as forgot it was happening. Came back from cleaning up some lab in fucking Ecuador with someone else’s blood soaking into his skin and spent all day licking his wounded soul and being miserable. It had felt like his entire life boiled down to that one gray, lonely day. The rest of his life would be like that, he’d thought. All his holidays from that moment forward would be gray, and lonely, and miserable.

Or maybe not.

Maybe this will be a good Christmas. Maybe he’ll be together with his weird ragtag group of new friends, and it’ll be bright and warm and all that shit. He isn’t so stupid as to think of their merry band of misfits as anything even approaching a family, but maybe… maybe they aren’t too far off. Maybe they could pretend for a couple days.

It would be nice, he thinks, to stay in his pajamas all day, sitting around drinking hot chocolate and listening to Bing Crosby and laughing. Just because he hasn’t had a Christmas even approaching that in probably ten years— since long, long before all this— doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be nice.

Be nice for Bob. Be nice for all of them.

Bob smiles at him, showing a hesitant flash of teeth. John’s spine glows.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling fuzzy. “I guess it is.”

---

December 20th, and it’s been snowing heavily for two days, so their walks have been curtailed. The blanket that covers the sidewalks is thick and fluffy, nearly still white. Mostly. The city has more or less shuttered, most everyone retreating indoors to the dry warmth of wherever they call home— including the New Avengers. John is getting antsy. He hasn’t been trapped inside like this for a while. He doesn’t like it.

“It’s beautiful, huh?” Bob asks, his nose against the glass of the big windows in the penthouse.

“Yeah, pretty good.”

“It never snowed in Florida.”

“Or Georgia."

“Snowed all the time in Russia,” Yelena adds, wriggling up between them to look too. “This is nothing.”

“It’s nice though. It’s festive.” Bob nudges her with his elbow. “White Christmas and everything.”

“Eh.” She shrugs, disinterested, and shoves back past them to go on her way. “You two and your Christmas. Very silly consumerist holiday.”

“You’re starting to sound like your dad,” John warns. She gives a big, exaggerated shudder that carries her out of the room.

“I hope it lasts…” Bob murmurs to himself, still looking out the window.

“Let’s go out in it,” John suggests. He means it too— he needs some fresh air and to stretch his legs. “Go get dinner.”

Bob turns to him with bright lights in his eyes. “Yeah? You won’t be too cold?”

He still hasn’t gotten a good coat. It’s been okay so far, but he hasn’t been out on a day like this. The snow is really coming down, falling heavily in big, wet flakes… But he wants to go out. With Bob. “I’ll manage. We don’t have to go far.”

Where they go is an Indian restaurant only three blocks east, miraculously open despite the snow. It’s one of those spots with too many lights hanging from the ceiling, a technicolor cacophony that bathes the entire space in pinks and yellows and purples. It’s warm, and beautiful, and they’re the only people there. They eat hot curry and talk about bad Christmases past: Bob has plenty; John has his share. Then Bob pivots to a lighter topic—

“I got Ava a pair of gloves. Do you think she’ll like that? It was crazy, actually, to buy them. I went to, uh, what’s the really fancy one? Saks? And they had an actual glove counter… It was like it was 1954 or something, like out of a movie…”

Bob has gifts planned and bought for everyone. Resting his chin in his hand, feeling warm with good food and better company, John listens patiently and intently. Everything Bob’s done, everything he’s picked out and hunted down, is thoughtful and considerate. Good gifts.

It shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s not really. He’s a considerate, thoughtful guy. He’s kind. He’s trying really hard, and he’s succeeding. A gooey glow spreads down John’s spine and into his stomach.

“You’re really something,” John hears himself say.

“Huh?”

“You’re way too good for us.” He smirks, scoffs, and pauses to swipe up some sauce with a remaining piece of bread. “You’re gonna make us all look bad.”

“No,” Bob protests. “No way.”

“I guarantee it. We’re a bunch of unsocialized killers. If any of them know how to give gifts that aren’t deeply fucked up, I’d be amazed. Be prepared to receive handguns and pepper spray.”

“That’s not fair. If you’re unsocialized, I’m like, feral or something. You’ll do great. It’ll be great. Not that I’m expecting anything. I mean, I’m not. It’s not about that.”

John laughs. Thankfully, Bob laughs too.

Something about the lighting in this place makes Bob look almost unreal. Ethereal. The play of the colored lights against his hair, the way his eyes look impossibly dark, the perfect smoothness of his skin in the dimness.

Two cups of hot tea and a picture with the waitstaff later (shyly requested by the obviously teenage girl manning the phone at the front of the restaurant), they pay— well, John pays, swiping up the bill before Bob can make a move for it, and leaving an 80% tip— and head out into the snowy night. It’s dark and quiet, the night cottoned by heavy clouds and heavier snowfall. The cold air is bracing, and John finds himself desperately, confusingly grateful for it.

Trudging their way through thick snow, the only sound the crunch of their feet and the scritch-scratch of snow on snow, John’s ankles start to ache from the cold. Add it to the list of winter necessities he still hasn’t bothered to buy— waterproof boots and thicker socks. Dashing across third avenue to catch the light, his poorly suited shoes land on a patch of ice, slip, and he goes skidding. Bob snaps to his side and catches him before he can smash into the asphalt.

He looks around, heart in his throat and horrified some stranger saw him almost go ass over elbows— but the street is empty. It’s just Bob, smiling at him like he’s adorably clumsy instead of stupidly oblivious.

Tucking their elbows together, Bob doesn’t let him slip again.

When they’re home, standing at the doors of the tower, John lingers; he doesn’t want the evening to end. Snow swirls around them, lit by the warm halo of the street lamps. They’re alone, the only people in the entire world… Bob has snow in his eyelashes and clinging to the wavy strands of his hair.

