Chapter Text
You’re struggling to keep your eyes open, watching as the hands on the clock drag from one number to the next, the seconds of your shift seeming pass in the slowest manner possible. The only benefit to the overnight shift was the extra pay, but you were beginning to realise that you’d much rather be in bed at these hours. Ever since the corner store you worked at had extended its hours to cater for the people who were working around the clock at the newly reopened Avengers Tower, you’d picked up overnight shifts. It was good money, but you barely had any customers.
You only really worked these shifts because you’d hoped to meet the Winter Soldier one day. Or Ghost. You wanted to ask her if she’d ever robbed banks. That’s what you would do with her powers, you think as you listen to the drone of the podcast you have on to keep you awake. The lights above you flicker, buzzing with a weird unrelenting energy as the door swings open followed by the telltale doorbell tone that lets you know another customer has entered the store.
You lift your eyes from your phone and watch as a tall dark haired man in a blue sweatshirt and brown corduroy pants shuffles to the counter, hands in his pockets and eyes downcast as he makes his way to the counter.
“Vanilla shake please,” he mumbles, pointing to the milkshake machine behind you and sliding a wrinkled five dollar bill over to you.
“Hello to you too,” you mumble, too low for him to hear.
His cheeks redden.
“Sorry, that was rude. Hi, how are you?”
You feel your face heat up. Had you been louder than you thought?
When you look at him, he’s looking at you, dark blue eyes wide as he pushes a strand of hair out of his face. He looks familiar, but you’ve been staring for entirely too long and the atmosphere is shifting into uncomfortable territory so you answer him instead.
“Um. Fine? Tired,” you say, turning to the milkshake machine. “Size?”
“Large. Please.”
“You know you could probably get a better milkshake anywhere else right?”
You flick the switch on the machine once you’ve secured the cup, cringing as it clatters to life. You’ve been saying it needs to get replaced for the longest time, but as long as it continues to work (no matter how much banging and whacking you need to do) your cheapskate boss just isn’t willing to fork out for another one.
“No other place is open this late,” he shrugs.
You check your watch. It’s 2:33am. You still have another two and a half hours of your shift left. The milkshake machine clatters on, the lights on the front of the machine flashing and flashing as it grows louder and louder. You give the man a nervous chuckle as you tap your palm against the side, hoping that will give the machine the encouragement it needs to just spit that milkshake out. It groans, whirrs, lets out a pathetic poot as some milkshake flops into the bottom of the cup.
And then stops.
You’re frozen as you stare at it, willing it back to life.
“Sorry it does this sometimes,” you lie, as you give it a hearty whack with the heel of your palm.
The man doesn’t say anything, just watches you with wide eyes as you tap your foot in impatience. When what feels like minutes pass without a sound from the machine you just sigh.
“Sorry sir, I don’t think you’re getting that milkshake today.”
You slide the five dollar bill back over the counter to him, and he hesitates before taking it. His shoulders sag as he starts turning to walk out, and against your better judgement you call out.
“Wait! If you buy a tub of ice cream and some milk I can probably make you one. We have a blender in the back room,” you say.
You’re bored, that’s what it is. Whiling away the hours in this dump was finally beginning to eat away at your common sense. You didn’t get paid to make milkshakes for customers, but it was so late and you needed to do something. You also couldn’t take the way he slouched when the machine cut out. He must’ve really been looking forward to that milkshake.
“Oh you don’t have to. I’ll just wait until tomorrow,” he says.
“You look miserable. I might as well do something with my time besides watching the walls,” you say waving him towards the freezer.
He doesn’t argue, just slinks off and then returns with a small tub of vanilla ice cream and a small bottle of milk in his hands.
“Be back in a minute,” you mumble as you head into the staff area. You don’t wait for him to respond as you let the door swing shut behind you. You have to give the blender a good wash before you can even beginning scooping ice cream into it but in no time at all you have a passable milkshake. You’ve had to put it into a bigger mug, your measuring skills just not up to par and you know your manager will be mad that you’ve given away his favourite mug to a customer, but that would teach him to replace machines when they started sounding crazy.
“Sorry, hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long,” you say as you hand him the mug. He’s still the only one in the store and he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
He just shakes his head, eyes fixed on the shake in your hands.
“Five bucks,” you say, palm outstretched.
“Don’t I owe you more? You had to do more work.”
He’s already digging in his pocket but you shake your head.
“I needed something to do. Besides you’re the only person in here, it’s not like you held me up or anything,” you shrug again, pushing the shake into his hands.
