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Watching movies with the Thunderbolts was Bob’s favorite part of the week. Choosing which movie to watch, on the other hand, regularly made him question whether he wanted to participate in the activity at all.
Bob loved his friends. He really did. But he hated yelling and arguing and they yelled and argued a lot. Not always seriously, not even often seriously, but they still got loud and passionate and when the topic was as low stakes as deciding whether to watch Top Gun or Miss Congeniality, it made Bob want to get off the couch and go read a book alone instead.
“How about Dangerous Liaisons?” asked Bucky. His tone sounded less like he genuinely wanted to watch it and more like he was scraping the bottom of the barrel for something that would be agreed on. Alexei shook his head furiously. “What? I thought you loved that one. You quote the ‘win or die’ thing all the time.”
“Yes, yes, but it is not appropriate. The children are here!” Alexei gestured in Bob and Yelena’s general direction with a hearty chuckle.
In hindsight, the comment probably had nothing to do with Bob at all. Alexei had spent three years acting as Yelena’s father when she was small. It made perfect sense that he would still see her as his little girl, for better or for worse. Bob just happened to be sitting next to her on the couch. Maybe it was even a compliment in the sense that Alexei had grown to see Bob as a son too. But none of that occurred to Bob until well after his mouth took the reins.
“I’m an adult,” Bob snapped. It didn’t matter whether it was intended as a joke or not. He’d been babied in enough psychiatric hospitals in his life that his tolerance for that kind of treatment was exceptionally low. Suddenly, all he could remember was being given crayons because he couldn’t be trusted with the sharp point of pencil; of being forced to entertain himself with children’s movies because anything over PG could be ‘triggering.’ “I’m thirty-one years old. I can watch a movie with nudity.”
“Relax, Bob!” Alexei laughed. “It was only joke! In my eyes, ‘Lena will always—”
“I mean, technically, you are the youngest one here.” The comment came from the opposite side of the room. Bob whipped his head around, preemptively glaring at its speaker. John just shrugged like he’d made some grand point, like anybody gave a shit about their ages.
“I’m barely two years younger than Yelena,” Bob argued. Maybe not even two years. He was too irritated to do the math. For some reason, it really bothered him that the comment had come from John specifically. It didn’t bother him if Alexei and Bucky treated him younger, didn’t affect him if Ava and Yelena acted as his older sisters. But he needed John to see him as the mature adult he was.
“Well, actually, Yelena was blipped and you weren’t. So, technically she’s seven years older than you.”
“That’s not how it works and even if it were, that would mean me and her have the same age gap as you and me. Therefore, if she’s too young to watch an R-rated movie, so are you.”
“I’m a father, Bobby.” John yawned and kicked his feet up on the coffee table as he leaned back. He folded his arms behind his head like he was trying to emphasize how little he cared. “I know a thing or two about sex.”
Bob’s instinct was to bite back again; to snap ‘What makes you think I don’t?’ or ‘So do I,’ but saying anything about his sexual experience was a slippery slope to admitting to everything. Maybe the fact that he’d never owned up to any of it was part of the reason Alexei saw him as so innocent. Not that it changed anything. The last thing Bob wanted was for anyone to find out how many people he’d been with, what kind of people they’d been, and his reasons for doing what he did. Especially John.
Rather than continue to argue or even wait for the conversation to naturally switch back to the movie, Bob pushed himself off the couch and walked straight to the elevator. Alexei shouted some kind of apology after him, but Bob ignored it and he ignored whatever John said too. The elevator opened immediately and he stepped inside, a deep sigh of relief falling from his lips when the doors closed.
Given how much Bob struggled with sleep on an average night, it definitely wouldn’t have hurt him to just turn in early. He hit the button for his floor, walked to his room, and flopped on his bed with a slight bounce. Bob groaned into his pillow and grabbed his hair, tugging on it like it was long enough to hide his whole face from the world.
What did it matter if John saw him as younger? Why did Bob even care so much when Alexei was the first one to make the comment? John just pushed Bob’s buttons because he thought it was funny to be an asshole. He probably didn’t even really mean it. But what if he did? What if he could never see Bob the way Bob saw him?
“Hey.” A light knock accompanied Yelena’s entry. She peeked in the door, a dim smile on her face. It felt like she was trying to be reassuring rather than genuine. Bob glanced at her, then flopped right back down. She seemed to take that as a sign that she was invited in. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The words were like an instinct. Nothing about them was true. Bob sniffed and inhaled deeply. If there was anyone in the world he could trust with the truth, it was Yelena. “I’ve told you I spent a lot of time in psychiatric hospitals but the details of it are… they restricted everything, Yelena. Imagine being twenty-five years old and having to wear Velcro sneakers because ‘what if you strangle yourself with your shoelaces?’ Or damn near thirty watching Pixar and Hallmark because ‘even PG-13 movies could be triggering.’ I’m not innocent. I don’t need to be coddled. I am not a child, and I hate being treated like I am.”
“I understand where you’re coming from.” Yelena gently clicked the door shut and crossed the room to Bob’s bed. She sat down on the edge of his mattress and reached her left hand out to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “For what it’s worth, I do not think Alexei meant anything by it. He calls me his маленькая девочка—little girl—all the time.”
“But you’re not a little girl. I’m not a little boy. I’m not— I’m not a virgin. I— We can watch some stupid artistic sex scenes.”
“Yes, we can, but I don’t want to. Okay? That is why he said it. For me. It’s not about you. You just got caught in the crossfire. I’m sorry that it upset you and that Walker teased you, but it is not about you. Alexei was trying to make me more comfortable, and he didn’t know it would hurt you.”
That didn’t make any sense. They’d already established that Yelena was even older than him. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“I don’t like sex,” said Yelena, words half caught in the back of her throat. She pulled her hands into her lap and hid them between her thighs like she felt threatened. Was it Bob? Did Bob make her uncomfortable somehow? “I have never had sex, and I never want to have sex. I don’t even want to kiss anybody. I don’t mind talking about sex now and then, but I do not want to see it. I do not want it in my movies. That’s why Alexei said what he said. He is the only person I’ve come out to. And now you.”
“‘Come out?’”
“I’m asexual. And I think aromantic too. I don’t want sex or a romantic relationship. Not ever.”
“Oh.” That knowledge did not bother Bob in the least. The only reason his heart started pounding was because he was suddenly embarrassed of his own history. What would Yelena think if she knew about that side of him? Would she be disgusted? Could she ever look at him the same way again? “Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry that I— I mean, I wouldn’t have said anything if I knew. I won’t say anything again.”
“It’s not your fault.” Yelena let out a small sigh of relief, her smile returning to her face as she looked back at Bob. “Of all the ways he has redirected from sex scenes for me, that has to be the worst. And for the record, I’ve never told him to anyway. Unless the audio is very graphic, I don’t mind just looking away. And Dangerous Liaisons isn’t even really explicit.”
“Wait, wait, is that why you always refill the popcorn during sex scenes?”
Yelena’s cheeks flushed as she laughed. “You noticed?”
