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daddyjackfrost · 2 months ago

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Lost in The Wild ; B. Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: It was supposed to be an easy mission. In and out. But then communication went out. The intel became useless. The weather turned horrific. Bucky lost his gun. And then, you.

Warnings: Fluff, slow-burn, friends to lovers, horrible weather, blood, injuries, yearning, cursing, Ft. Sam, Steve, and Natasha, SMUT, p in v, oral (f rec.), kissing, praise, MDNI, unprotected sex, brief crying, they’re so in love your honor, down!bad bucky, lmk if I missed any! WC: 12.9k

A/N: First ever Bucky post! It’s been years since I’ve written on this account so have mercy on me. Thank you to all the wonderful writers on here that are so talented and inspiring. As for timeline… I don’t know. Canon? What canon? Comments & Reblogs are appreciated!

The rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. Not the kind that offered relief or clarity—no, this was brutal, heavy rain, the kind that blurred the edges of the world and made the earth itself hostile. It was the kind that soaked you to the bone, made every step a battle, and turned even the most solid ground into something slippery, a trap waiting to swallow you whole.

The terrain had started off rocky, already a pain in the ass. Sharp crags jutted out from the hillsides like broken bones. Narrow passes that barely fit a single person had suddenly become rivers of slick mud and falling debris. Visibility was horrible and comms were patchy at best, and then they were gone entirely—just static and silence, the kind that settled into your chest and made it difficult to think straight.

Bucky’s boots sank with every step, the mud sucking greedily at the soles, threatening to pull him under. His jaw was clenched tight, his vibranium arm flexing and twitching as adrenaline surged through him. He was briefly glad that he had cut his hair and didn’t have to worry about strands on his face. A small feat, but a significant one. The cold bit through his tactical gear, but he barely felt it. All he could focus on was the silence in his ear.

Your voice, gone.

One second, you were right behind him—mud on your face, grinning like an idiot, breathless and half-laughing about the total bullshit of intel you both had been fed. He had grunted and told you to stay close.

Then, the world cracked open.

A landslide tore through the ridge, and before he could grab you, before he could warn you—before he could even think–you were gone in a roar of earth and stone and rain.

He screamed your name. Loud, desperate. Absolutely no care as to who may have heard. He screamed once more, the rain slapping harshly against his skin.

There had been nothing. No response. Just the sound of the storm ripping the world apart.

Now, he was moving blind and completely alone. Mud covered his hands, smeared across his cheek, soaked into his skin and clothes. His rifle had been torn from him earlier and his sidearm was somewhere in a ravine miles back, lost in the chaos. All he had now was a combat knife and fear—chewing through his chest at an incomprehensible rate.

In the distance, he could hear the screams of the Hydra agents. Some had been swept away when you had been and the others were trying to hold on, trying to find him and survive. He silently prayed that another landslide, something horrific, would wipe them out.

He knew that the bunker had been emptied. He stumbled upon it when he began looking for you and had been tempted to go in, try and get some help. But he needed to find you, first. He had turned around and hadn’t looked back.

He tripped over a root, hit the ground hard, and didn’t even flinch. Just pushed himself back up, spit blood, and kept moving. He had to find you.

He had to find you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough and low, throat raw.

“Focus. Come on.”

Every snapped twig, every distant sound—he turned to it like a live wire. He felt like an animal, something manic, as he listened for any sound of you. Hope and terror felt the same now as his heart beat too fast. He was distantly aware that his hands were shaking, and not from the cold.

You were out there somewhere. For a split second, he let his mind wander. You could have been crushed—dead.

No. No, he couldn’t think like that. He blinked once, harshly, before shoving all those horrible thoughts to the back of his mind, where he kept all the bad.

You were smart. Deadly. He knew that. He knew you were better than most people–most soldiers–he’d ever worked with. But even the best had limits and you were human. Flesh, bleeding, breakable.

He squeezed his eyes shut. You had looked so small as you disappeared into the landslide. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind, of the way your eyes had briefly widened and your lips had parted. His tortuous mind wondered if you would have called out for him.

It didn’t matter, he decided. He hadn’t acted fast enough, hadn’t caught you. He didn’t even realize he was whispering your name again until it broke in his throat.

“Where the fuck are you?”

Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the twisted trees and gnarled terrain. He whipped his head around, trying to look for anything, then, he caught the shimmer of something. He wasn’t sure if it was metal or blood but he moved fast. Slipped once, hard, landed on his knees again but didn’t stop. His hands clawed through the mud, his breathing loud and ragged.

Then—there. In the shadow of a fallen tree, half-covered in mud and leaves and blood, was you.

Your body was twisted awkwardly, like you’d been thrown by the force of the slide. One arm cradled to your chest. Cuts littered your face, lips split, blood soaking into your torn-up gear. There was a deep gash along your side—too deep—and your eyes were half-lidded, fluttering like you were waiting to let go.

Bucky tore through the mud, pulled and stretched his torn muscles and dropped beside you with a choked breath. His hands hovered over your body, not touching yet. Not sure where it was safe. Not sure if he could bear to feel how cold you were.

His fingers twitched, and he bit down roughly on his bottom lip to prevent the wounded sound that almost left his throat at the sight of you. Your eyes fluttered once more before gently shutting. “Hey—hey, no,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Don’t you fucking dare. Open your eyes, doll.”

His warm breath brushed against your cheek and your lips twitched, a shallow breath escaping. You willed your eyes to open, even if it was just for a moment.

“Barnes…”

He nearly collapsed from the sound of your voice. It was quiet, weaker than he’d ever heard it or wanted too, but it was there.

Relief hit him like a truck and he moved closer to you, but it didn’t fix anything. You were still bleeding, still barely breathing. He could feel the tremble in your body as your fingers brushed against his sleeve like you were checking if he was real. He pressed his arm closer to you, finding brief comfort in the way you squeezed his skin.

It was the first time he had felt warmth in the last three hours.

“Alright, I got you,” he whispered, lips trembling from the cold. “I’ve got you now, okay?” His voice was low, rough, tight with something he couldn’t name. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/n. Just—just stay with me, yeah?’

You tried your best to nod but everything felt too heavy and you were too weak so you simply hummed and he almost choked at the sound. He pushed the tree off of you, murmuring softly when you groaned in pain.

“I know, I know, just a second, doll.”

He breathed in deeply before he crouched down and scooped you up, carefully, like you’d shatter if he breathed wrong. His arms and body were solid beneath you like he hadn’t suffered similarly, like he wasn’t injured. You hissed in pain but your arms naturally curled weakly around his neck. At the moment, you trusted him more than anything. More than the pain, than your own body.

Bucky held his breath and kept his eyes ahead, knowing that if he made eye contact with you like this, all broken and bleeding in his arms, he’d crumble. He tightened his grip on your body when your eyes shut and pressed his chin into your hair.

“Open ‘em, doll,” he muttered. “Come on. Please.”

You tried, but your head felt heavy so you dug your fingernails into his neck instead. His hold on you tightened even further as he ran, rain striking down, harshly and unforgiving. The temperature was dropping rapidly and he knew he had to get you somewhere dry, somewhere he could take a look at all your injuries.

By some miracle, and he would later pray about it, he found shelter not far from the ridge–a cave. He remembered seeing it during the initial scope of the terrain, during the mission brief. You had joked about it, something stupid about him retreating into the cave for a nap. He laughed—or, he thinks he did. He wished he had.

He’d kill a man to hear your laugh right now.

The cave was barely more than a dent in the mountain—narrow and damp, carved into the rock like the earth itself had given up trying to stay solid. The wind howled outside, slicing through the trees and screaming through the cracks in the stone. Rain still battered the world, relentless in its fall.

He had to crawl to get inside with you in his arms.

The stone scraped his knees, his elbows. His back ached from how he curled around your body to shield you from the worst of it. He didn’t stop, barely felt it. All he saw was the blood soaking through your clothes. You were shivering, lips blue, breathing unevenly. A faint wheeze escaped with each breath, and even in sleep, your brows were pinched in pain.

Once he was deep enough, he laid you gently on the stone floor. Bucky knelt beside you, soaked through, hands shaking. His face was drawn tight, teeth clenched so hard his jaw clicked. Rain still dripped from the ends of his hair, trailing down his neck, his face, soaking into his torn shirt. His fingers were red and brown, a deep maroon that he had painted with before.

He blinked down at your unmoving body and clenched his fists. He could barely think straight with his heart beating out of his chest so he breathed in deeply and flipped the switch, the one he hadn’t used in years. The one that turned him into a machine. That buried softness and kindness and everything he didn’t deserve to feel beneath layers of instinct and orders and purpose.