Thoughtless, John lifts a hand, aiming to brush away a snowflake that’s landed on Bob’s cheek…

Bob catches him by the wrist and stops him, holding him in a kind of purgatory a centimeter from his skin. The snowflake melts and disappears. His eyes are wide and dark, almost startled.

“What’re you doing?” Bob asks, breathy and low.

“You had a…” But he realizes there are no words to explain himself. There was a snowflake. It’s gone now. Really, John simply wanted to touch the warmth of Bob’s skin.

He thinks to himself, what the fuck am I doing?

Just thinking about it, asking the question, opens the door. He’s suddenly, very painfully aware that he is experiencing the actual present tense of falling in love.

It makes his stomach heave. Flip. Dissolve into sickening worms. Maybe caterpillars. He wouldn’t dare call them butterflies.

It’s too soon. He hasn’t even been officially divorced for a month. They say it takes half as long as you were together to get over an ex, and by that count, John should be ready to date again in ten years. Not in hardly more than ten days.

But that’s what he’s been doing with Bob, isn’t it? His brain short-circuits to realize it. They’ve been going on fucking dates. Their walks. Meals and conversations and company and shared experiences, just for the two of them. Intimate and fun, increasingly the only bright spot in John’s small, dark, lonely world. He likes everybody else, and has had decent times with everyone else, but Bob is— but he—

Bob makes him laugh. Bob makes his spine glow.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It's too soon and it's Bob.

This is fucked up. He’s going to fuck it up.

Feeling faint, he coughs out, “Nevermind,” and tries to take his hand back before he can make a total fool of himself.

Bob holds him still. A crease appears in his forehead. “John?”

“I’m…” His fingers twitch. He feels like he might throw up his dinner all over Bob’s snowboots.

Bob must see his face go green, because releases his wrist fast, blinks at him, then ducks his head to turn hard towards the door. “It’s too cold,” he stutters, and disappears into the building.

John stays outside until his fingers hurt from the cold and he can no longer feel his toes at all. His head is spinning, but not with thoughts. Just a rush of feeling as he watches the snow come down around him. When he finally stumbles inside, Bob is long gone.

The tower is empty as a tomb as he makes his way to his room. By the time he gets into bed, his feet are still freezing, icy. Numb as his fuzzy, snow-cottoned head. He wishes he had somebody to put them up against. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t imagine Olivia’s smooth warm legs and the shriek he knows she’d let out at the touch of his cold toes. He finds himself imagining skin much warmer than that, with rough leg hair and defined muscles. He can almost hear the low gasp and the agitated laugh he’d elicit. It makes his guts go warm to think about. He’s drifting, he thinks. Sliding into unconsciousness. The half-formed fantasy turns into a dream as easily as that. Bob. In his shapeless, amorphous sleep world, Bob warms him up and smiles at him, happily taking his cold toes between his warm calves as he wraps hot hands around his bare shoulders. It’s a dream, that’s all. A dream that sticks to the insides of his ribs long after he wakes up.

---

He doesn’t see Bob for two days, beyond occasionally crossing paths in the kitchen during meal times.

A call comes in on the 23rd that takes him and Ava and Yelena out of the tower for most of the day and into the evening. Some schmuck with mechanical bird wings and a bunch of on-theme goons is trying to rob the Met, he has hostages, etcetera, etcetera. It’s not very interesting, and shouldn’t be very hard, but given the weather, the civilians, and the countless priceless artifacts the guy and his henchmen are constantly, loudly, threatening to destroy, it takes a long time. At least John gets to bash a few heads in and expel some energy. The weather has remained too bad to take his long walks, and between that and the restless anxiety now living under his skin as he panics over being in love (or whatever) with the only good male friend he considers himself to have, he’s grateful these fucks showed up to attempt an end of year heist. Ava and Yelena do all the sneaky parts— securing and evacuating hostages, slipping trackers into the backs of bird costumes— and he gets to be a distraction. Big and showy and obnoxious, asking to be paid attention to and fought.

The fighting feels good. Taking a few punches even feels good. Getting clipped in the head by a big bird wing, not so much. Part of the job, he thinks as he shakes off the ringing in his ears. He doesn’t realize until a lot later, when Bob points it out, that the metal wing cut a gash into his scalp and took a strip of hair with it.

“I’ll look so cute for the Christmas photos,” he grumbles as Yelena dabs at his head with iodine.

Bob is sitting on a kitchen stool nearby, his hands tucked between his knees, looking glum.

Today’s mission may have essentially a big fucking waste of time, probably something the cops could have handled if they were any good at their jobs, but now it’s over and they’re home in time for Christmas. The risk of being called away for a week or longer had started to feel like a bad-luck inevitability as they crept closer to the 25th without anything cropping up. December had been a quiet month for crime that required superheroes. It had been starting to feel like all that quiet could only be because something huge was brewing. They’re all a little superstitious that way, John’s come to learn, and it’s not for nothing. This job tends to be like that. So this little adventure has served to release a little steam off the pressure valve. Now they should be safe through the holiday. Maybe even to New Year’s. Surely even crooks like to be at home for Christmas.

“How come you’re the only one who got hurt?” Bob asks, poking through the first aid kit.

“Part of the job, Bobby. Sometimes it’s my job to take the hits.”

Bob grimaces.

Yelena adds, “He was very helpful.”

“I don’t see how getting beat up is helpful.”

John answers: “First of all, I didn’t get beat up. Secondly, no civilians got hurt. Ava and Yelena didn’t get hurt. I got a little cut keeping them safe.”

Bob looks at him through long eyelashes. “Who’s gonna keep you safe?”

His breath hitches embarrassingly. Nobody. The answer is that nobody is going to keep him safe. The last person who cared enough to try was Lemar, and look how that turned out. Since then he’d been alone, his own defense, and even now, with the team, it’s the same thing. He’s the last line of protection for everyone else, and in truth he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He’s moved by Bob’s concern even so.