“Only in hindsight.” In the moment, it never clicked. Looking back, there was very definitely a pattern of when Yelena would take the bowls and disappear for three to five minutes. “I support you, by the way. I just want that to be clear. I support however you choose to live your life and I respect your comfort.”
“Thank you.”
“But just out of curiosity, you—” Bob wet his lips as he sat up and leaned back against his headboard. “You said you don’t mind talking about sex. Does that mean you— um— Would it— If you were friends with someone who had a really… shit, sorry. I should just be direct, huh?” He rubbed under his eye uncomfortably as Yelena set a hand on his knee, compassion and patience soft in her expression. “Before Malaysia, I had a lot of sex. I— I think part of it was maybe tied to my mania? I’ve only talked to my therapist about it like a tiny bit, but she called it hypersexuality, which is… Anyway, I was— I was a slut, basically.”
She squeezed Bob’s knee reassuringly. “Bob, don’t…”
“No, it’s okay. It’s true. I wasn’t safe or smart about it at all.”
“I mean, as long as you didn’t get any STDs or create any babies.”
“Jesus.” Bob almost choked on his own spit, shocked by Yelena’s blunt comment. “Honestly, I did get a couple STDs—which were all treated, I swear I have nothing now—but no babies. Yeah, definitely no babies.”
That was the other thing. The Big Thing. Of all the sex Bob had, he could think of exactly one experience that had the miniscule potential to result in pregnancy. Not because of birth control or anything like that but because all the rest of his penetrative sexual experiences were with men. Actually, penetration aside, most of his sexual experiences were with men. But for reasons he’d rather not dwell on, Bob tried not to think about that often.
After all, it didn’t have to mean anything about him, right? Bob wasn’t actively seeking out men, it was just that with the circles he ran in, it was easier to get a blowjob from a guy than it was to get one from a woman. The fact that Bob gave significantly more than he’d received was entirely beside the point. It didn’t mean he really enjoyed it, it was just because he was high and everything made him feel good when he was high. He’d even gotten paid for some of what he’d done, both in cash and drugs.
“Well, thank you for trusting me with that part of you,” said Yelena. She set her hand in Bob’s and gave his palm a reassuring squeeze. He forced a smile that didn’t quite feel believable. “I hope you know that this doesn’t change the way I see you.”
Would it have changed anything if she knew the details of what he’d done? His gut told him she wouldn’t care if he’d been with men or why but a voice in the back of his head convinced him not to tell. Bob swallowed hard and grasped Yelena’s hand tight. “Thank you for trusting me too.”
“Bob?”
He jolted when a hand landed on his shoulder, knocking over the mug held loose in his fingers. Lukewarm coffee spilled across the kitchen island, wetting Bob’s hand and soaking through the right sleeve of his sweater. Bob groaned and jumped off his stool before the coffee could drip over the edge of the counter and over the front of his pants.
“God, sorry.” Ava grabbed a dish towel from beside the sink and handed it to him across the island. Bob winced and rubbed the sleep from his eye with his left hand as his right pressed the cloth to the spreading puddle. “I didn’t mean to startle you, I just didn’t think the kitchen counter looked like a particularly comfortable place to sleep.”
“Yeah.” He tugged his sweater over his head, leaving himself in a stupid t-shirt Yelena had talked him into getting—a cartoon dog with the words ‘I shih-tzu not.’ He isolated the sleeve of his sweater and rested it in the clean sink, then turned on the faucet. “You’re fine. I didn’t— I didn’t sleep well.”
“Are you all right?” Aside from the fact that his nice sweater was probably stained with mocha and flat whipped cream? Yes. Bob nodded. “We were worried when you walked out last night. For what it’s worth, I don’t think Alexei meant to offend you.”
“No, he— I know he didn’t. I just get weird about that stuff because I… I’ve spent a lot of time in psychiatric wards, y’know? And most of the people there don’t see you as a person let alone an adult. I get that Alexei didn’t mean it this way but there have been a lot of times that people did treat me like a child because of my mental illness and I just— I can’t live like that anymore.”
“I understand. At S.H.I.E.L.D. I started out as a child, and I think a lot of people were never able to acknowledge that I grew up. I still remember for my eighteenth birthday I asked for a game to occupy me, and someone gave me Barbie in the Twelve Dancing Princesses. When I was eighteen years old.”
“God.” Bob rolled his eyes. He knew too well what that felt like. In the hospital, he’d had no choice or ability to bring in games but on the few occasions they were offered, they were never even rated T. Not that it was all bad. Some games, particularly arcade games, were admittedly ageless. “Sorry that happened.”
“It wasn’t all bad. I got some laughs out of it.” The smile on her face said that was the truth. She set another towel on the counter beside Bob when he turned off the sink and started to wring out his sweater. “And Bill got me Final Fantasy XII which was infinitely more entertaining.”
Bob nodded. That was good. He’d only had the pleasure of meeting Bill two or three times, but when he did, he found himself grateful that Ava had at least one person who loved her in the face of all she’d been through. He had a very strong feeling that she’d only come out of it the amazing person that she was because he’d been there for her, reminding her that she was still human and still loved.
He set his sweater down, its sleeve resting on the towel, and sighed at the faint stain still imprinted on the blue fabric. Great. That was that ruined. Alongside the annoyance, a question persisted—the same topic he’d discussed with Yelena the night before. Bob sighed and shoved his damp hands through his hair, the faint scent of lemon lingering beside his ears.
“Have you ever gotten the like—” Bob regretted opening his mouth as soon as he started to speak. Unfortunately, Ava was already staring at him, waiting for him to find his words. “The— The weird, y’know, like— like assumptions about your sex life?”
“Not when I was with S.H.I.E.L.D.,” said Ava surprisingly quickly. She furrowed her brow and crossed her arms as she leaned back against the counter, a curious look in her eyes. “But whenever I’ve put myself out there since, I generally get the ‘you must be a virgin because of the suit,’ which is very irritating. Why?”
“Just… It seems like people always assume that I’m either a virgin or— or that I’ve slept with a thousand g—” Guys. The word caught in his throat. Why did he want to say ‘guys’ instead of ‘women’ or even just ‘people?’ It was because of who he’d been with, probably. Because of whom assumed. Everything to do with numbers and nothing to do with preference. Bob glared at his sweater for no real reason and decided to give up despite how much he loved the garment. He walked back to the counter and sat back on his stool, cold and coffeeless. “Are you—? Fuck, sorry, I’m not gonna ask that. That’s so weird.”
“It’s fine. I’m not. I’ve never done anything completely out of my suit, but I’ve had a few short-term girlfriends over the years and well, hands wander.”
Girlfriends.
Bob swallowed hard, a strange tingling sensation fluttering up his fingers. Ava liked women. Why did that bother him? Weirdly, the pounding in his chest didn’t feel like anxiety or judgment, but jealousy. Was Bob jealous that Ava was attracted to women? Or was he jealous that she was so comfortable talking about it? He couldn’t imagine talking about any of his experiences with men without suddenly remembering how it felt to be used as an ashtray.