There’s a pause and then the lights flicker again as he awkwardly fumbles out a “Do you wanna share? For your troubles. And I’m not sure I can finish this much shake,” he says as he reaches for the mug, a shock dancing over your skin when his fingers brush yours.
“Or you don’t have to, sorry I couldn’t think of anything else, of course you don’t want share a milkshake,” he starts backtracking, his other hand placing the money in your hand. You close your fingers around his.
“Relax. You’re being nice. I’ll share the shake with you. You need to finish it here any ways. Can’t let you leave with this mug,” you point out.
You watch his shoulders sag in relief as he grabs two straws and hands you one.
“If it tastes like protein powder, you’re not allowed to be mad at me. I did the best I could,” you warn him. He just shoots you a nervous smile as the two of you lean in to take a sip from your straws. Your boss would so fire you if he knew you were sharing milkshakes with customers from his special mug, but you knew for a fact that he never checked security footage unless money came up missing so you weren’t particularly worried on that front. You guys alternate sipping from the milkshake, until it’s gone. You occasionally ask about each other. You learn that his name is Bob and he has insomnia. You learn that his insomnia is okay because his job keeps him up at weird hours anyways. You don’t find out what his job is because he closes right up, checks his watch and stutters something about being needed back at work.
“Before you go, score out of ten,” you ask him, watching the way he seems to really consider your question.
“Maybe a six?”
You scoff. “I would’ve given it a 6.5 but that’s okay. We can’t all be right,” you tease as you watch him walk out of the door. You wash the dishes before your boss can come in and put two and two together, and it’s only once you’re done that you realise that you’d forgotten to give Bob the rest of the ice cream you’d used for the milkshake. You write his name across a post-it and secure it to the container before shoving it into the freezer.
By the time your coworkers show up to relieve you of your shift you’ve pretty much forgotten the shared milkshake as you amble outside and call a ride.
The next time you see Bob, you’re on your break desperately trying to light a cigarette in the biting wind. You’re supposed to take your smoke breaks at the back of the store, where customers can’t see you but you can’t be fucked. You’re wrapped up and you don’t look like an employee. That counts for something right?
Your fingers ache from trying to get the lighter to ignite, and your fingers are so cold and numb that when you try one last time, the lighter clatters out of your hand and on to the pavement. Fat, icy rain drops are beginning to fall, and you’ve all but given up when you suddenly feel someone between you and the wind, the rain blocked by an umbrella that’s now half over you.
You shoot up in embarrassment.
“Try again. You should be able to light it now,” the man’s voice comes.
“Hey stranger,” you say as you light it, visibly relaxing as you take that first drag. You do your best not to blow smoke in his face, and he just watches curiously as you smoke.
“Y’know, you’re knocking years off your life with that,” he finally says. You exhale, tapping the ash onto the sidewalk.
“And yet you helped me light it. You’re my accomplice in the voluntary shortening of my life,” you smile at him. He’s caught off-guard, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to think up a response. He’s interrupted by a short blonde woman walking out of the store.
“Who’s your friend Bob?” You startle at the Russian accent you’ve heard in interviews watched on the small screen of your phone during your commute. It finally clicks where you’ve seen him. In the background of all the new Avengers press. The mystery man who no one knew anything about.
No big mystery here, you think. Just a regular guy. His name is Bob and he has insomnia and he likes milkshakes.
You put your cigarette out as you turn to greet her. She’s softer looking in person. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s not wearing the tactical gear that it’s apparently compulsory the Avengers wear during press conferences. Just a hoodie and sweatpants, hair still damp at the ends. You’re star struck, and you don’t even realise it until Bob’s voice breaks your trance. You’re surprised he remembers your name as he introduces you to Yelena.
You’re doing your best not to be too much of a fan. You worked right across from the new Avengers tower. This was bound to happen, you just didn’t think it would be so ordinary. Just two people being introduced by someone they have in common.
“Oh, are you the one who made him the milkshake last week?” She asks with a mischievous smile on her face. “Is he trying to get you to make him another one?”
Bob is already arguing, cheeks even redder than they’d been mere moments before.
“I was being nice to her, and helping her light her cigarette. Why would I be begging her for more milkshake when I can just buy one?” He asks in disbelief as they walk away, bickering into the horizon. With your cigarette out and your mysterious new friend gone you head back inside. You don’t want to catch a cold after all.
He comes in two days later. You’re on the night shift again, and it’s almost midnight when you hear the jingle of the door.