This is why he doesn’t want to fuck things up with Bob. Bob cares about him in a way that carries no expectations, no requirements. There’s no pressure from Bob, for anything. Even Lemar, who loved him more than anyone has ever loved him and had seen him at some of his lowest points, still thought he was something he wasn’t. Thought he was a gen-u-ine hero. Bob doesn’t think that. Bob knows exactly what John is. A fuckup whose great purpose in life is to get beaten up so others don’t have to. Bob doesn't ask him to be more than that. Or he hasn’t. Until now.

Bob jabs a hard finger into John’s shoulder. “Quit getting hurt,” he bites. “Or I’m gonna have to do something about it.”

“Like what?”

His face scrunches up, serious, and he pokes John’s arm again. John can’t tell if he’s teasing or not. “Don’t make me put on the Sentry suit, Walker.”

“Jesus, Bobby."

Yelena sniggers as she presses a pad of gauze against his head. “He’s going to tie you up and keep you home.”

“No he’s not,” John grumbles.

“I will,” Bob snaps. “If I have to.”

His tone is so harsh, both John and Yelena flinch. There’s a flare in him they haven’t seen in a long time; his eyes are quickly fading back from a gold flash.

The tension breaks abruptly when Bob realizes what’s happened and recoils in on himself. He goes small again, his posture collapsing, his hands tucking up into his sleeves.

“I just meant… I mean…”

“He means you should value yourself more,” Yelena says gently. “Stop running into danger for no reason.”

Bob looks at her with this soppy, wet-eyed, totally grateful expression. She’s put a nail in exactly what he meant.

“Right, yeah. Be safe instead. Please.”

Yelena sticks a bandage into John’s hair, imperfectly covering his reckless battle damage, and presses a kiss to it. She comes away grinning, pleased with her work. “We’d miss you if you got yourself killed.”

“‘Lena, don’t even say that.”

“Yeah, ‘Lena, don’t give me any ideas.”

Bob glares at him. “That’s not funny. You know that’s not funny.”

Sure it’s not. He knows it’s not. Nobody’s ever cared enough to call him out on shit like that though, not really. Olivia accepted it as a fact of his personality, his job. Lemar ran right into danger next to him. Nobody ever told him to stop. Nobody ever loved him quite that much.

Not that Bob loves him. That way.

“I’m careful, Bobby,” he offers weakly, feeling at Yelena’s patchwork first aid with distracted fingertips. “I’m not looking to get hurt.”

Bob just frowns, not believing him.

“Okay, come on,” John says, loud now, forcing cheer, determined to change the mood of the room. “It’s Christmas. I don’t want to mope around. Let’s, let’s play some music or something. Make cookies.”

Bob blinks, startled by the abrupt shift, and looks to Yelena like he can’t believe what he’s just heard.

“You want to make cookies?”

“He really did hit his head,” Yelena says out of the side of her mouth.

“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” He puffs up, a little defensive. “Jesus, can’t a guy try and do something festive? It’ll be Christmas Eve in like, five hours.”

“Okay, okay.” Yelena throws her hands up in defeat and tries to crush a smile. “If it’ll make you happy. Let’s do it.”

Bob gives in too. “Sure.”

“I’ll get Ava—”

It takes googling a recipe and more than a little embarrassing trial and error (they burn the first batch so badly even Alexei won’t eat them), but in the end, they all stand around the kitchen counter and messily frost two dozen sugar cookies. They aren’t shaped like trees or reindeer or little men, since they didn’t have cutters, but they did their best to hand cut them into circles and squiggles and diamonds and stars. Imperfect, a little ugly, but infused with all their best effort and an awful lot of laughter. Yelena keeps getting distracted taking pictures of all of them, and each finished cookie.

Bob gets powdered sugar on his face and John forces himself not to do anything about it. The last time he tried to touch Bob’s face they barely spoke for two days. It doesn’t matter how cute he is, biting his lip as he tries to make a pretty pattern using too thin frosting. John has to hold himself in check. So he does.

Bucky, sitting at the end of the counter, finally waves Bob over to point out the white streak on his cheek.

He wipes it away with his sleeve, laughing. “Geez, guys, you could’ve said something.”

“No, no,” Alexei rumbles. “Too cute. Shame on you, Mr. Soldier. Ruining cute thing.”

“I got so many pictures, Dad,” Yelena beams, “not to worry. We’ll frame one. Hang over the mantel.”

“Here—” Alexei grabs her phone. “Everyone together. Let’s do a selfie.”

There’s a round of groans, but no one actually says no. They all cram in around Bucky, the mess of the counter in the foreground, and Alexei reaches his long arm out to snap the photo.

He spins it around to show them. The groans turn to oohs and aahs.

“We’re so cute,” Ava says wryly, but warmly. “This one we should definitely frame.”

“New Avengers…” Alexei is basically vibrating with pride and joy. “First Christmas together. So wonderful.”

In the picture, John is crammed in between Bucky and Ava, with Bob craning over his shoulder, a hand on John’s back, using him for balance. His fingertips are just barely visible in the picture, creeping up along John’s collar. They’re nearly cheek to cheek. They look happy. They all do. Everyone’s smiling, everyone’s light.

The heat from Bob’s hand is lingering on John’s spine.

Where does he get off looking happy? Being happy?

“Okay,” Alexei grins, tossing Yelena back her phone and clapping his hands together in conspiratorial excitement. “Now who wants vodka?”

---

Christmas Eve. John wakes up feeling warm and rested. He got to bed late, they all did, but it was fun. It was worth it. He showers, checks his head, decides he doesn’t need another bandage. Pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt.

What are you supposed to do on Christmas Eve? As a kid, the day was always spent with relatives he barely knew. Now he doesn’t know.

He emerges into the kitchen to find a war zone. Alexei, wearing a fuzzy red Santa hat and not nearly enough else, is making a mess. Probably it’s an attempt at breakfast, but it mostly seems like a mess.

Ava sits at the counter, her chin in her hands. She locks eyes with John as he comes in and gestures to the big man swanning around with a spatula in hand. “Father Christmas himself.”