“I didn’t know you like women,” Bob blurted, realizing too late that he probably sounded homophobic. Thankfully, Ava only nodded, eyes almost searching Bob’s face for what he didn’t say. “Sorry, I don’t mean— It doesn’t bother me. I just didn’t know. Do you— Do you like men too, or—?”
“No, very much a lesbian.” She tilted her head just a little, back lifting off the edge of the counter when she asked, “Do you like men?”
He inhaled sharply and looked down at his hands. Not a yes. Not a no. It was impossible for him to speak on his sexuality, really. Had he been with a lot of men? Yes. Had he enjoyed it? Far more than his single-digit experiences with women. But he was high off his ass the whole time. Seeking out dick could’ve just been a weird symptom of the meth or any one of his mental illnesses that had gone so long undiagnosed.
“I’ve never been in a relationship, really.” Bob twisted his fingers uncomfortably, wishing he still had his sweater to tug on. Ava nodded again, that time almost like she understood. “I’ve had a lot of sex. An embarrassing amount of sex. But I don’t even know what it looks like for someone to stick around longer than a week. Or what that week would look like without drugs.”
“My longest was three months so I can’t say I’m an expert,” Ava admitted. “If you did have a partner, what would you want that relationship to look like?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’d want hi—” Why was Bob’s instinct to say him? Why could he hear his father in the back of his head calling him slurs? “I want to experience the little stuff, y’know? Like kissing my cheek just because. Or fucking, like—” He gestured to the spilled cup and soaked towel in front of him. “Make me breakfast, maybe? Not anything fancy, just— I’ve been in here for half an hour and I haven’t even found the motivation to make toast.”
“That sounds really nice. When you think of that, who are you picturing?”
Bob was one breath away from confessing the truth when echoing footsteps cut him off. He sniffed and brushed the palms of his hands over his eyes, rubbing away his sleep and emotion at the same time. It didn’t really surprise him when John rounded the corner into the kitchen, dressed in basketball shorts and a sweaty t-shirt that was just a little too tight; soft fabric pulling at the curves of his chest and stomach.
The conversation was over for the time being. John would never understand. Not only had he been a heartthrob since high school football, he’d also spent nearly twenty years with the same beautiful woman. No one would ever doubt that he was straight and as he’d pointed out at movie night, the fact that he had a child removed any nonexistent shred of doubt that he fucked.
“Hey.” John went straight for the fridge and pulled out something Bob couldn’t see. He set it on the closest counter, then reached into one of the cupboards above his head and pulled out a box of graham crackers. “Not gonna lie, it’s kind of weird y’all stopped talking right when I walked in here. Should I be concerned?”
“No, we just don’t like recapping our shows in your presence,” said Ava without a moment of hesitation. Did she cover up their conversation for her benefit or for his? “You’re so judgmental, it sucks all the fun out of it.”
“It’s not my fault you’re always watching trash.”
“Thank you for proving my point.”
John just rolled his eyes, and Ava took the gap in conversation to finally get her own breakfast. She sliced a bagel in half and tossed it in the toaster as Bob pushed the soggy washcloth away from his seat. It would probably be smart to just stand up. The odds of his motivation showing up before lunch were slim to none.
Except before he could even look up from his hands, a small plastic container bumped into the back of his fingers. An open Tillamook key lime yogurt topped with crushed graham crackers and a mix of red and blue berries. Bob stared at it, baffled. The sudden appearance of a spoon tapping against the counter did nothing to clarify the situation, nor did the addition of a bottled mocha frappuccino.
“What is this?” asked Bob too sharply. He looked up to find John staring back at him, the expression on his face uncharacteristically soft.
“Breakfast,” John answered. He grabbed the wet dishtowel and swapped it for a dry one, effectively soaking up the rest of Bob’s spill. “You look like you’re having a hard morning. You’ll feel a little better if you eat.”
He wanted to fucking cry. John made him breakfast—a simple breakfast, but still—just because he looked like he was having a hard time? John cared enough about him to go out of his way—by like two minutes, but still—just to make sure Bob ate? And it was his favorite yogurt and his favorite bottled coffee (which was extra comforting because with the lid on, he couldn’t spill it). How did John know that?
“Thank you,” Bob whispered, barely holding back the tears in his eyes.
“Anytime.” Did he mean that? Would he make Bob yogurt every morning if Bob asked him to? “You all right?”
The last thing Bob could do was admit that the small gesture had melted his entire heart. So, instead, he blurted stupidly, “I stained my sweater.”
“What?” Bob pointed to where he’d left his sweater near the sink. John walked over to it, lifted the sleeve to the light, and squinted thoughtfully. “I can probably get this out. Let me take it with me and I’ll get it back to you later.”
John slung it over his elbow, then grabbed his own yogurt in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He glanced back once but quickly disappeared around the corner, the distant chime of the elevator signaling his exit.
A few seconds passed before Ava pointed out, “He made you breakfast.”
One of the simplest breakfasts in the world. Premade yogurt with a pinch of this and a pinch of that. But Bob couldn’t stop staring at it like it was a million-dollar dish. Like all the love in the world was packed into it just because John made it with an inkling of care.
“I said toast,” Bob noted, as if that somehow made any difference at all.
Given that Bob had an e-reader with about ten thousand books in his cloud, it was truly ridiculous just how many books he brought home from the library. Not just once, not a one-off lending spree, but every damn time he walked into that building. It was honestly surprising no one had figured out he was the Sentry just from how many books he could carry at once.
“Wow.” After several months of therapy, Bob was very aware of a lot of his trauma. Unfortunately, being aware of it did nothing to change it. He knew that he struggled with distinguishing tones but that didn’t help him figure out whether Bucky was being judgmental. “That’s a lot of books.”
“Yeah.” Bob nodded. What else was he supposed to do? He readjusted his left arm and stumbled slightly, almost tripping as he struggled to open the door. Bucky slipped beside him, metal hand brushing against Bob’s forearm as he reached past the books to let Bob inside. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You need some help carrying those up to your room?”
He extended his hand toward one of Bob’s bags without waiting for an answer, like Bob was so helpless he would inevitably accept the rescue. Bob spun out of the way, dropped three books in the process, and somehow managed to make himself flinch and freeze at the loud thud of them hitting the floor. Bucky knelt to pick them up without hesitation, eyes catching on the cover of what was distinctly a romance with two male leads. When Bob reached to take it back, Bucky slipped one of Bob’s bags off his arm, stuffed the fallen books on top, and held it firm in his own hands.
“I don’t need help,” snapped Bob. Except that with the way his other three bags were positioned, it was physically impossible for him to take back the fourth. The acknowledgment did nothing to crush his misplaced sense of pride and desperate need to do everything himself. “I’m the— I’m the fucking Sentry, I’m strong enough to carry a few bags of books.”
“Never said you weren’t.” Bucky settled the handles of the bag over his left elbow and offered his right hand to take another bag from Bob. He tilted away protectively. “You are strong enough, yeah, but you don’t have enough arms to carry those up without dropping them. Are you sure you didn’t lose any on the way home?”
The only reason he doubted it was because Bucky asked. “I— Yeah. I would’ve noticed.”
“Why do you need so many anyway? Didn’t we get you an e-reader?”