“I’ll grab drinks, you guys get the other snacks. Bob don’t let Yelena choose all of them, she never varies the chip flavours,” you hear from the entrance. The other two start to argue, but there’s a weird vibrating sound before you hear the fridges opening.
Ghost.
All the opportunity in the world and she was using her powers to phase out of conversations before people could argue with her. A worthy use indeed. Bob gives you a nervous wave when he notices you watching, ducking his head shyly as he follows Yelena around, accepting whatever snacks she thrusts into his arms. There’s something intriguing in the way he follows Yelena around the store, not quite a lost duckling but not entirely sure of the snack choices he makes. When Bob can hold no more, him and Yelena make their way to the counter. The assortment is… odd to say the least but you don’t judge. What the Avengers (and Bob) ate at midnight was really none of your concern.
“No milkshake today? We got a new machine.” You step to the side so he can see the new ice cream/milkshake machine you guys finally got in.
“Too scared to try. I might be let down after tasting your milkshake the other day,” he replies. Then when Yelena coughs beside him he reddens. “As in, the milkshake you made me.”
Your heart leaps when the air next to him shimmers, and you see the shadow of something before Ghost appears fully formed next to him.
“So you’re the milkshake lady. You know I think you made his night, came home absolutely beaming at 3am,” she explains. She doesn’t take her mask off, and you find yourself a little disappointed but you figure heroes have to protect their identities.
Except the ones with a reputation for being proficient killers. They can do whatever they like.
“Thought you said it was a six out of ten,” you smile as you scan the drinks that have been added to the pile. In the background you hear Yelena and Ghost bickering about the snack variety.
Bob just sighs.
“I just really appreciated you going out of your way for me,” the lights above you flicker and you squint at them; make a mental note to get one of your other coworkers to replace them tomorrow.
“I’m joking around. But I can count this as a ten right? For my ego?”
He smiles at you as he pays for everything, sliding the bags onto his arms as he opens his mouth to say something. He hesitates and then:
“The company was a ten so, y’know,” he’s turning on his heels, bolting out the door as the lights above you finally calm down, the two women he came with mocking him as they follow behind.
He comes in again later that week. It’s about ten minutes before the end of your shift when he barrels in through the door, hot on the heels of a burly man who mutters in heavily accented English about just wanting to see something. You watch curiously as he eventually slows behind him, hands shoved deep in his pockets as his face burns with embarrassment. The lights above you begin to hum, dim yellow flickering as the other man with him pretends to be browsing the shelves while stealing less than surreptitious glances at you.
Red Guardian? You mouth at Bob, and he just shakes his head. You just continue watching as he picks boxes up off of shelves, gives them a once over and then puts them back. With his hands on his hips he declares to no one in particular:
“Well, I have seen everything. We leave now,” he yells out, dragging Bob out behind him before the two of you can really have a conversation about anything. You just wave goodbye as Bob shakes the older man off, the tips of his ears burning bright red.
He’s alone when he comes back the next day, scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. He haphazardly pulls snacks off the shelves, walking over to the counter when he seems satisfied with the haul. There’s an easy silence as you scan his items and he seems heavily invested in the shelves of tobacco products behind you.
“You want some?” You’re turning around, already pressing the key around your neck into the hole.
“No, sorry, I don’t smoke. Just interested I guess. There’s so many brands, not sure how people pick,” he mumbles.
You shrug before giving him his total.
“Sorry, just give me a moment,” he says as he types something into his phone.
Your head swivels, as you look around him.
“Are you looking for someone?” He asks as he presses his card to the reader.
“I thought maybe you might’ve brought me another Avenger. Old New Captain America maybe?”
“Sorry, no entourage today,” he says. “Do you want me to bring him?” He asks shyly as he puts snacks in his bag.
You hear the soft hum of the lights overhead again and you furrow your brows. You’d have to speak to your manager again about getting those replaced. You could think of few things worse than the lights blowing while you were on shift and having to replace them yourself.
“No. Just you is fine,” you smile. The humming in the lights grows louder and they burn bright for a split second.
You shoot up off your stool.
“Your ice cream. I keep forgetting to give you your ice cream, just wait here,” you dash into the staff area, dig around the freezer for the container with Bob’s name on it. The lid is pretty much frozen on but it’s still there. He’s still at the counter when you come back and there’s only one other person in the store. You hand it over with a smile, and he looks confused.
“From when you got your milkshake. I forgot to give you the rest of the tub,” you explain. It’s clear he hasn’t even thought about it and now you feel inexplicably shy. Holding onto ice cream for a stranger you didn’t know anything about was decidedly strange.