Alexei guffaws.

Heading to the fridge, John shakes his head. “You don’t make any sense, man.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t peg you for a big Christmas guy. You’re always railing against the sins of commercialism and shit.”

“Christmas is wonderful holiday,” Alexei protests, almost pouting. “About family, togetherness, generosity.”

John pulls a carton of orange juice out and leans back against the counter. “Uh huh.”

“Not the fault of Christmas if some people have done it dirty. Pancakes?”

The whole day is like that. People wander in and out of eating and watching old movies on TV and sitting around talking. Yelena’s friend Kate shows up in the late afternoon with a dog, five pizzas, and a sheepish smile that speaks to her excitement at being welcomed into the Avengers tower. She’s just a kid, John thinks. Maybe that makes Yelena just a kid too.

Bob sits on the floor with the dog, petting it idly while he half watches Remember the Night.

John slides up to sit next to him. The big labrador, sensing a new available pair of hands, wriggles and snuffles his way across Bob’s lap to make himself available to John. Accommodating, John starts to scratch his ears. He can’t remember the last time he got to pet a dog.

On the TV, Fred MacMurray is wearing a funny polka dot jacket and leaning close to Barbara Stanwyck. “You want to come into my room and have a cigarette?” He asks.

Bob shivers. He sighs, “Geez, that’s sexy.”

“Do you want hot chocolate or something?” John asks, instead of responding. He can’t allow himself to engage in thinking about what Bob thinks is sexy. Not right now. Maybe not ever, since he has to keep living with the guy and would prefer not to wreck everything.

“Huh? Uhm—” But John is already making a move to stand. Bob grabs the big dog around the ribs and hauls it up, making sure he doesn’t get bumped by John’s knees. “Oh, now?”

John doesn’t wait for an answer, just dashes off to the kitchen. Kate and Yelena are there, whispering closely over a plate of cookies. They watch him bustle around like an idiot for a while, their eyes tracking him like bloodhounds.

“What’s wrong with you, Walker?” Yelena asks flatly. “You’re being so weird.”

“No, I’m not.” He fumbles a mug and barely catches it before it smashes.

“Very weird. Kate Bishop, this is weird, no?”

Kate flusters. “Uhm, I don’t really know what normal is like, so—”

“Nothing about all this—” she waves a hand around to encompass his whole being— “is normal.”

He grimaces. “It’s Christmas. Can’t you be nice to me for one day?”

“Not when you’re being so weird! Come on, come on,” she waves him over, pulling out a stool and making a big fuss about getting him to sit. “Tell sister Yelena what’s wrong.”

“You’re horrible,” he groans.

“You’re one of the girls. Let’s do girl talk.”

“I am not one of the girls—”

“Who’s one of the girls?” Ava asks, swanning in wearing a flowing silk robe over her suit.

Thankfully, the robe is such a conversation piece that Yelena gets distracted.

John manages to make his hot chocolate— and three extra mugs for the girls— and escape without having to say anything more.

It’s a relief to go back to Bob, still in front of the TV with the dog. Bob takes his mug with a grateful nod and a smile and no words.

Settling into a chair, John feels a wash of easy comfort. It’s easy with Bob. It always is.

---

Suddenly it’s dark out, late, and John is almost tipsy. Alexei has been pouring vodka and glasses of red wine into him since long before dinner, and it’s managing to catch up to him. His serum has staved off the worst of it— if he was still a normal guy, he’d be flat on his ass— but he’s got a warm glow going that he’ll admit feels pretty good.

Everyone has gathered in chairs and on the sofa near the tree Valentina’s people put up in the corner of the penthouse. It’s lit with twinkling white lights, casting the room in a liquidy, starlight glow. Yelena insisted on turning off the big lights.

They’ve all just been drinking and nibbling at their ugly cookies and chatting for hours. It’s late and getting later, but no one has made the first move to break up the warm comfort of the evening. No one is ready to go to bed.

“Hey,” Bob leans over the arm of the sofa to catch John’s attention. “You’re smiling.”

John blinks at him. The tree lights glitter in Bob’s eyes, and it doesn’t remind him of the pinpricks of the Void at all.

He realizes Bob’s right— he is smiling. Without his noticing, his face has fallen into a soft, placid smile. For years he’s had a resting bitch face, or more accurately a resting I’ll-kill-you face. But this feels right. Maybe it’s the slight buzz he’s got going. Or the buzzing of the Christmas tree lights.

“Yeah. I’m happy,” he admits. “You’re smiling too.”

Bob smiles all the time. Bob’s a naturally smiley guy. The smile that grows on his face now unfurls like the first finger of green grass in the spring. Shy but bright and impossible to quash. His thin lips tremble.

He rests his chin on the arm of the sofa. Softly, he says, “I’m happy.”

“Beautiful evening,” Alexei sighs loudly, interrupting the moment. “Kate Bishop, you stay the night, yes?”

Her head peeks up from where it had been resting on Ava’s leg. “Oh, uh—” She looks around at all of them. “I don’t want to intrude, I can go home.”

The dog, sleeping at Bucky’s feet, gives a hearty snuffle.

“Too late to leave,” Yelena says. “We have so many rooms.”

“I mean—”

“I’ll show you.” She grabs her friend's hand and drags her up. “Time for bed anyway. Goodnight, friends. This was very good Christmas eve.” One by one, still dragging Kate behind her, Yelena goes around the room and kisses everyone goodnight. She kisses John’s cheek and ruffles his hair. “Goodnight, weirdo.”

“Goodnight, Yelena.”

When she gets to Bob, she presses her lips into his hair on the top of his head. “Sleep tight, my sweet Bob.”

He blushes. “‘Night, ‘Lena. Merry Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas to all,” she declares on her way out the door. “And to all a good night!”

Kate waves at them and then is pulled away.