“I have agoraphobia.”
That was the kind of thing Bob said that made no sense to anyone but himself. In his mind, it was perfect logic. Bob was diagnosed with agoraphobia. Just like the rest of his anxiety, sometimes it didn’t affect him much and other times it was debilitating. When it was debilitating, the only way he could get himself to leave the house was by spending the entire outing distracting himself with books. If he stopped reading summaries and gathering books for more than one or two minutes, he would have had a panic attack.
But Bucky didn’t understand that. So, he stared at Bob, brow furrowed, head slightly tilted like he was trying to read Bob’s mind. And Bob, being Bob, would not realize until much later what the gap in communication was so he just stood there and stared back.
“Okay,” said Bucky finally. He took a few steps toward the elevator, gaze flickering down to the bags on his arms. A little smirk crossed his face as his eyes scanned the covers of the exposed novels. Bob’s cheeks flushed and he looked away from Bucky, unable to stand the judgment on his face. “You read an… interesting variety of books.”
“I’m not gay.” Another stupid, impulsive statement with no context because he assumed that Bucky was still thinking about the romance novel. It didn’t even occur to him that half a dozen other covers of wildly varying genres were also on display. He couldn’t look Bucky in the eye when he added, “I’ll read pretty much whatever for the plot.”
“Is the hunky shirtless guy the plot?”
Bob smashed the button for the elevator with his knuckles and inhaled sharply, inexplicable tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. No, not inexplicable. Embarrassed. Bucky said Bob’s name a couple times, maybe even apologized, but none of it fully registered. Bob’s entire body was tense, something in the back of his mind telling him to brace for punishment. They just had to get somewhere private and then Bucky would tell him what he really thought about the book.
Maybe it was because of something he’d deeply repressed about his father shoving him into the wall and screaming slurs while Bob sobbed. Or maybe it was the feeling from when one of Bob’s old hookups had caught him watching The Birdcage and expressed his belief that it was normal for men to hookup but not for them to be romantic. The explicit addition that Bob himself would never be worth more than his holes was likely what cemented the memory in his mind.
Before Bob could think of a response that would get Bucky off his back, the elevator slowed to an early stop. A shrill chime highlighted the opening doors. Bob’s heart beat faster, a small, inexplicable smile tugging at his lips when he saw John’s face. John smiled back at him and their eyes met as Bob bit down on his lip and John stepped inside the elevator, much closer to Bob than Bucky.
“Hey.” John nodded at the several bags of books and Bob’s cheeks flushed pink. “Library? You doing all right?”
“Yeah, fine.” Bob glanced down at his bags just to check that the book Bucky had seen was no longer visible. Why would John ask if he was all right? Did John know that was where Bob went when his agoraphobia was bad? No. There was no way. “I, um— I got you something.”
He dropped the remaining bag on his right arm and once again flinched at the sound. Bob took a deep breath and used his freed hand to shift the books around in one of the other bags. It didn’t take long to find the heavy book. The cover was distinct, a wooden background with a decadent pie on the cover. Southern Pies. Bob held it toward John, and he took it with a small laugh.
“You want me to make you some pies, Bobby?” Bobby. For years he’d hated being called that but somehow, he’d grown to love the way it sounded on John’s lips.
“No,” said Bob, as John flipped the book open to the table of contents. “I remembered you saying you missed your mom’s pies and since you’re from Georgia, I thought maybe—”
The elevator chimed again. They’d made it to John’s floor. He held the book up and grinned, but Bob couldn’t tell whether the expression was truly happy or just teasing. “The tangy key lime pie looks good. Think I’ll make that first.”
“You don’t like…” The exchange ended too quickly. John stepped out of the elevator and the doors were closed a second later. Bob blinked and turned to Bucky. “He doesn’t like lime.”
“Maybe he likes something else,” Bucky suggested.
“You can make other pies with graham crackers and whipped cream.”
“I wasn’t talking about food.”
Then what was he talking about? Bob opened his mouth but ultimately decided not to ask. It didn’t matter. They spent the last few seconds of the elevator ride in silence. When it stopped, Bucky grabbed the bag Bob dropped on the floor and headed straight for Bob’s room, Bob following a few steps behind him.
Bob tried not to be embarrassed by the state of his room when they got there. Clothes were scattered about the floor, his bed was unmade, and his desk was a mess with art materials from experimenting with different pastels. He set his bags by the side of his bed and Bucky followed suit. For a moment, Bob thought he was finally going to leave, but Bucky only reached the doorway before he suddenly stopped and turned back around.
“Have you always read such a variety of books?” he asked. “Or did you widen your range over time?”
“I’ve always been interested in reading different things, but my dad was— He kept an eye on what I read.” There were a few ‘mature’ topics that got him into trouble, but none had gotten him beat like his copy of Boy Meets Boy. He instinctively tapped his fingertips to a scar on his shoulder, hidden beneath his sleeve. “Maybe I’m making up for that lost time.”
“What would your dad think about the hunky shirtless guy?”
He wet his lips and shook his head a little. “Does it matter?”
“I feel like it does. Maybe more than you realize.” Bob shrugged and picked at the tip of his thumbnail, unable to meet Bucky’s gaze. “Have I ever told you about my dad?”
“No.”
“He was a great man. I loved him. We were close my whole life until he passed. But the one thing he didn’t know about me was that I was in love with my best friend. And I think if he knew that, he never would’ve been able to look at me again.”
“I thought your best friend was Steve Rogers.” Bucky didn’t have to say anything. The look he gave Bob said it all. “Oh. Did he— What did he think about that?”
“Never told him,” said Bucky with a sad smile. “I was terrified of losing him, so I never said anything and before I was ready, he met Peggy. I’m sure he would be accepting of the fact I liked men, but I’ll never know whether he felt the same for me.”
Bucky liked men. That was unexpected. Bob twisted his hands around uncomfortably. Why would Bucky tell him that? He’d literally said to Bucky, “I’m not gay.” He wasn’t. It didn’t matter what he sought out while he was manic. It didn’t matter what he enjoyed while he was high. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, a vague memory of being choked suddenly overwhelming him.
“I’ve never been in love with anybody.” Bucky made a face, but Bob couldn’t tell what it meant. “I’ve never even been in a relationship that was anything more than sex. Or drugs. Usually both.” He rubbed his hands over his face and sniffed. “Do you only like men, or…?”
“Actually, I’ve mostly been attracted to women. Steve was special.” Oh. For some reason, Bob felt guilty that he’d even asked. “Can I ask what your relationships were like? Short lived, yeah, but was there anything about them you liked?”
No. They were toxic. Abusive. Suffocating. The only one that had been close to decent was his first and last girlfriend, and it didn’t even matter that she was kind because they were both heavily into meth which soured everything else. All the men he’d been with either hurt him or used him or, in one case, even helped Bob overdose, left him at the hospital, and pretended not to know Bob when the police asked. But Bob didn’t want to talk about that. He didn’t want Bucky to know any of that. He shook his head.
“That’s fine,” started Bucky. “I just wanted you to know that even though I’m from the forties, I won’t ever judge you for who you… read about.”