“Thanks? You could’ve eaten it though,” he shrugs, even as he tucks it into his bag with a smile.
“You paid for it, so it wouldn’t have been fair,” you shrug. The only other customer seems to be lingering near the fridges, back turned to you, but not making any decisions about what they want to buy. You wonder if you should be concerned, but you also think that it’s not your problem. In fifteen minutes your coworker would be coming in to relieve you of your duties and start the night shift.
“You can have it. I don’t like ice cream much anyways, actually.”
He’s pulling the tub back out of the bag and sliding it to you over the counter before you can protest.
“You don’t like ice cream, but you came into a store at 2:30 in the morning for a milkshake?”
“I like milkshake. Ice cream and milkshake are two different things,” he points out, and you place your hands up in surrender.
You watch as the silent customer leaves the store before you sigh.
“Well if you’re not busy, and can wait a little longer for my shift to end I could make you another milkshake. I think you should at least get two milkshakes out of this.”
“Really? You don’t mind? You don’t have to,” he starts, picking at his nails.
“I’m offering.”
“Cool, cool. I’ll just uh run across the street and drop these off. I’ll see you soon,” he calls out over his shoulder. You see him wince when the door slams shut behind him, and then he turns around and mouths ‘sorry’ before hurrying away, the ends of his scarf flapping in the breeze behind him. Despite the exhaustion in your bones you smile as you whittle away the minutes by gently prying open the lid of the ice cream. You use a cloth to mop up the ice particles that have scattered around the counter. Bob’s back before your coworker can relieve you. He has two glasses in his hand. One of them has art of Mickey and Minnie Mouse on skates.
“I’m sorry, I hope this is okay, I figured it was easier than making you scrounge for a mug,” he says with a soft smile.
“Wow. So considerate.”
The front door chimes and your coworker sneezes her way into the store, the bags under her eyes heavy and her voice raw from coughing.
“I’m fine, I swear I’m fine,” she speaks through a cough.
You watch her as she goes into the back, then reappears with her laptop and some wired headphones.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine, it’s just a cough,” she reiterates. “Go home, it’s late.”
You shrug, then gesture for Bob to follow you into the back room.
“Ugh, it’s fine. We don’t have anything valuable back there any way,” you reassure him when he hesitates. If your manager could have his friends in the back watching football, then you didn’t think it was an issue for you to have your friend (acquaintance?) back there for the short amount of time it took to make a couple of milkshakes. Your coworker sends you an incredulous look but doesn’t say anything as you hold the door open for Bob. He ducks into the small space, and maybe it’s the size of the room, but you can’t help but marvel at the breadth of him.
“D’ya need help?” He asks as he sets the glasses down.
“No. You can just sit there, this will be quick,” you promise. You get to work immediately.
The blender is clean this time (you thank your stars) and you can feel Bob’s eyes on you as you scoop ice cream into the blender then top it off with some milk.
“You might wanna cover your ears,” you warn him before you push the lid on and goad the blender into action. The screech of it fills the room almost instantly and you watch Bob flinch as you keep it on long enough for the mixture to become nice and smooth.
You reach your hands out for the glasses, and Bob hands them over.
“You can use the Mickey and Minnie one if you like.”
When you’ve poured the milkshakes out, you take a seat at the table with him, watching him as he watches the surveillance footage of the store. Nothing is happening. Nothing ever happens. You didn’t need to be a 24-hour store, but somehow your boss figured it was worth a shot.
Probably because he didn’t have to be the only person in the store while the rest of the world slept. He got to sleep in his cosy bed, and then walk in the next morning and count whatever meagre money you guys had managed to make overnight. Silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the sound of the dripping tap.
“So. You know a bunch of the Avengers. But you’re not one?”
Bob looks briefly startled when he realises that you’re talking to him.
“Yes. Yeah. My friend Yelena,” he’s waving his arms around “She kinda got me in. Sort of,” he mumbles.
“So what do you do. Are you like… an intern or something. Or is it something weirder? Like a polycule. You can tell me if it’s a polycule.”
The reaction is immediate, a steady flush climbing up his neck.
“Okay, so not a polycule.”
“Not a polycule,” he confirms, “I’m sort of an intern, yeah. It’s complicated,” he shrugs as he takes another sip of his milkshake.
“Do you know the big guy? Sentry?”
You’re trying to be subtle, stirring your milkshake with your straw. You almost think Bob hasn’t heard you, but when you look up he’s staring straight into you.
“Why? Is he your favourite?”