The two of them gone, the rest of the group slowly starts to turn in. Ava first, leaving the men to themselves with a bored roll of her eyes. Then Bucky, pulling the old man card. Alexei follows him out, the two of them having a familiar argument over how old Bucky really gets to claim to be.

Which leaves John and Bob in the dim, cozy room. John feels warm and fuzzy and impossibly, actually, happy.

If he wasn’t half tipsy, maybe he’d be nervous, or anxious, to be alone with Bob in the quiet twilight. He still hasn’t figured out how to deal with his realization of romantic feelings. Today hasn’t helped. He and Bob kept finding themselves at each other’s elbows— at the table for dinner, pouring drinks in the kitchen, by the stereo picking music— pulled together by an ever tightening red lasso. None of the weirdness of the night out in the snow was present. Whatever had made Bob run away into the tower didn’t keep him away from John now.

He stretches his legs out, taking up the space on the sofa that was previously occupied by Alexei’s manspreading.

“Should we leave milk and cookies?” He smiles, glancing at John with that impossible twinkle in his eyes.

“There’s half a plate there already. Go for it, slugger.”

Bob scrunches up his face. “No, ew, I don’t like that one.”

John almost laughs. “What do you like?”

“Uh…” He takes his time. Really thinks about it. “Bobby. I like Bobby okay.”

“Sure thing, Bobby.” A moment passes where he doesn’t know what to say next. The warmth around them turns thick and heavy. There’s something in the air, a presence in the room John doesn’t know how to deal with. So he decides to try and avoid it. “Time to turn in, I guess.”

Bob watches him with big eyes. John stands. He doesn’t wobble at all.

“Uhm, wait—” Bob hops up; he almost trips over the hem of his pants in his hurry but manages not to fall. “Me too.”

“Not gonna sit up and wait for Santa?”

“Don’t be an asshole. I know it comes easily to you, but you’ve been doing much better lately.”

John scoffs and heads towards the door.

Bob gets there at the same time and they bump shoulders, both trying to fit through a slightly too narrow opening.

John steps back, or tries to— his heel catches something and he stumbles. Bob jolts to catch him and then jerks away, leaving John more off balance than ever.

“Sorry,” Bob says, his cheeks flushing pink. He touches John’s chest to keep them both steady. “Sorry.”

“Sorry, I, uh— You go.”

John moves, turning sideways, but Bob does the same thing. They get caught again, awkwardly finding themselves chest to chest. John tries to move again, then again, and finds that Bob is blocking him at every turn.

They dance around each other, getting in each other's way, trapped in the doorway as their waltz grinds them to a standstill.

Bob grabs his arms and stills him. “There.” They’re standing facing each other under the lintel. Now’s the moment when one of them graciously moves and the other politely stands still, and they go their separate ways for the night. But nobody moves.

Bob’s eyes glance up. His cheeks go from peppermint pink to red velvet.

“What?”

“Mistletoe.”

John looks up too. A sprig is hanging over their heads. That’s stupid. That’s a stupid thing Valentina’s decorating team did.

He doesn’t move. This is too much. Too obvious. Cliche. He swallows painfully hard. His throat has gone tight and dry.

“John…”

“Bobby,” he croaks. His tipsiness has turned into dizziness. Maybe it’s the late hour, or that he stood up too fast, but it could just as easily be the intoxicating warm chocolate smell coming off Bob’s breath.

Bob’s hand is still on his chest. His eyes flicker all over John’s face. The tip of his pink tongue swipes out to wet his lips.

“Look, I’m, uh, gonna do this. And then we never have to talk about it. Okay?”

One of Bob’s hands slips up his chest and over his shoulder, coming to wrap around the back of John’s neck. A little pressure brings John’s face closer. Bob’s serious face, twinged with only a touch of worry, goes blurry. Dreamy.

Then his lips press against John’s. Soft. Careful. Purposeful.

Sweet. Like powdered sugar.

John’s mind goes blissful and empty, full of snowflakes.

The kiss isn’t fast. It’s not a playful peck to get it over with. Ha ha, that’s what you get for hanging mistletoe, okay, goodnight. It’s not like that at all. It’s the opposite of that. Bob’s mouth presses, slow and savoring, through two long breaths that John can feel against his upper lip. It’s a closed mouth kiss, but Bob’s lips are lax and relaxed, surging forward and retreating minutely, turning a chaste pressure into something with heat behind it. Like a simmering ember unearthed from old ashes. When he pulls away, their lips stick together and peel apart.

Shakily, John exhales.

“Okay, uhm.” Bob takes a couple shaky breaths of his own. His chin tucks back and away, his hand disappears off John’s neck. The intention to flee is written plainly over his expression. He knocks his fist chummily, appallingly awkwardly, onto John’s collarbone, then takes a jerky step away. “Goodnight.”

“Wait—” He catches Bob’s wrist and tugs him back; Bob tumbles into him, falling against his chest. He wraps an arm around Bob's waist, holding him tight. He has to— has to try it himself.

He kisses him. Firm and slow. An old movie kiss. All feeling.

Yes. It’s the same feeling. The same warm, tingling, glowy feeling. Like finally finding the place he belongs, the place he fits perfectly.

“Let’s talk about it,” John breathes, staying close to Bob’s face. His heart is fluttering out of control in his chest. Because Bob kissed him. Chose to kiss him. And when John kissed him back, Bob didn’t recoil. So that has to be a good sign. Another good sign: He’s allowing himself to be held. He could pull away if he really wanted to. He could be gone in a heartbeat if he wanted. So he must not want. Rather, he must want to be held in John’s arms, one hand crushed between their chests.

John tips forward and catches his mouth again, and this time Bob’s hand fists in his shirt and his lips open, and for a long, long moment— the kind of impossible moment that could only happen very late at night, after a warmly affectionate perfect day— they kiss. Tongues slide together with hunger and no thoughts, no concerns, only attraction and desire and something so heavy and thick it turns everything sloppy and unskilled. There’s no technique to it, no showing off. Just the basic need to be locked together.

