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Bob Reynolds was one of the sweetest guys Bucky had ever met. Complicated. At least as far as bipolar, former meth addicts went, but sweet. Soft on the surface. Prone to withdrawing into a book. Strong when he had to be, and he didn't mean Sentry. God, no.
He meant Bob taking responsibility for his mental health. Having a regular therapist, a medication regimen that he followed strictly, but also making sure that the team as a whole consumed at least one vegetable per meal, because God knew, and so did Bob, that John would live on protein shakes if he let him, and both Bucky and Ava as past lab rats tended to forget to prioritize actual food, and Alexei? God, nobody wanted to get started on his diet, or Yelena's, who subsisted on snack food that was fit for a guinea pig.
Yeah, they all protected Bob, and Bob protected them, more often than not, from themselves. Every one of them knew what the hell a self destructive tendency looked like. Whether or not they admitted it was another matter entirely, but even John gentled around the edges when Bob was the one asking him to eat some real food on occasion.
Bob had the shoulders of a chicken and a heart of gold, so they listened. 'They' included Bucky because Bob was his friend. And not a fragile friend that he felt sorry for. A friend who was showing his strength by trying to be the best version of himself, which most assuredly was not weaponizing manic episodes. No, Bob knew better than Valentina; they all did.
Part of being 'better' both as a person and as a team meant letting Bob make and serve them sandwiches at three in the afternoon when Bob seemed to notice that most of them had skipped lunch entirely and were starting to get cranky. In Bucky's opinion, John was the most prone to those hunger driven mood swings, but he didn't comment, merely accepting the Reuben sandwich Bob set in front of him, smiling his thanks at him, and noting the addition of pickles and coleslaw to his sandwich. Vegetables. How like Bob.
It counted as a shared lunch, more or less, since the team was hanging around one of the common areas of the Watchtower anyway, lounging around in various stages of the natural grumpiness that came with Ava defeating John in a sparring match that both Alexei and Yelena had bet on. Food would help. Maybe.
"So I met this woman the other day — " Bob said conversationally, making almost everyone sit up a little straighter.
"I thought you were ace," John tossed out around a mouthful of store bought rye bread.
"Oh, I didn't mean for me," Bob said quickly. "I … I meant… well, I thought Bucky maybe —"
"What?" Bucky choked, a slice of pickle lodging itself deep in his throat.
"Yeah, here's her number," Bob added, seemingly impervious to his discomfort as he retrieved a slightly crumpled post it note from his pocket. "She's a receptionist."
"Pretty?" Yelena asked, nibbling delicately on her sandwich.
"Obviously. It's practically a job requirement," Ava put in. "You should call her."
Perhaps fortunately, Bucky was busy coughing a pickle slice into a Kleenex, which spared him from having to come up with a response. He pushed his plate away, not even protesting when Alexei and John immediately fell upon the uneaten portion of his sandwich, dividing it between them like a wishbone.
"You don't think the guy who's getting divorced should get a date?" John put in, pouting.
"Well," Bob said slowly, considering. "I read an article that said you should wait up to two years before —"
"Two years?" Alexei choked, spraying the table with pieces of coleslaw.
"Bucky's been single way longer than that," Ava added as Yelena hummed in agreement.
Bucky groaned. "When did this become about me? I don't need a girlfriend."
"Just call her," Bob pleaded, appearing to deliberately ignore John, who was sulking by now over an expectation of two years of celibacy post-Olivia.
"Yeah, what's the harm?" Ava added, kicking up her boots on the edge of the coffee table as Yelena tossed paper napkins at Alexei.
The harm, Bucky reflected, reluctantly taking the crumpled piece of paper from Bob, was that pretending he was interested in romantic relationships at all just kept him closeted and isolated for even longer, but he didn't feel ready to come out to the team just yet. That didn't mean he was going to call the receptionist. There was zero chance of that happening.