The lights in the room dim briefly.
“No,” you start, looking up. “I’m just curious. Everyone else gets spotted doing regular stuff but he’s just… there for the photoshoots. Is it a Thor deal? Is he from space? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” you whisper conspiratorially, a grin opening up your features.
The lights are brighter again as Bob smiles at you.
“He’s not that interesting. Just flies, bulletproof. God complex.”
“Oh not interesting at all. Bet he gets crazy fan-mail all the time. Does he make you read it to him. Like a man-servant?”
“No, I don’t read the Sentry’s fan-mail to him,” Bob laughs, and the sound is surprisingly soft, genuine. You think you’ll probably remember the sound of it even when you guys go your separate ways.
“Well… If he would like someone to read his fan mail to him, I’ve been told I have soothing voice,” you say.
“What, you don’t enjoy the thrills of the night shift?”
You yawn.
“I’ve done my time. Nothing exciting happens at night, and I get some of the worst customers during the day. It’d be nice to have a cool job for a change.”
You yawn again, and a flicker of amusement crosses his face.
“I should probably leave,” he says standing up. “I don’t want keep you. How are you getting home?”
“Walking.”
That stops him dead in his tracks.
“At this time?”
“It’s not even midnight, and I don’t live that far away,” you shrug. Most lights were still on, no matter how dim they were, and you’d been walking yourself home after work for so long the risks no longer registered to you as actual risks. Still, your words do nothing to change the look of worry on his face.
“If it makes you feel better, I promise that if anything happens to me I’ll scream really loud and you can mobilise the Avengers for me.”
You pat his hand where it rests on the table and he just blinks at you before nodding. Then:
“Or maybe I could just give you my phone number, and you let me know you got home safe.”
The words tumble out of his mouth so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t choke on them and you just shoot him a sideways smile.
“If you want my number you can just ask for it,” you say, even as you pull your phone out.
“May I have your phone number? Please,” he adds bashfully, wringing his hands nervously in front of him.
“Sure,” you smile. You guys exchange numbers, and he insists on walking you to the corner of the street.
“I can’t walk you all the way but this is fine right?”
“Yes Bob. You have kept me safe from the evils of neon storefront signs. My hero,” you swoon as you yawn.
“Just go home. Get some rest,” he says, eyes tilted up to the sky.
You just yawn in response, waving over your shoulder as you walk home.
Once you’re home, and the pitiful leftovers in your fridge have been eaten you look for his number. He’s saved himself as Bob (Avengers Intern) and the contact name makes you chuckle.
Made it home. In one piece. Thank you :).
He sees it almost immediately, and the chat bubble appears and disappears multiple times before he finally responds.
Good. Nearly mobilised the Avengers. Sleep tight.
There’s a gif of Snoopy snoring happily that makes your heart beat a little faster.
Over the next couple of weeks you fall into an easy friendship with Bob. He comes by the store a lot more. At first he pretends he’s buying stuff. A sandwich here, a pack of gum there, always waiting until you’ve served whoever is in store before he comes over and strikes up a conversation with you. The longer conversations are always at night, filling the lazy stretches of time between customers, stragglers who are leaving their offices late or on their way to start their shifts. He no longer ambles through the store pretending to look at the labels on things. Instead he comes straight to the counter, eyes bright as he gets ready to hear about your day.
He mostly visits at night, when no one is around to interrupt you, but a few lucky times he’s caught you on a smoke break, cigarette caught between your lips as the wind bites at you.
“Is it worth it? Standing out in the cold just for a smoke?” He asks you one day as he leans against the wall with you.
“God no,” you laugh as you exhale, flicking your ashes onto the sidewalk.
“So why do it?”
“Just habit now I guess. Don’t tell me you’ve never done something that’s bad for you knowing it was bad and absolutely not worth it?”
“Oh I have, trust me I have. Which is why I think catching hypothermia for lung cancer is … it’s so not cool,” he hazards.
The sincerity of his statement catches you off-guard, and you start coughing, your last inhale burning at your throat in a way you haven’t felt in years.
“Not cool? You sound like a D.A.R.E speaker,” you say when you’ve caught your breath. You put it out anyway, because it clearly makes him uncomfortable.
“An effective D.A.R.E speaker,” he points out.
“I’m gonna light another one the moment you head back into your Watchtower, so don’t look too smug.”
“That’s fine. As long as you have my voice in the back of your head the whole time telling you cigarettes aren’t cool, then my job here is done.”
You’re interrupted by your manager poking his head through the front door.