It’s Bob who pulls away first. He blinks a few times, seeming dazed and in awe. His eyelashes are catching the dim light so beautifully… It’s been a long, strange month, John thinks. But if it’s led him here? To this moment, and this man, and this chance…

It hits him. What to say. How to express himself. He smiles, feeling more than a little dazed himself. “Do you want to come into my room and have a cigarette?”

Meaning, I love you no matter what you’ve done. Meaning, I want you for all you are. Meaning, we can be happy if you can forgive me all that I am and all that I’ve done. Somewhere out there, on the other side of hardship and redemption, is something he can just begin to picture as happiness.

Bob gasps, his cheeks flushing pink. A glow lights deep in his eyes. “John… don’t be unfair.”

“I’m not.”

But Bob sighs, low and quiet, shaking his head. He blinks a few times, and wetness appears on his eyelashes like dew. Bad sign. “I, I don’t think we should do this.”

Oh. Because, of course, John Walker is an unloveable, undateable mess. Bob may like him, may even be attracted to him, but he knows better than to want anything more with him. They can be friends, and that’s all. One kiss under the mistletoe— two, maybe. Three, tops— is all he’ll allow himself. Which is smart. Bob is smart. Smarter than John.

One of them will mess it up. Probably John. He gets it. He can’t even be mad. Disappointment settles in his guts, a heavy lead weight ready to drag him down into the depths.

He lets him go. Bob floats away until his back hits the doorjamb with a thunk.

Quietly, Bob mumbles, “It’s just… you’re… I know you’re still…”

When John manages to speak, his voice sounds like broken glass. Sharp and brittle and crunching to powder under the weight of Bob’s heavy metaphorical boots. “Still what?”

“Tender. From the divorce.” That’s one way to put it. He’s not wrong— John is tender. Pulverized. His heart has never been so raw and vulnerable, his emotions scraped open, dragged along the asphalt and still bleeding. Everything before and after the final bullet of the divorce has left him with his ribcage cracked wide open, his sensitive insides exposed and stinging… and through all that, Bob crawled inside. Crawled inside and now is tearing him apart. “And, I… the way I am… I’d hate myself if I made it worse.”

“Bobby…” Tightness crushes his chest, running him through a trash compactor, making him small. “In what world could you make it worse?”

“In this one,” he replies, slightly sharp, his body going tense. He raises a shaky hand, almost as if to touch John’s cheek. John feels his skin go tight, the muscles in his face clenching in anticipation. Or terror. Sensing it, Bob’s hand retreats, coiling back into his ribs. He digs his hands into his sleeves, then crosses his arms over his chest. “John, our friendship is important to me. Our walks and… I’m scared.”

John’s eyes water and he blinks it away.

His shattered glass heart starts to stab him, sharp with every breath, and John starts to sink. It’s shameful, embarrassing.

Bob seems to be feeling the same way. Blinking a lot and very fast, his fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweatshirt, his little mouth twitching.

“Of me?”

Bob’s eyes go wide. “No! God, no. No. It’s not you, it’s— I’m, I’m such a fuckup, you know, I make everything worse, and I’m just such a— I can’t—”

“Stop, just—” He snaps a hand out towards Bob. He wants to grab him and shake him out of it, but manages to stop himself. The gesture itself is enough to stop Bob’s miserable rambling. “Stop. You’re not a fuckup. Bob… How do you feel about me?”

It’s a simple question. He wants a simple answer. No matter what it is, he thinks it’s the right place to start.

“I’m no good,” Bob murmurs. He’s almost smiling, in a tight, pained way, his teeth peeking out from behind his lips. “So it doesn’t matter…”

“I want to hear it anyway. Please.” Bob doesn’t say anything, not right away, but he chews on his lip, clearing thinking about it. John prods. “Just try to tell me in a way that doesn’t make me ashamed to be a human being.” He laughs wetly. It’s that or start sobbing.

Bob flinches. For a long beat, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He stares at John with his big, shining, deep blue eyes like he’s trying to see his thoughts. All around them is silence.

Finally, deadly as a tsunami carried on the wave of a single sighed breath, he replies: “I told you I love you.” His breath hitches. “Weeks ago.”

The night of the divorce papers. John hasn’t forgotten. It’s been ringing in his ears ever since, and screaming at him since the night in the snow. Because I love you, he’d said. Bob had promised to stick with him, no matter what, because I love you.

He’d thought Bob meant as a friend. Loved him like he loves Yelena. Now he’s starting to hope, a foolish squirrely glimmer that’s building behind his ribs, Now, if he isn’t very, very careful, his stupid hopes are going to hurt him. And probably hurt Bob too.

“How?”

A startled laugh punches out of Bob, like he doesn’t understand the question. “How?

“Why?”

“Why?” Bob echoes. He might as well be a mirror for all he’s giving. A blank, open face and blank, repeated words. Breathy, he answers, “Because I came alive when I met you.” The open expression on his face flutters into something like shame, then disappears under something forced and silly and patently false. A blatant front. His mouth twists into a grimace that’s meant to be a careless smile. “I mean literally. You cracked me out of that coffin. You woke me up.”

It rankles. John sours. “That’s not it.”

Bob presses back against the doorjamb, curling in on himself as far as he can go, away from John. But he hasn’t made a run for it. Not yet. His face trembles, falls, going serious again, maybe realizing that John isn’t going to let him wiggle or joke his way out of it.

“Then you were my friend,” he says softly. “A real friend. You were there for me, spent time with me, never babied me… You, you made me feel like a real person. A normal person. That’s being alive and, and you did that for me. Why do I love you? How do I love you?” Another shaky laugh falls out of him and his head drops against his chest. “How could I not?”

That… doesn’t rankle. That’s honest. That’s true. That’s what happened to John too. He was more than half dead before the vault. Sliding quickly towards half dead again after the divorce. And Bob brought him out of it. Bob dragged him back to life, got him moving, made him feel… like a real person. 