Ava was trying to give him a heart attack, Bucky decided. She could have phased through the bullet. He could have deflected it. John could have too. But she'd thrown herself in front of two super soldiers like a human shield, and taken the bullet. The first mission they'd had in over a month and it had ended with Ava in hospital.
It was taking all of Bucky's willpower to remain present. He didn't like clinical environments. Bob didn't either. But if anyone hated hospitals more than him and Bob, it was Ava, and Bucky wouldn't leave her alone for precisely that reason. Ava being Ava would never ask anyone to stay; that was exactly why they did.
Because right now Ava wasn't Ava. It was like she'd been sucked through a fun-house mirror, no longer the cool, calm, slightly snarky Ghost they all knew, but a frightened young woman who knew pain better than any of them, except maybe Bucky. There was no need to compare whose experience of chronic pain and experimentation had been the more severe. Ava needed them all there to feel safe; that was all Bucky needed to know.
"How are you doing?" he asked quietly, noting the strain in her expression.
"I'm fine. You don't have to stay," Ava replied, biting her lip.
Bucky shook his head. "Yeah, we do."
"The nurse is kind of hot," Ava observed, glancing sideways at the nurse that entered to check her vitals again. "You should ask her out."
Drugs, Bucky decided. He was blaming that one on the post-surgery morphine. That, and Ava having no shame. The nurse appeared not to pay any mind to the comment, however, merely going about her job, checking Ava's pulse and heart rate, her O2 stats, and blood pressure. A true professional. Bucky appreciated that.
"Everything is within normal ranges," the nurse announced — Lena, Bucky noted from the I.D dangling from her lanyard. "You know there's a maximum of two visitors, right? Sorry, hospital policy."
"Here's my policy —" Alexei started, his tone fierce.
Yelena seized his arm. "Dad. Dad. Alexei. Let's go. Come on, Bob. You too."
"I guess I'll stay then," John grumbled as Yelena led Alexei and Bob into the hall.
Ava rolled her eyes. "Don't bother. Go get me something from the vending machine."
"What?" John asked, getting slowly to his feet.
"Anything with sugar or salt. Ideally both," Ava instructed in the tone of a woman who was accustomed to being obeyed.
"Fine," John grumbled, stomping out of the room.
Ava gave a smug little smile as Nurse Lena updated her chart for her. It was more awkward in the room with the others having left, Bucky realized. He would even have taken John's huffy superiority over a scheming Ava Starr, who had an air of mischief about her tonight, stemming no doubt from having her pain muted by strong drugs.
"Excuse me, hi," she said, waving at the nurse as she returned the chart and prepared to leave the room. "Can my friend get your number?"
Bucky turned to her, eyes wide. "Ava —"
"Shh. He's shy," she explained and Bucky stifled a groan, wondering vaguely if it was possible to die from embarrassment.
"Uh, sure," Nurse Lena agreed, glancing at Bucky, hazel eyes raking him from head to toe. "Does your friend have a name?"
"And a motorcycle," Ava added smugly.
"Ava!" Bucky exclaimed, mortified.
"What, Bucky? I'm getting you a date. You can thank me later," Ava informed him, her tone completely unapologetic.
"Here's my number… Bucky," Nurse Lena announced, seizing his right hand and scrawling the number across his palm, making him grimace.
"Thanks. He can't wait," Ava said victoriously as Bucky stared at her in utter disbelief.
Ava Starr needed to get better as soon as was humanly possible, he decided, maybe even sooner. He'd never wished such a speedy recovery on anyone, not even Steve before the serum. All he knew was that he needed to get her out of the hospital and off the painkillers before she decided to set him up with every available nurse who ventured into her room.
Bucky could always tell when John had been to a meeting with his divorce attorney because the prospect seemed to upset the man so much that he lost any sense of pride in his appearance, suit or no suit. He eyed the spot of blood on John's collar and sighed to himself. For him to cut himself shaving and not even notice meant that he'd been sufficiently distracted by the prospect of a custody hearing, too much to notice the blood stain.