“How many times do I gotta tell ya you can’t smoke out front. And you definitely can’t be smoking with customers, it lowers our reputation,” he moans.
“I wasn’t smoking,” Bob clarifies, but your manager waves him off.
“Sure buddy. Look break’s over anyway. Go man the till, I got a coupl’a errands to run.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just shoulders past you and Bob as you head back into the store. He’s left customers in line and you groan.
You kinda wish you’d finished that cigarette.
Bob starts coming around during the day more often. Normally with a hot drink and hot food in hand.
“I figure you might want something fresh. We get a lot of food up there, so I thought I’d share,” he’d said the first time he brought you food. You guys normally eat in silence, sat on the stools that face out onto the street as you talk. You look forward to these talks, texting Bob whenever you have a daytime shift. You always let him know he doesn’t have to, but he always find time, hand-waving your concerns over his internship away with a simple “I work until like 3am. They won’t mind if I take a few extra hours off in the middle of the day.”
“Oh, it’s you again. We might have to get you a uniform and put you behind the till,” your coworker Marcus says one day when he catches you and Bob having lunch together again. “God knows we could use the extra muscle,” he says, eyes roaming over Bob in a way that’s almost appreciative.
“Yeah, actually. Why don’t we get your little boyfriend in a uniform? Maybe you’ll be more motivated to do some work.” Your manager says. You hated day shifts. Too many people in the store, and apparently not enough for them to do.
One of the lights near the fridges pops and it sends a gasp through the store.
You roll your eyes as you slide off the stool.
“Let me make myself useful,” you say, waving goodbye to a very mortified looking Bob.
He keeps his visits to nights after that, when it’s only you in the store and no one to comment on your lack of productivity. He texts during the day though. Silly selfies, TV shows he watches, books he reads. It makes for an interesting addition to your days. You find yourself looking forward to his texts, heart lifting when you see his name across your screen. You’re smiling at your phone a lot more, finding cute animal videos on the internet to send to him when you have time. You’re endlessly endeared by him. By the way he remembers your interests and the shows you like. By the way he doesn’t hesitate to send you things that remind him of you, even if he knows you’re asleep. One day he sends you an instagram reel for an upcoming art installation.
Hope this isn’t weird. Saw this and thought of you. Maybe we can hang out here instead of at your job?
Your heart actually flutters. You’re typing out a yes before you can talk yourself out of it.
When the day of your date comes you’re working during the day, but the excitement clings to you in a way that makes your skin buzz until you hear an awestruck “Holy shit,” from Marcus, his eyes locked on the television screen behind you. When you turn, the Sentry is on screen, surrounded by microphones, the flashing of cameras blinding. You don’t catch the details of what he’s saying, just know that somewhere there’s a threat big enough to get Sentry out of the Tower. There’s something familiar about him, about the way he speaks certain words, but you can’t put your finger on it. You search the screen hoping to catch a glimpse of Bob in intern mode, but when you can’t you snap a picture of the screen and send it to Bob.
I’m guessing we need to reschedule that date?
He doesn’t respond.
By the time your shift is over, you’re antsy. You hated to admit it but you really had been waiting for a response from him, your hand gravitating to your phone whenever you had a spare moment, only to find that there was nothing from him. When you haven’t heard from him by the time you get home you send him another text.
Everything okay? Hope it’s not too bad over there :).
There’s no response from him when you go to sleep, and when you check your phone in the morning there’s still no response. On your way to work you briefly consider stopping in at Avengers’ Tower to see if he’s okay, but then common sense gets the better of you. If he was busy, he was busy. You couldn’t go marching into Avengers HQ just because a man had left you on delivered for almost twenty four hours. It still irritates you, and you’re markedly more cranky throughout your shift, stacking shelves in a way that can only be described as furious.
“Woah, what’d the tampons do to you? That time of the month already?” Marcus asks from behind the counter, phone in his hand.
“You’re a pig by the way,” you spit almost immediately. You do make an effort to stack shelves with a little more care. Bob doesn’t come in to the store, and you get an earful from Marcus when he notices that your head immediately shoots up whenever you hear the doorbell ring.
“Aww, is your little boyfriend ignoring you?”
“Well he’s not my boyfriend,” you clarify.
“But he is ignoring you?”
You don’t have an answer. Was he ignoring you? Did he not like you talking about his job? Did he just not want to take you on that date?
You check your texts again. He hasn’t even seen them.