“Thanks, I guess.” What did it even matter? Bob rarely told Bucky about anything that he read. “And thanks for helping me carry my books.”
“No problem.” He opened the door, then turned back over his shoulder one last time. “And just for the record, I meant that John likes you.”
“What?”
“He wants to make the key lime pie because you like key lime pie. It’s not for him. It’s for you.”
Bucky didn’t wait for Bob to respond before he left. It was the first time through the whole interaction that Bob wanted him to stay. He needed clarification. What the fuck did Bucky mean? Sure, John liked him. He liked the whole team. Bob wasn’t special. Every man he’d ever been with made damn sure he knew that.
“Oh, fuck!” Bob’s Zyns fell out of his hand, the small container scraping against the sidewalk. His heart pounded in his ears, lungs burning from his sudden inability to breathe. “You scared the shit out of me.”
The very last thing one should do to a man with severe anxiety was unexpectedly grab them, and yet there they were. Bob was minding his own business walking home from the corner store when Alexei appeared out of absolutely nowhere and clapped him on the back. Him. Bob. With his four separate anxiety disorders, one of which was CPTSD. Bob knelt down to pick up his container Zyns, debating whether it would be really bad to wedge a second in his lip.
“Sorry, Bob! I forget you are so jumpy.” Jumpy. That was one way to describe his mental health issues. The way it boiled Bob’s trauma down to an inconvenience pissed him off more than it should have. “Your doctor said you should not use nicotine anymore.”
“When I was twenty-five, several doctors and a judge told me I shouldn’t use meth,” said Bob dryly. He pulled the Zyn from his upper lip and spit it in a nearby trash can, then ripped the new package open and shoved a fresh one in. Better than doubling up, at least. “Didn’t stop me.”
“It makes Yelena worry. She says that with your medications, it is very bad for your heart.”
“I’m the Sentry. Nothing is bad for me.”
“Ah, but we really don’t know what—”
“Alexei, stop. Fuck.” Bob shoved his Zyns in his back pocket and pushed his hands over his face, rubbing his nose uncomfortably. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do, okay? I’m a fucking adult. I’ve been using since I was thirteen. I can make my own decisions about what I put in my body.”
Truthfully, Bob hated the way his temper flared sometimes. It reminded him too much of his father. There was no reason to yell at Alexei when his intentions were good but that didn’t stop Bob from snapping. That didn’t calm the twitching in his fingers or the burning in his neck or that faint buzz in his feet telling him to just fucking run. Bob flinched when Alexei moved, prepared for him to snap like Bob’s father always did. Instead, Alexei smiled sadly.
“I am sorry I called you a child,” said Alexei, his whole demeanor softening. Bob nodded and opened his mouth to tell him that Yelena had explained, but Alexei got there first. “Yelena told me you two talked.”
“Yeah, she told me you were trying to help her.” Bob took a deep breath as he resumed his walk back toward the Watchtower. Alexei followed but didn’t immediately speak, giving Bob space to think. “I don’t like having to depend on anyone and I don’t like being coddled. I understand I was just in the crossfire, but I hate being told I can’t take care of myself. I’ve always taken care of myself.”
“I understand. Yelena is same way. But I wish sometimes that I could take care of you both in some way.” The way he said it told Bob that he intended to elaborate, so he kept his mouth shut. “Yelena is my whole world. It hurts that I did not get to see her grow up and that there is so much I will never get to do with her. There is so much you will never get to do either because your father was bad man. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if we were real family. Yelena, Natasha, Melina, and me. I know it was not real in the sense of a normal family but as Yelena says, it was real to me. They are my family. I will always think of them as my family.”
That didn’t surprise Bob at all. Alexei always referred to Yelena and Natasha as his daughters and even though he didn’t call Melina his wife, he spoke very fondly of her. And Bob understood in his own way. He often wondered what life would’ve been like if he had better parents. Maybe even a sibling. But what was the point in wondering when he’d lived thirty-something years in his reality?
“Did you love Melina?” asked Bob. Maybe not the most important question to ask but the first to come to mind.
“Yes.” Alexei nodded and exhaled fondly. “Being famous as I was, I have been with many women in my time—and in prison, many men—but Melina is the only one I have ever loved. She is the only one I would want to spend my life with.”
That was sweet, as were all the things Alexei said after that. But none of it really registered after the words “many men.” Of all the people in the world, Bob never would have guessed that Alexei had been with men. Alexei was so masculine, such a ladies’ man, and he had been with men? And was comfortable talking about it so openly like that?
Bob entertained Alexei’s rambling about Melina for another minute or two before he asked for permission to present his intrusive question. Thankfully, Alexei eagerly said yes. “You said you’ve been with men? Was that just in prison?”
“Yes,” said Alexei. “I do not feel for men like I feel for my Melina. But when you are in men’s prison for so many years, a hand is a hand. You make do.”
“Oh.” That made more sense, admittedly. Maybe that was the same thing that Bob had done. He hadn’t fucked men because he liked men, he fucked men because they were there and they were horny too. “So, it wasn’t romantic, it was just hand stuff?”
“Only hand stuff, yes. I gave a little more now and then, but it was not my favorite. For deep intimacy, I prefer the warmth of a woman.” Alexei made a face before he added, “Why you ask these questions?”
“No reason, really. Just— When I was high, I— I, um— I did stuff with men too. But it wasn’t romantic either, just… stuff.”
A lot more stuff than hand stuff. That was the big thing. The big scary thing that had him feeling nauseous. If it were just hand stuff, he could take Alexei’s history as proof that it didn’t mean he really liked men. But it wasn’t just hand stuff. Bob, for lack of a better term, was a total fucking cock slut. He’d initiated more blowjobs than he could ever count; frotted with guys while he pushed his tongue down their throat; begged to be on the bottom whenever their clothes came all the way off.
All that and he’d never thrown himself at a woman. Not once in all his years.
“Ah, yes, you spent time in jail too,” Alexei started, as if that was what Bob intended to bond over. Bob wet his lips and nodded. Alexei saw right through him. “No, you chose men. You like being with men?”
Bob’s instinct was to say no. He’d been with a few men who insisted after every hookup they were straight and somehow, they convinced Bob that he was the same way. In hindsight, maybe they were all lying to themselves. Maybe his dad was right all along, and he’d been a fag since he was born. The fact that he’d bought himself a dildo after moving into the tower because that was his favorite way to masturbate probably should’ve given him a clue.
“Yeah,” Bob whispered, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. One word but the first time he’d confessed it. He sniffed and bit down on his lower lip when his chin quivered.
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Alexei, and Bob just shook his head. No, there wasn’t. The truth was, Bob believed it was okay for everyone except for him. It wasn’t okay for him.
If Bob was gay, that meant his father was right. That every time Bob had screamed and cried that he was straight, he was wrong and his father was justified. If Bob was gay, that meant his past was his future. He’d never fall in love with any of the kind women who were interested in him; he would be forever doomed to chase after abusive, asshole men because he was drawn to that personality and sexy body hair and big dicks.
“I don’t want to like men,” Bob confessed, hands shaking so badly he had to twist them together to hide it.