He was still wearing his wedding band too. It was supposed to represent John and Olivia, and a bond that lasted forever. But all it seemed to represent to John was that he'd lost his family forever. He hadn't. The legal process was a protracted one because there was a chance. It was something Bucky had learned from his short career in politics: people only stopped arguing when there was nothing left to fight for.
He moved to sit in the armchair across from John, considering a seat on the sofa beside him to be too close, too personal for the kind of distance that he'd always tried to maintain with John, mostly so that he wouldn't hit him. That was what made Sam such a good partner during that mess with the Flag Smashers; he knew to put himself between them, recognizing all the reasons why Bucky wanted to smack the superiority out of John's mouth, and the reasons why he shouldn't.
But Sam was far away now, on some classified mission that Bucky wasn't allowed to know about. That was fine. He had his team, and he could call Sam day or night if he needed to. Sometimes he did that just because he wanted to, because having someone he could tell anything to satisfied the need for a strong, platonic connection that he'd been missing since Steve.
"Are you okay?" he ventured after a few beats of uncomfortable silence had passed.
"Sure," John said, his tone bitter. "If you call my wife accusing me of neglecting my son okay."
Bucky sighed. "What did your lawyer say?"
"A bunch of legal crap," John replied, giving a helpless shrug. "The gist is: I'm not doing enough to prove myself to Olivia or to the court."
Bucky grimaced sympathetically. "John —"
"She called me impulsive, angry, insecure, toxic —" John snarled, kicking the coffee table over. "Can you believe that?"
Bucky looked at the overturned coffee table and its legs, one of which was now broken and hung limply by a thin strip of wood that wasn't even close to being weight bearing now. Then he looked at John's face; he looked as grim and resigned as a hangman. In that moment, he didn't see an angry, jealous, deeply inferior man. He saw someone who was hurting, who needed comfort more than an analysis of every negative aspect of their behavior.
"Do you want my honest opinion?" he asked quietly.
"No, I want you to be on my side!" John cried with evident frustration. "Why is nobody ever on my side? Lemar would've been on my side. He would've told me I'm an idiot, and that I can be better than I am, but he would've been on my damn side!"
"I'm on your side, John," Bucky assured him. "But yeah, you're an idiot, and you can be better than you are. Don't stop trying."
John sighed, some of the fight and the anger appearing to drain away. "I hate you so much right now."
"I know," Bucky replied, smiling to himself at the affection in John's tone.
He sat in comfortable silence with him for several minutes, the destroyed table between them, something that neither of them mentioned. John seemed contemplative, removing his watch and rubbing his wrist, which was as thick as a roll of cookie dough to Bucky's eyes. He could see a red line where the watch had cut into it; it didn't fit him properly, rather like the original giver of the watch: Olivia. Things had changed. It was a process, getting John to understand and accept that.
"She's single, you know," John told him. "My lawyer, I mean."
Bucky frowned. "John, that would be such a conflict of interest. It would not help your case —"
"Not for me. For you!" John exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly, like a lineman anticipating the snap of the ball. "She's smart. Successful. Well practiced at kicking my ass with legal jargon."
"That's quite the recommendation, but, uh, no thanks," Bucky mumbled, shaking his head.
"She's great, Bucky," John insisted, seeming a little baffled as to why Bucky wouldn't want to immediately pursue her.
"I believe you, but…" his words trailed off, the right ones not coming to him.
"What?" John asked impatiently.
Bucky wanted to explain how he felt about romantic love and simultaneously didn't. He thought about midnight phone calls with Sam, about discussing every subject under the sun, about agreeing to disagree on certain topics, about always being sure that Sam had his back, about his steadfast loyalty, and his gentleness, about him asking for permission to hold his hand after a nightmare, about the way he'd held his hand, as gently as if it were a small animal clasped in his fingers. About the way Sam had become his person in a purely platonic sense that he didn't share with anyone else. Although, how to begin explaining that adequately to John Walker, he had no idea.
"Just drop it, John," was all he said in the end, retreating to his room.