Days go by with no word from Bob. No visits, no texts. Several times you find yourself almost crossing the street to go check on him, but decide against it. You were just a friend he’d recently made. He didn’t owe you round the clock communication, even if he’d asked you out and then not followed through. You pull out your phone and fire off one last text.
Hope you’re okay.
You don’t expect a response from him at all.
A week and a half after Bob first stops responding you notice he’s read your message. It’s your day off, and as much as you try not to let it affect you, your mind can’t help wandering. You fluctuate between anger and a weird hollow sadness as you move through your errands, finally settling on irritation when you’re all done with errands and settling in for dinner in front of the TV. When you turn it on, the Avengers are on screen. There’s not a hair out of place on Sentry’s head as he explains that the threat has been neutralised and the people of Earth were safe. You turn it off. Staring at his stupid face reminds you of Bob, and thinking of Bob reminds you that he didn’t even want you to know if he was okay.
Some friend.
You sleep through the next day, waking up in the afternoon to prepare for yet another night shift. Your bones ache, and you’re not looking forward to it at all, especially now that a visit from Bob is not on the cards. Dinner is a hastily cobbled together meal of rice, beef and broccoli and halfway through cooking your music is interrupted by the sound of your phone ringing. It’s an unknown number so you just stare at it while you wait for it to stop.
If it was important they’d leave a voicemail or text, and they leave neither of those things.
It rings twice more before you have to leave, and you ignore it twice more, slipping on your headphones and coat and locking your door for the night. When you step out of your apartment building and onto the sidewalk you’re hit with the feeling that you’re being watched, that creepy sixth sense that makes the hair on your arms stand up, but when you look around there’s no one there so you shake it off and start the brisk walk to work. Halfway through your journey your phone rings again, that same unknown number, followed by that same intense feeling of being watched. You don’t shake the feeling of eyes on you until you cross the threshold into the store.
As expected, your shift drags on and by the time it’s 2am you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, a drowsiness that not even the energy drinks you were pounding could keep at bay. For the nth time that week you unlock your phone and scroll through your text thread with Bob, poring through the various texts and photos and links to funny videos for any indication that you might have said something that upset him. There’s also a text from the unknown number from earlier, but you decide you’ll read it tomorrow when your head’s less fuzzy and angst-filled. You register the sound of the door opening, of the low buzz of the lights that you have now gotten used to, the almost nervous flicker of them as the customer walks around the store. When you look up you’re face to face with Bob, a tub of ice cream and five dollars on the counter.
“Oh. You are alive,” you say, and you take no pleasure in the way he flinches at your words.
“Yes. I’m sorry, if you’ll just listen to me I promise I have a good reason,” he says as he watches you cross your arms.
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
He looks a little hurt but he takes his change and leaves after throwing you a sad look over his shoulder. You’re overreacting. You’re overreacting and you should probably hear him out, but you’re still smarting from the rejection, so you’re not going to.
The rest of your shift passes in a haze as you busy yourself with sorting out the early deliveries, lining the milk up meticulously in the fridge while you wait for your coworker to clock in for the morning shift.
She’s early, and you get to leave early. It’s no longer snowing, so you choose to walk home, give yourself time to clear your head. The sky is still dark when you step out but there’s a little foot traffic on the pavements. Lights come on in apartments and you walk with purpose, careful not to slip on the icy ground. The feeling of being watched returns, and you wrap your coat around you a little tighter. Every time you turn to check, there’s no one around, just everyone going about their daily business. You’re so focused on checking for anyone suspicious that when you start walking again you’re not paying attention to the ground and for a split second you’re airborne, your foot slipping on a patch of ice.
You close your eyes, waiting for impact but it doesn’t come. Instead when you open them again, you’re looking at Bob, concern written across his features in a way that almost makes you forget you’re mad at him. And then you do remember that you’re mad at him, and that you’re halfway to your house and he has no reason to be out this far from the Tower.
“Where did you even come from? Did you follow me?” You ask when he sets you on your feet.
“A little bit, but it was just to make sure you got home safe I promise. I’m not a freak, I just knew you weren’t going to text me, and you ignored my calls last night so I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he explains.
“Would you reply?” You ask him.
“Of course I’d reply. I was just. I didn’t have my phone on me, and then when I did get my phone back I accidentallydroppeditintheoceanwhileflyingbackbecauseiforgotmysuitdoesnthavepocketsonit,” he mumbles.
“What do you mean while flying? Your plane didn’t have doors?”
You look at him expectantly. You’re in the middle of the sidewalk but there’s not enough foot traffic for you to care. Bob screws his eyes shut, curses under his breath as you tap your foot.