“We can’t change who we love,” Alexei told him, nothing but compassion in his eyes.
They didn’t speak again for the rest of the walk. Bob couldn’t say anything else and Alexei didn’t push him. The very confession that he’d enjoyed what he did with men was enough for one day. Thankfully, the Watchtower was just two more blocks from where they’d started so it wouldn’t be long before Bob could go back up to his room and isolate until the overwhelming feelings of self-hatred faded.
Except they weren’t the only ones who happened to get home at that moment. John approached from the opposite direction, a plastic bag hanging from his left hand. His light hair shone in the sun, blue eyes brighter than ever. Despite the anxiety consuming him, Bob somehow managed to smile just a little when he saw John. He waved lamely, hoping Alexei wouldn’t tell John where he’d been. John, hypocritically, worried about the Zyns more than anyone.
“I was just about to come find you,” said John.
Bob glanced at Alexei, then pointed at his own chest. “Me?”
“Yeah.” He reached into his plastic bag and pulled out two smaller brown paper bags, each stapled shut at the top. John held them out to Bob and he took them, embarrassed by how badly his hands were still shaking. “I didn’t know if your agoraphobia was still flaring up so I grabbed those for you while I was getting my Prozac.”
“My agoraphobia?”
“Mmhm. You’re doing all your things.” Bob’s expression alone must’ve begged for elaboration because John continued without verbal prompting. “Isolating in your room unless you’re with Yelena. Going to the library and anxiety picking every book. Not going to get your meds even though you clearly ran out of propranolol.”
Bob’s cheeks flushed and he squeezed the bags tightly, trying to hide his obvious tremors. “I was going to, it just— it makes me nervous to be around all those drugs. I always feel like somehow I’m gonna walk out of there with something I shouldn’t.”
“I get it. I don’t mind picking it up if you need someone to.”
“No, it’s okay. I can—” Except he couldn’t. Clearly he couldn’t. He’d been out of propranolol for over a week and the only reason he was entertaining the idea of the pharmacy was because his Seroquel was low and that was a necessity. Maybe it was okay to accept a little help when he really needed it. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Really.” John smiled and Bob couldn’t help but smile back. He glanced down at the paper bags, a funny feeling fluttering in his stomach. “Now, go take those, please. I don’t want you to get a migraine.”
“How—? I never told you it helps with my migraines.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.” He turned over his shoulder like Alexei could somehow back him up, only to realize Alexei wasn’t there anymore. When had he gone inside? Bob swallowed hard and blinked several times. “Maybe I did. I don’t know. My memory is shit.”
And he felt a little nauseous and he was having trouble breathing and he couldn’t stop shaking. His ability to hide it must’ve been slipping because John only looked at him for a silent second before he asked, “Are you all right? Have you eaten today?”
“I’m fine. I just, um— You’re right. I need to take these. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Bobby—”
Bobby.
“Thank you again,” Bob stammered as he ran for the door. He held his breath as he crossed the lobby. The moment the doors closed on the elevator, Bob squeezed the paper bags in his hands and sank to the floor, consumed by feelings he couldn’t name.
He couldn’t stop thinking about John.
John, who went out of his way to get Bob breakfast just because he looked a little down. John, who wanted to make key lime pie that he didn’t even like because he knew it was Bob’s favorite. John, who picked up Bob’s medications because he noticed he was struggling and wanted to help. John, with his pretty blue eyes and his handsome beard and that little crinkle in the middle of his nose when he smiled.
In isolation, the thoughts sounded positive. But Bob hated himself for them. He hated himself for the butterflies he got when John made him laugh. He hated himself for the insatiable attraction he felt toward the way John’s shirts clung to his biceps and chests. He hated himself for the fact that he couldn’t imagine a life with a woman, and he couldn’t imagine a life without John.
It was the little things that he wanted to last forever. Like how when John made smoothies, he would always pour one for Bob. Or the way he’d always change the TV to a show Bob liked unless he was watching a football or hockey game. Bob even loved the way that John took care of his chores for him even though it usually upset him when people encroached on his independence.
One of those chores he did was taking care of Bob’s cups. That evening, Bob sat in his favorite chair, half asleep while he read, his book balanced on his knees. John said nothing when he walked up and arranged the empty mugs on Bob’s table into an easily grabbable pile. Bob blinked slowly as he watched John tidy up the space. It never made sense why John cleaned there. He liked a neat home, yes, but that was Bob’s corner. John never sat there. How could it bother him?
“Hey.” John set his hand on Bob’s head and gently tousled his hair. Bob nuzzled into his hand a little and immediately blamed it on his sleepiness. It didn’t help that John tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and fixed the collar on his bathrobe. “I’m gonna do some laundry. You want me to wash your blanket?”
Was it that obvious he’d spilled orange juice on it that morning? Bob nodded but stopped when he curled his fingers around the soft material. Why did John want to do his laundry? Why was John collecting his cups? Bob was perfectly capable of doing those chores himself and yet John went all the way to Bob’s special corner to take care of all of it for him. His question burst out of him before he could stop it.
“Why do you do all this?” John furrowed his brow, apparently not understanding. “You— You take care of me. Why do you do that?”
John faltered, mouth opening and closing a few times as he shrugged. “I don’t take care of you.”
“Yes, you do. You make me food and you pick up my meds and you’re doing my chores for me right now. Fuck, I thought— I thought maybe you were joking when you pointed out that I’m the youngest, but do you seriously see me as a kid?”
“No. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” Bob’s heart pounded in his ears, throat burning when he swallowed. There was a weird part of him that wanted John to say it was like that, to firmly reject him and put an end to every feeling Bob couldn’t shake. “Do you think I’m incapable for some other reason?”
“No, I know you’re capable,” John snapped. He took a step back from Bob’s chair, the tenderness of his earlier touch completely gone, replaced by stiff tension. “I do it because I want to do it, okay? It has nothing to do with whether you’re capable of doing it yourself.”
“Okay but why? Why do you want to do it?”
“I was married for eighteen years!”
Suddenly, Bob understood how it felt to others when he failed to communicate his thoughts. He had no idea what John meant. What relevance did his marriage have to the conversation? Was he trying to shove his heterosexuality in Bob’s face for some reason? Bob tilted his palms upward and shook his head a little, brow furrowed with all his confusion.
John took a few steps back before he spoke again, eyes flickering past Bob but never quite landing on him while he spoke. “Back before the serum, before the grief, before the depression, I used to do all this stuff for Olivia. I’d take care of her mugs and wash her laundry and make her dinner. I don’t do it because I think less of you, I do it because it makes me feel good. All right? My love language is acts of service.”
Love language? That couldn’t have meant what Bob thought it meant, right? Bob toyed with the curl John had tucked behind his ear like he could still feel John’s fingers through it. He wet his lips but couldn’t find any words to say. He needed John to clarify that he meant it platonically.
He needed John to say that he wasn’t in love with him.
“It just makes me feel better to take care of you, okay? I mean, not— not you. Not you specifically. The team. I take care of the team.” And then when John said it, Bob felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Fuck, he hated himself. “I don’t think of you as immature or incapable at all, all right? I think you’re strong as shit. I’m crazy proud of how far you’ve come since you moved in here, too. I just— I want to take care of you. There’s no reason why except that it makes me happy.”