He couldn't stay there for long without feeling like he was caged or that he was hiding, neither of which were pleasant feelings for him. Frustrated with his inability to communicate and to trust his team with that longest kept secret, he took the motorcycle out, deciding that he needed the wind in his hair to distract him, and maybe to hear Sam's voice on the line.
Five days in Louisiana with Sam helped Bucky immensely. Sam was between missions, and Bucky needed some downtime away from the team for his own sanity. He knew they'd survive without him. They always had. He also hoped that there wouldn't be an international incident in the length of time that he was gone, which there wasn't. Bonus.
Being around Sam helped even if they couldn't talk about everything the way Bucky would have liked. Sam couldn't talk about his secret government directed missions with Torres, which was fine. Bucky knew the meaning of covert operations better than just about anyone. They didn't talk about the New Avengers team either, since Bucky couldn't without getting defensive, and Sam couldn't without feeling that his directive from the president had been usurped by Bucky, an assortment of contract killers, and Bob.
But they didn't have to talk about it. Bucky spent a lot of time lazing in the sun with Sam, catching his first ever catfish, and carrying it into the house with all the distaste with which he would carry a rat, to Sam's never ending amusement. He'd laughed a lot, and Bucky hadn't minded, because it came from such an innocent place.
In his world, Sam was his last angel. The kind of man who'd seen the worst of humanity, in racism, in homophobia, in violence, and yet, never let it change him. He'd stayed a good man, a good friend, a reliable partner, a stable influence in Bucky's life, someone who could be depended on no matter what, no matter the differences, no matter the doubts that Bucky still had about himself from time to time. Sam was there, even just over the phone, with a crappy, but secure, connection, and he was there for Sam in the same way, with the same protectiveness and stubborn loyalty.
He preferred to have him around in person, of course, but Sam's schedule didn't often allow for that, and Bucky was wary of becoming too dependent on him. So he returned to New York at the end of the week, and Sam flew off to places unknown for his next mission with Torres. It was fine. He was even looking forward to being around the team again. He'd missed them, he decided.
That all went to hell within the first twenty minutes of being back. Bob was going through a major depressive episode, mitigated by medication, not close to assuming his Void persona by any means, but still not what Bucky wanted for him. Yelena had acquired a dog in the week that he was gone, "For Bob," which wasn't quiet in the least and barked constantly. John was in a rage over an argument with Olivia's lawyer. Ava's chronic pain was worse than usual and she was avoiding everyone. And Alexei had picked up a woman at the supermarket, and was intent on setting Bucky up with a friend of hers before he had even unpacked or showered.
It was too much. In another life, Bucky would already have been on a plane back to Louisiana. In this one, he had people who needed him. Bob needed reassurance that he (1) wasn't alone, and (2) didn't have to pretend to be fine just to spare everyone else. Ava needed a similar reassurance and the pressure of physical contact, which John was able to give her, and which was actually a two birds, one stone scenario, because it calmed John too, even though Ava would snark at him about it later.
After relegating Yelena's dog to her room, where at least the barking wasn't driving everyone mad, Bucky collapsed on a sofa in the common area, and was joined in less than ten minutes by the team, who piled onto sofas and armchairs nearby in similar states of exhaustion. Bucky actually felt guilty for leaving them. There was a balance to the team, and him being gone for the better part of the week had knocked things off kilter.
He didn't even care when Alexei came and perched on the sofa beside him, smelling strongly of aftershave. He'd done his best for them in the last five days, Bucky didn't doubt. In fact, of the team members he'd left in New York, Yelena and Alexei seemed the most level, which told him that they'd leaned on each other, unintentionally leaving John, Ava, and Bob without as much support as they needed.
"I'll ask if Eunice has a friend for you," Alexei announced within about ten seconds of taking his seat.
Bucky threw a hand over his eyes and nearly despaired. "No," he said firmly. "Why does everyone keep assuming that I'm lonely if I'm not dating someone?"
"Aren't you?" Ava asked in a tone of mild surprise.
Bucky sighed. "This is not how I pictured telling all of you."