“No, it’s just. I flew back. Like myself. Because I wanted to practice.”
“You flew back? I guess you both grew and lost wings between then and now?”
“Not wings,” he hesitates. “I shouldn’t tell you this but I might as well because you won’t listen to me any other way but. I can fly because I’m… you know…” he lowers his voice to a whisper “… Sentry.”
You laugh then, a sound so sharp an old lady walking her dog turns to look at you.
“You don’t think I can be Sentry?” Bob asks, clearly offended.
“No of course Bob. You — the guy who wanders in to my job to share lunch with me whenever he has some spare time — are the super aloof, super serious Sentry. You’re not even blonde. Sentry’s blonde,” you say.
“They dye my hair. I don’t even like it,” he rebuts, growing more frustrated. He’s right. When you look at him in the weak early morning light you can see that his hair is lighter.
“You dyed your hair, big whoop. You still didn’t text or call,” you point out.
“I tried but you ignored my calls. That’s why I came to your job.”
In a fit of frustration you yank your phone out, scrolling through the call log and holding up to his face.
“No phone call.”
He points at the unknown number from last night. “There. That’s me. Or at least that’s the spare phone I was using,” he says like it was meant to be obvious.
You huff incredulously. You can already feel yourself giving in to the urge to forgive him and move on, especially when he looks at you with such soft hope in his eyes.
“I don’t answer random unknown numbers,” you explain.
“I know. Yelena and A — Ghost — said you wouldn’t but I didn’t think you’d respond to a text. Thought calling was better since we had a date to reschedule. I did text you though,” he points out.
The righteous anger you felt before has dissipated and you’re left only with a sense of utter confusion. You do still think you have to give him a hard time though.
“Yeah, that’s on me. I thought you might be a scammer, I was gonna deal with tomorrow. Okay then. If you’re Sentry show me a trick. Lift a car,” you say.
“I’m not allowed to do that,” he grimaces.
“Sentry has rules he has to follow?”
He just shrugs, then sighs, then puts a hand around your wrist and drags you into a nearby alley way. The ground beneath you shakes as he holds his arm out and you find yourself clinging to him fr a support. In front of him, a dumpster levitates, rats scurrying out from beneath it. When you look at him his brows are furrowed in concentration, but he’s relaxed, eyes aglow as he holds the dumpster in the air.
“Believe me?”
You just nod, breathless.
“So wait. You actually dropped your phone in the ocean?”
Bob flushes the moment you ask. He nods sheepishly. You laugh then, half amused, half delirious from the lack of sleep.
“So you still want go to that art installation?” You ask as the two of you finally start walking to yours.
“Yeah. Yes, if you still want to,” he answers breathily.
“Yeah. We can iron it out after I’ve slept though,” you pat him on his arm. You walk the rest of the way in silence, Bob half holding you up as you stagger into him slightly.
He stops at your door, taking your hands in his before you can key in your code.
“I’m really sorry I didn’t text, I just didn’t know how to explain that I’d be going dark for a week,” he says.
You yawn again, tugging at a strand of his hair. It really does seem to glow golden in the weak sunlight.
“The truth was fine. The truth was good. Thank you for trusting me,” you reply.
“Sure. It doesn’t weird you out?” He asks, nervously pulling at the ends of his sleeves.
“No, it doesn’t weird me out. I just can’t reconcile that you’re the same person I guess. You’re so warm and open and inviting and all I know about Sentry is that he’s super strong and drops his phone in the ocean,” you snort.
Bob just sighs. “I should’ve lied about that at least,” he mutters before looking you in the eye again.
“It’s cute. When I don’t think I’m being ghosted,” you clarify. He groans anyway, eyes downcast in embarrassment.
“But it’s okay now. You know I wasn’t ghosting you and you’re the first member of the public to score a date with Sentry,” he jokes.
“Uh, I scored a date with Bob don’t let your blond alter ego steal your achievements,” you give him a mock pep talk but his eyes actually light up a little.
“That’s fine? You’re fine if I just show up as me?”
You laugh softly. “Of course Bob. It’s not the Sentry who insisted on sharing his milkshake with me by the way. You’re super cool too.”
You yawn once more, and Bob reacts like he’s just remembered you need to sleep.
“I won’t keep you. Good night. Or morning? Sleep tight either way, I’ll text you. From my new number that you ignored,” he says, grinning at you. It is promptly wiped off his face when he almost slips while stepping onto the pavement but he recovers.
You’re smiling all the way into your sheets when you think of your rescheduled date.