John knows why he feels about Bob the way he does, knows what Bob did for him, how Bob makes him feel… But he can’t really believe that Bob would feel… that way, for him, when he has so many better options available. Yelena, for one. Ava. Bucky, even, if he’s into dudes, which apparently he is. Bob could have anyone in New York City between the ages of 25 and 45, so why would he want John Walker?

So he asks, “Why me?”

“Why you? Why me?”

“Because…” he shrugs weakly. Because a thousand reasons he knows he can’t articulate. Because Bob is the best thing to ever happen to him. “You’re you.”

“Yeah.” His eyes twitch with focus and intensity, staring at John with everything he's got. “You’re you. Exactly.”

“So you feel how I feel.”

“I guess that depends.” His trembling lips flutter into a smile. “How do you feel?”

John leans forward across the narrow space, putting out an arm to brace himself in the narrow space behind Bob’s head.

“I don’t want to say the wrong thing here, Bobby, but…” He jumps off the ledge. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

They’re not really under the mistletoe this time, when Bob grabs the front of John’s shirt and pulls him closer, then kisses him, breathing him in like life support. Bob is pressed against the frame of the door and the mistletoe is four inches behind John’s shoulder.

It’s a good kiss too. Slow and heavy. Bob wraps his arms around John’s shoulders, his neck, hanging off him and humming a low pleased sound that shivers through John’s teeth, into his skull, and right down his spine. Bob’s smile grows again, all teeth and dimples. 

“I never…” Bob says softly, dragging his lips over John’s mouth, pressing directionless kisses into the corner of his beard, the apple of his cheek, the crooked bump in his nose. “I really thought you were straight.”

John blushes, heat surging into his face. He shrugs. He thought he was straight too. Mostly. Until Bob. “I guess not.”

“Yeah,” Bob sighs, catching his lips again in a light kiss. “Guess not. Lucky me.”

“Am I gonna sound stupid if I say I thought you were straight too?”

He laughs, pulling John close to plant his lips against his forehead. “Yes. That’s very stupid.”

John opens his mouth to protest— he’s sure he could list a bunch of times that Bob had commented on some pretty girl, or done something with Yelena that had made John sure, or, or— but it doesn’t matter. Bob stops his mouth with another kiss, and that’s proof enough. He swipes his tongue against John’s teeth with confidence, surety, skill. Shit. Now that Bob feels he has permission, allowance, to kiss him, he’s taking advantage and doing a damn good job of it.

“You’re a good kisser.”

“Thanks.” Bob smiles. Glowy. He’s gone fully glowy, his skin lighting up from the inside. “You’re not too bad either. You’re, uh…” His smile creases his face, running deep lines down his cheeks. He presses against John’s body, going half limp in John’s arms and forcing him to carry his weight. “You’re a pretty good Christmas present.”

John feels himself go glowy too. In a different way, sure, but it fills him up from the base of his spine to the top of his scalp. He’s never been anyone’s present. It’s lame and it’s silly, but he can tell Bob means it. Lame, silly Bob thinks that John Walker is a gift. Jesus Christ.

He thinks he could live off this feeling for a year. Until next Christmas. Easily.

Crushing an embarrassing grin and crushing Bob in his arms, he deflects: “I got you a robe too.”

“Oh?” Bob perks up, almost more excited about that than John holding him.

“Yeah, a, uh—” he’s getting distracted by Bob’s glittering dark eyes and a sheen of spit on his lower lip— “A nice one. Japanese indigo.”

“Whoa.” Bob sighs. Looking up through his eyelashes, he asks, “John… this is real, right?”

When John kisses him, Bob goes tense all over, then swarms into the kiss with his entire body. His hands grab the back of John’s neck and hold, hard, fingertips digging in to leave marks. It makes it easy to pick him and pivot around the door frame, and push him against the solid wall of the hallway. Bob hiccups, then moans.

With a shudder, John draws out of the kiss. With one finger, he tilts Bob’s head up to look towards the ceiling. The space above them is perfectly empty. Bob blinks, clearing dreamy cobwebs from his eyes. His head tilts in a question.

“No mistletoe,” John explains, giving him another lingering press of lips. “Real.”

“Real.” Bob shivers. Something has shifted in him, something has turned up the heat, leaving him tense as barbed wire and trembling with it. His hands come around to cup John’s cheeks, holding him with strong, shaking fingers. With an unsteady exhale, Bob finds John’s eyes and holds them. They’re so close, John can see himself reflected in Bob’s heady, half unfocused gaze. Then, low and purring and terribly wanting, coming from deep within his chest, Bob says, “You want to come into my room and have a cigarette.”

Not a question.

His lips twitch into a promising smile.

“I want to come to your room. I don’t need the cigarette.”

---

In the morning— Christmas morning— he wakes up in a bed that’s not his own. He can tell because it’s much too soft. The mattress has too much give, the sheets are too smooth. He’s tangled up oddly— half on his stomach, half on his side, one leg under the blankets, the other not, the cool air of the room licking at his exposed skin. Of which there’s plenty. He can feel his own bare shoulder under his fingers, where his arm is wrapped around his neck and half draped over a shoulder blade. He’s just in his boxers and not in his own bed and this is not how he sleeps, this is not how he is.

Which is fine, because he’s in Bob’s bed and Bob is kissing a trail down his back. When he realizes John’s awake, he rises to kiss at his knuckles. A hand that had been resting on his waist skirts up his ribs, then intertwines their fingers.

It feels like a miracle to wake up to Bob. Still here. Not leaving. No intention of leaving. Nuzzling into the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he mumbles, his breath hot against John’s tingling skin.

John turns, twists, rearranges himself so he can get his free arm around Bob’s ribs and drag him up onto his chest. Bob grins. He’s so warm, pink with sleep and visibly still drowsy. With a cozy hum, he rests his cheek against John’s pec, right over his heart.