"Telling us what? Are you… coming out to us right now?" John asked, Bucky lowering his hand just in time to catch his frown.
"I think so," he said uncertainly, slowly sitting up. "I might be having second thoughts about it though."
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. When he opened them again, nobody had said anything or fled in disgust, which was something. There was no hostility reflected back at him, only curiosity and a kind of empathetic concern. Bob was even sharing a corner of Ava's weighted blanket, shifting closer for support that Bucky wished he knew how to ask for.
"I'm bi, if that helps," John volunteered when several moments passed without Bucky managing to give voice to his thoughts.
"Why would that help, John?" he asked with a tired sigh.
"I'm telling you so that you know I'm a safe person to tell," John replied, as if this fact was obvious. "Even though I'm pretty sure I'm way down your list."
"Not as far down as you think," Bucky mumbled, shaking his head. "I've been, I don't know, wrestling with this for a while. At first, I thought that there was something wrong with me after Hydra, you know —"
"There's not. Trust me," Yelena said quietly. "I thought the same after the Red Room. That they took something from me. They didn't. I'm just different. Different is beautiful."
Bucky nodded and said uncertainly, "This stays between us, okay?"
"Of course it does," Bob assured him.
He spoke more slowly than usual, like every word was heavy. His attempt to offer reassurance when he was struggling himself touched Bucky deeply, and he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Hope flashed through him, like lightning in a storm cloud. Was it possible that they would understand, and even accept him, knowing the truth?
"Bucky, I'm not an asshole," John declared before he could speak. "I mean, I am, but I wouldn't betray your trust. I wouldn't betray anyone on this team. It's important that you know that."
"I do know that," Bucky said softly, meeting John's gaze and holding it, offering a slight nod, recognizing the words as an offer of support from John, blunt as he was.
"Come on, James. We're all friends here. Family," Alexei added encouragingly.
"Dad," Yelena said sharply. "Let him tell us in his own time… if he wants to tell us at all."
"I do," Bucky said quickly, and then he blurted it all out, unwilling to hide it any longer or to pretend that he was otherwise than he truly was. "I'm aromantic. It means that I don't fall in love. I don't want a romantic partner. And I don't want to be pressured into an amatonormative arrangement that feels wrong to me. I have a queer platonic partnership with Sam that means the world to me, and I don't want anything or anyone else."
There was a pause, and then Yelena spoke, her voice soft. "You're like me."
"You're… aro too?" Bucky said uncertainly and Yelena nodded.
Excitement fluttered inside him that he hadn't felt in years. It was like approaching Coney Island as a teenager again. Thrilling to discover that someone among his closest held friends and allies understood him, and even shared in what he understood about himself. Many windows in his mind aligned, and he saw far across his own experience to that of Yelena, raised in the Red Room, trained to be an ice cold killer, questioning whether her inability to form romantic attachments came from the Red Room or from herself.
"So… we should stop setting you guys up then?" Ava guessed, making Bucky snort.
"Stop setting us up," he agreed, sharing the smallest of smiles with Yelena.
"Bucky, thanks for, you know, trusting us. I didn't think you would," Bob admitted, his eyes so deep and dark, sparkling with so much emotion that they looked like discs of the night sky.
"You know, I didn't think that I would either," Bucky confessed, biting his lip. "Trust isn't easy for me."
"Do you feel better?" Yelena inquired, leaning forward in her seat. "I did after I told Bob, and Ava, and my dad."
"Yeah, thanks for leaving me out of that conversation," John complained, but Yelena ignored him.
"I feel… relieved not to have to hide it anymore," Bucky said truthfully, finding that even breathing seemed to come easier without the weight of it pressing down on him.
"We've got your back," Bob said quietly. "You know that."
Bucky nodded. He did know that, and he'd never been more grateful or more surprised by his friends' empathy and understanding. He felt a sudden rush, like he was being launched off a catapult, into a future where he didn't have to explain, defend or justify his authentic self. It was freeing, far more so than he could ever have anticipated.