“Because we’re friends.” John hesitated before he wet his lips and nodded silently. It was like neither of them could look directly at each other, their gazes unsteady. Bob twisted his hands around in his lap, his book forgotten beneath them. “You’re sure you do this for the whole team?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
Tears burned at the bottom of Bob’s eyes. It felt like something was physically ripping his insides apart. He wanted John to say that it was only for him. He wanted John to say that he loved him. And he knew that if John said it, he would snap. All he could hear was his father screaming in the back of his head. The sound of the wall cracking as his back slammed into it. His own sobs as his dad twisted a cigarette into his flesh and told him he’d show him what it felt like to be a fag.
“I don’t want to be with a man,” said Bob without really thinking. He barely swallowed an inexplicable sob, fingernails digging into his palms as he inhaled deeply. John had a fuck of a poker face. His expression did not change aside from two small blinks. “I get that you’re using me for some kind of relief, but I am not your wife. I don’t want you to— I don’t— I don’t want—”
But he did. Bob didn’t want to be with a man, but he wanted to be with John. He wanted John to wash his blanket and tousle his hair and take care of him when his mental illness was at its lowest. There was some feeling Bob couldn’t shake screaming at him that it was wrong to want to love a man and yet all he could think about was how badly he wanted John.
Too wrapped up in his own self-deprecation, Bob didn’t expect it at all when John snapped, “What makes you think I would want to be with a man?”
“You’re treating me like I’m your wife,” Bob reminded him. “You just said—”
“I didn’t say I want you to be my wife. I don’t want a husband. I’m not a fucking degenerate.” Bob’s chest tightened, an intense, painful sensation stinging in his lungs. John shoved his hands over his face, fingernails scratching down his beard. “I am not that person anymore. I am not that confused fourteen-year-old boy crying behind a church because I couldn’t stop thinking about my best friend.”
His best friend.
Lemar?
“I prayed every goddamn day for three months and then I met Olivia and we got together and we got married and I never thought about a man again. I don’t think about men.” But if he didn’t think about men why was he yelling the way he was yelling? Why was he saying the things Bob only thought about himself? “I don’t want you to be my wife. I’m sorry I had the audacity to try and be nice to you. I won’t fucking do it anymore.”
John stormed past Bob’s chair, leaving the blanket and mugs behind. Bob didn’t hesitate before he stood up, bathrobe tangled around his knees as his slippers squeaked against the floor. He slammed his hand into the wall beside the elevator before John could press the button, blocking him from making his escape. Maybe he should have thought about what he would say but it didn’t matter because he didn’t.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that.” A sob caught in the back of Bob’s throat, but he managed to bury it with feigned confidence. “You don’t get to talk about yourself like that.”
“I can talk about myself however the hell I want.” John reached for the elevator button and Bob pushed his hand away, heart racing so fast it almost hurt. He covered the button with his palm when John took a step back. “You don’t know what it’s like, Bob. I grew up in goddamn nowhere, Georgia, going to church twice a fucking week, hearing from every adult I trusted, ‘You will go to hell if you feel like this.’ Do you know how hard I prayed? You have no goddamn idea what it’s like to grow up bisexual in—”
“I have no idea?!” Bob yanked his arm out of his bathrobe and pushed his sleeve up to his shoulder, revealing the deep, circular burn scars on his skin. His face burned bright red with shame and regret. “This is where my dad used to put his cigarettes out on me when he said, ‘If you want to act like a fag, you’re going to feel like fag.’”
The look on John’s face changed fast, his jaw dropped just slightly. “Bobby—”
“All I wanted was to prove him wrong and I couldn’t. He said I was fucking crazy like my mom and I am. He said I’d be on drugs forever and I am. He told me when I was five years old that he knew I was a fag and I wanted him to be wrong and I—”
“Bob.” Bob turned away and covered his face with his hands, palms brushing away his tears before John could see them. John reached a hand toward Bob’s face, and he took a step back and shook his head. “Bobby…”
“Don’t tell me I don’t know what it’s like,” said Bob, voice cracking too much. His inhale shook badly, his whole chest caving in as one tear dripped off his chin. “You don’t know. You got to be with a woman, and you got to be happy with her, and from the time I was fourteen, men were taking advantage of— fuck you.”
“Bob—”
“Fuck you.”
There was no chance the elevator could close fast enough. Bob ran to the stairs and let out a deep, relieved sigh when John didn’t follow. He didn’t make it to his floor before he crashed on one of the landings, full body sobs overtaking him as he buried his face in his knees. That really was his life, then. It didn’t matter how badly Bob wanted better, he was only attracted to assholes. He only wanted men who would hurt him.
He wrapped his arms around the back of his head, curling himself into a tight ball as he willed himself to stop shaking. All he had to do was remember how to breathe. All he had to do was convince himself that losing John wasn’t the same as dying.
Bob had been with both men and women in his life. Significantly more men than women, but both all the same. He’d always convinced himself that even if he did have some kind of attraction for men, he was some level of fluid. He’d always been sure that if he ever got clean, he’d be able to find a nice woman and settle down and forget all the risky sex he’d had with disgusting, abusive men.
That wasn’t the case anymore.
He couldn’t keep denying it. Bob replayed every encounter he’d ever had with a woman and what he had to accept was that he felt nothing. The blowjobs were mediocre, the handjobs only worth it when he closed his eyes. There had been two attempts at penetration, and he was so fucking pathetic he couldn’t even get it up. The only times he remembered being satisfied were when he was the one on the bottom, when he was the one holding a dick. And how the fuck could he love a woman when he felt like that?
Accepting reality wasn’t a comfort. If anything, Bob felt worse. His father was right. He’d been right since before Bob had an inkling of desire. Bob was doomed to spend forever either alone or in a never-ending cycle of pain with toxic boyfriends because that was what he was attracted to. Because even after their fight, the only thing Bob wanted was John. Not the John who yelled at him but the John who checked in on him, who cared for him, who showed him love no other man ever had.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Where else would Bob be? His legs dangled over the edge of the helipad, his anxiety oddly at peace with the height. That was the funny thing about being passively suicidal; the underlying desire to die overtook every fear driven by a desperate need to survive. Bob didn’t look up at John, his eyes on his hands, on the goosebumps running up and down his shivering arms.
“You can’t avoid me forever,” said John, and Bob simply ignored him again. Maybe if he didn’t acknowledge him, he would just go away. Instead, John climbed over the rail and sat down beside Bob, apparently equally unafraid of the height. He held a folded, dark blue piece of fabric out toward Bob and set it on Bob’s thigh when he didn’t look up. “I got the coffee stain out of your sweater.”
Bob curled his fingers around the soft fabric, squeezing it tight like a stress ball. His hair blew in the cold wind, strands blocking his already limited vision in the dim light. “Thank you.”
“You should put it on. You look cold.”
“I’m okay.” And then, because he couldn’t possibly hate himself more, Bob asked, “Can I tell you something?”