“Hey.”

“It’s so quiet.”

“It’s early.” He brushes a strand of hair off Bob’s forehead. “Everyone’s still asleep.”

“Uhm, are you… should we get up?”

“Do you want to?”

They hadn’t done anything last night— just come to Bob’s room and gotten undressed, slid between the sheets and kissed until they fell asleep to the sound of snowflakes scratching the windows. John’s not sure he really wants to do anything more now, exactly, but he’s so comfortable that getting up and putting on clothes and going to face the boisterous chaos he’s sure today is going to become… Well, it sounds way less appealing than staying right here, with Bob draped heavily over him.

Bob burrows against his side, cuddling in. It’s not enough for him, and he reaches for the puddled quilt tangled at the foot of the bed and drags it up, throwing it over them. It floats, flops, falls heavy half across John’s face. Laughing, Bob pulls it the rest of the way over their heads, creating a cocoon, a cotton cave just for the two of them.

“I want to stay here for a while. With you. Later I want to eat pancakes. But first I want to kiss you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Bob laughs at him and does what he wants, leans in until he’s a blurry beige shape and a hot, soft, damp press of lips with the tiniest hint of tongue. He pulls away smiling. Under the blanket, the cool winter light is warmly diffused. It’s like a scene out of a movie. A bad one, where some poor schmuck's wife dies and he remembers her as a laughing angel under the sheets. Not a person. The comparison, even accidental, turns his stomach. He whips the blanket down and gets hit in the face with a slap of cold air.

Bob makes a face and it’s so human, so alive and so perfectly Bob, it turns John's churning guts to somersaulting fireworks.

Bob is invincible— he forgets sometimes, with how shaky and normal and fragile Bob can be, but he is. Bob will never be someone’s dream of a dead wife. Bob will always be what he is now— making an annoyed face and a big show of being cold so he can dig his nose into John’s neck.

Bob blows a raspberry into the crook of his shoulder and John screams in surprise, then falls laughing, wrestling Bob up to kiss him, to hold the sides of his face and kiss him over and over, both of them still laughing.

“Isn’t this good?” Bob asks.

“Better than pancakes?”

“Better than Alexei’s pancakes, anyway, yeah.” He smiles. Warm and beautiful. Joking. Funny. Funny Bob. Funny Bob who loves him. Bob who’s staying.

He rolls his eyes. “Wow, high praise.”

“John, it’s so good. This is, like, the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

“It hasn’t even started yet.”

He sighs and nestles in, perfectly content to stay cuddled against John’s body for the rest of the day. “I have you. I have a home. I have friends who care about me, and presents under the tree, and, and a whole day ahead that’s gonna be warm and fun and… it’s great.” He presses his face against John’s skin, maybe embarrassed by his own earnestness, maybe merely overwhelmed by feeling. “It’s the best. I’m with you, so it’s the best.”

On any other day, John would probably contest that. Bob may love him, but it would be reckless to let him ever forget how messy and brutal the man he’s hitched his horse to can be. How difficult John can be, and will be, at some point, without a doubt. But today, in this moment, he wants Bob to be happy more than he wants anything. Reality can wait.

He presses a kiss into Bob’s hair.

He’ll be the luckiest man alive to get to keep this. After so much trouble and pain, so many bumps in the road and painful crashes and the myriad consequences he’s faced from his own actions, his own personality… he’s walking a tightrope here, he thinks. Standing on a wire stretched over a gaping chasm of failure. But he can walk it, if he focuses. He’s going to try. He won’t fall. Not this time.

This time he’s going to climb the mountain and stay at the top.

He’s mixing metaphors.

In his defense, he can feel Bob’s breath hot against his collarbone.

Somewhere outside their quiet, snow ensconced room, the tower starts to come alive. Sounds of conversation and clattering pans and clanking dishes float into their peaceful bubble.

Eventually they’ll go out and join everyone. Eventually they’ll have to tell everyone and deal with the aftershocks. But not yet.

Now is just for them. A little peace. A respite.

“I got you a sweater,” Bob mumbles shyly as he drags a finger across John’s pec. “It’s not a good gift, but I couldn’t think of— of the right thing. I wanted something perfect, something just right, something that, that would… I don’t know. I didn’t find it though.”

John tightens his hold around Bob’s shoulders. “Last night you said I was a good present?”

“Yeah.” He’s not sure, but John would guess Bob is blushing.

“Well, you’re my present too. I got what I want, and it’s great. You’re great. Though I’m sure the sweater is great too.”

Bob lifts his head. “Wait ‘til you see it. You might change your mind.”

“Not about you.” He kisses him then, and keeps kissing him. Kisses him until Yelena bangs on the door and shouts for Bob to move his ass and come out for breakfast and presents.

It takes a while, and John has to slip back to his room for fresh clothes, but then… the sweater really is pretty bad. John wears it anyway, all day. Bob wears his new robe too, all day. 

They keep making eye contact. John keeps blushing. It's just that it's so... great. To know they have each other. To know they're starting something that both of them want, that feels like a gift. 

Yelena eyes them suspiciously. “You're weird,” she says, jabbing at both John's arm, then Bob's, like John's weirdness from last night was contagious and has infected her friend. “You're both being so weird. Why are you being so weird?”

Bob tucks his elbow into John's, pulling him tight against his side. He smiles in a teasing, wouldn't-you-like-to-know way and replies, “It's Christmas, Yelena. Can't a weird guy have a good time?”

She huffs and rolls her eyes, but leaves them alone after that. 

“You're not that weird,” John feels the need to say.

“Yeah I am. But you couldn't like me as much if I wasn't. And you like me a lot.”

“I do.” Quick, while everyone else is preoccupied with something out the window, John dips in to press a kiss to Bob's cheek. “Merry Christmas, Bobby.”

“I like you too. And you're also weird, by the way.” Bob glows. Weird is good, weird is them. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

John flies high on that for the rest of the day. Nothing drags him down.