John nodded. “Of course.”
“I’m gay.”
Nothing about John’s expression changed. It wasn’t surprising. There was no way John couldn’t know after everything Bob had shouted at him during their argument the other night. But John didn’t point out that he knew, didn’t make fun of Bob, didn’t say anything at all. Somehow, the silence broke him. A sob escaped Bob’s lips as he twisted the sweater in his hands, a tear sliding down each of his pink cheeks.
“I’ve never said that before,” Bob admitted, and there was John’s hand. He tucked Bob’s hair behind his ear, brushed a tear off his cheek, gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Bob looked down and away from him, not wanting John to see his pain. “I’ve been lying to myself my whole fucking life because I didn’t want my dad to be right. But he was. He burned me for it, and he beat me for it, and he kicked me out of the house for it, and every time I said he was wrong and he wasn’t. He was right.”
“Listen, Bob…” John took a deep breath and sniffed as he stuffed his hands between his thighs. “I’m sorry about what I said. I was talking about myself. I didn’t know about you or what your dad did. And just because you are gay doesn’t mean that what your dad did was right. What he did to you wasn’t right.”
Bob pushed his tears away with his palms and shook his head. Objectively, he knew it wasn’t right, but he still felt like he deserved it. “It fucking kills me that he was right. It fucking kills me that I’ve known so many amazing women and I’ve only ever been attracted to asshole men. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want this.”
“But you can’t control it, can you? I did all that praying but nothing happened. Didn’t change the way I felt. I lied to myself just as much as you. I thought it didn’t matter if I liked men because I do like women too. I thought because I fell in love with Olivia, I could just ignore it forever. But then we got divorced and then… then I met you.”
That made him look up. Bob’s face was pink and wet with tears and yet when John looked at him, it was like he’d seen the most beautiful person on Earth. He tugged another curl behind Bob’s ear, then set his hand on top of Bob’s and gently stroked Bob’s thumb with his own. Bob stayed silent, staring down at their hands. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to respond to that?
“It’s only you,” said John quietly, deep emotion underlining his own words. He sniffed and swallowed hard, palm warm on the back of Bob’s hand. “I said it was everyone, but it isn’t. The chores and the meds and the cooking—I only do that for you. And I think I started doing it a long time before I realized why.”
“Why…?” He needed to hear John say the words. “Why do you do it?”
John’s smile was sad. “I think you know why.”
Because John loved him. Because for some reason, over the last few years they’d been living together, John had fallen in love with him. He never acknowledged it, never said it, but it was blooming there for months. Bob remembered the little gestures going back well over a year, only growing with frequency over time. He twisted his fingers to hold John’s softly and brushed his tears away with his opposite hand.
“I do want it,” Bob admitted, unable to steady his voice. “I got mad because I want it and I didn’t know how to say that I wanted it. It scares me that I want it. I want you to take care of me. I want you to— to— I’ve only ever been with guys who were never there in the morning so when you make me breakfast, I feel like you really care. And they were all asses about my memory problems and my agoraphobia, so when you go out of your way to help me, I— fuck, John. Why do you do that?”
“I told you,” whispered John, “it’s my love language.”
Love.
How could it be wrong for John to love him? How could it not be okay just because he was a man? Maybe Bob’s father was right about his sexuality, but he was wrong about everything else. It wasn’t wrong to love a man. It wouldn’t send him to hell. It wouldn’t inherently condemn Bob to a life of abuse. Not when the man he loved just wanted to hold his hand and play with his hair and make him yogurt on hard mornings.
Bob squeezed John’s hand tight as he exhaled shakily and turned to look John in the eyes. His beautiful, crystal blue eyes. He lifted his left hand to John’s cheek and gently stroked his beard, just feeling him, seeing him. There was no anger on his face. Only hurt. They both carried so much pain. So much trauma they’d never even spoken about.
There were tears in John’s eyes, sparkling but unshed. He stared at Bob’s face like he was beautiful, like he was perfect. When Bob looked at John, it was easy to forget all the pain, to only care about the two of them and that they were together at that moment. John’s hazy flickered to Bob’s lips for half a second and with that, he was gone.
Despite all his fears and hesitations, Bob leaned in first. His fingers curled around the edge of John’s jaw when their lips met. Bob’s were chapped and a little chewed up but John’s were soft from his impeccable hydration. He tasted like nicotine and cinnamon, like he’d smoked a cigarette before coming out and tried to cover it with an Altoid.
John grabbed Bob’s waist, pulling him in closer before shifting his hand to the top of his thigh, clinging to him like he might slip right through his fingers. Bob’s tongue slid between his lips, and he dragged it over John’s jagged bottom teeth before he pushed it fully into his mouth. John lightly bit down on it and Bob found himself giggling despite everything, a little smile interrupting their kiss.
It felt right in a way kissing never had. He’d always been somewhat indifferent to the action but maybe it was just because he’d been with the wrong people. Kissing John felt like the best mistake ever. Bob shifted closer to John, their sides of their legs fully touching, Bob’s sweater held between them. He focused completely on John’s lips, on his beard, on the faint taste of salt from his own tears.
Then he turned and leaned in just a little too much and his leg slipped and John grabbed him before he could either panic or remember how to fly. Bob buried his face in John’s neck when John’s arms wrapped around him, one hand holding his opposite wrist, clinging to Bob for dear life.
“I got you,” John whispered. “You’re all right, I got you.” Bob nodded, anxiety shooting through his veins. His lips found a mole on John’s neck and he almost instinctively mouthed at it, desperate to self-soothe. The kiss John planted on his hair sped up the process tenfold. “I love you.”
Bob’s sob was muffled against John’s neck, his inhale sharp and jagged. There was still a part of him that felt like it was wrong but the part of him that had waited thirty years to be loved was stronger. He squeezed the back of John’s shirt tight, his own breath warm against John’s skin. Wrapped in John’s arms, Bob couldn’t just hear his love, he could feel it.
“I love you,” repeated John, his own words slightly shaky. “It’s okay if you can’t say it back or if you don’t feel it but I need you to know that I do. I love you. I love you, Bobby. I love you.”
“I—” He didn’t know how to say it. The only person he’d said it to since his mother was Yelena and the way he loved her and John were very far from the same. Bob took a deep breath, hands slipping down to John’s waist. He squeezed his shirt tight and slid back to look John right in his teary eyes when he said, “I love you too.”
He barely had time to register what was happening before John’s lips were back on his. The kiss was shorter that time but followed by several more. John kissed along Bob’s jaw, his cheeks, his forehead. He pulled Bob into his arms and squeezed him in a firm embrace, fingers digging deep into Bob’s strong arms.
Bob softened beneath John’s hug, finally allowing himself to accept what he wanted. Maybe he would hate himself again in the morning. He really didn’t know. But for just one night, Bob chose not to care. He clung to John’s shirt with one hand, the other squeezing the sweater in his lap.
“Thank you for getting the coffee out of my sweater,” he mumbled, suddenly unsure of what to do; of how to express everything he felt.
John kissed the side of his head, smile audible in his words when he responded, “I would do anything for you.”