He was a soldier. You needed a soldier. You needed him to be smart, tactful.

He peeled his jacket off and wrung the water out, laying it beside you. He scooped your unconscious body gently and laid you down on his jacket. He cut away the arms with shaking fingers and wrapped them around your side, trying to stop the bleeding.

He looked through his field kit, whatever was left of it, to find something, anything, that he could use to put some part of you back together. He used the wipes to clean the blood and dirt off your face, sanitized your cuts as best as he could before he plastered on the bandaids. His fingers pressed against your skin, once, twice, and then he pulled away like you had burned him.

He pulled his belt free and used it to tighten the splint he’d carved for your arm out of his remaining gear. He moved with precision, detachment—like you were just another asset, but his hands trembled when they brushed your cheek and he hated it. Hated how you made him feel even when you were barely conscious, when he was trying inexplicably hard not too.

“Come on, Y/n,” he breathed out. “Open your eyes.” He curled his hands into your body, trying to stop the tremors. He’s not sure he’d be reacting like this if it were anyone else. He doesn’t even want to entertain the thought, because the conclusion is one he can’t face. You’re his partner, his teammate. You laughed at his terrible jokes sometimes. Shared your food with him when he forgot to eat. You always waited until he got on the jet before calling it in, like you had to make sure he wouldn’t get left behind.

You weren’t his, weren’t anything. He shouldn’t be shaking like this, blinking rapidly like if he focused real hard, this battered version of you would be replaced by the you he knew. But he knew your laugh. The sound of your footsteps. The way your eyes sometimes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. You mattered to him, which was so much worse.

And now you were bleeding out in a cave that stank of moss and wet rot, and he couldn’t even fucking stop shaking. He didn’t have the right materials or any way to contact Steve or Sam. He felt useless, which is just another thing he hated about himself at the moment.

He stood up slowly, recognizing the familiar aches in his body, already mapping the bruises and new scars he knew littered his body. He had to get a fire started, had to get you and himself warm, so he scanned the area for a completely dry place before he dropped to his knees, fumbling through his kit. The cotton lining of his gloves—dry enough. He tore it out with his teeth, rolling it into a crude nest with shaking hands. He shoved it beneath a wedge of dry bark he’d peeled from the heartwood of a split branch, praying the core was dry enough to catch.

The first strike of flint against steel sparked nothing. The second—nothing. He swore, then coughed, the sound raw. His hands were still trembling.

Third strike. A spark jumped.

It kissed the cotton and died.

He closed his eyes. Again.

Fourth strike. Fifth.

A breath. A tremble. A single ember caught—barely a glow, a flicker like a dying star. He hunkered over it, shielding it from the damp air with his body, and blew—gently, desperately, his breath ragged. The ember pulsed. It grew.

It flared.

Tiny flames licked the shredded cotton, then the bark.

Heat.

He nearly sagged with relief as the fire cracked to life, light dancing against the slick cave walls. His hands hovered over it, aching, blistered with cold. He gave himself a moment, a single moment to enjoy the heat before he crawled to you and gently pulled you closer to the fire, close, but not too close. He didn’t want to risk it.

His fingers moved over your temple, gently checking the wound there. You flinched and Bucky almost sighed in pained relief. At least you weren’t unconscious. Just sleeping. He could deal with that. His fingers scraped gently against ripped skin and you flinched again, a broken sound leaving your throat.

He froze before his thumb brushed your eyebrow. He blinked once at the action before he snapped at himself, standing up so fast he smacked his shoulder against the cave ceiling. Pain rippled through his back and he lurched forward, clutching his left arm.

He fell to his knees, coughing. The sound echoed and for a moment, it truly felt like his own personal hell. He looked down and grimaced at the blood. He had yet to take a moment and analyze his own injuries, but he knew there was no point. Whatever it was, he’d survive, and you…you may not. He had to focus on you.

He wiped his mouth and stripped off what was left of his shirt, wet and freezing, and crouched beside you again, lifting your body into his lap to wrap his arms around you. Your temperature was dropping and there had been pregnant pauses where you had stopped shivering.

He didn’t like what that may mean.

You were limp against him, your face tucked under his chin, breath fanning across his throat. He could feel every line of you—every bruise, every tremble. He murmured a soft apology when his arm accidentally grazed the gash in your side. The fire’s orange hues danced across your skin and he watched carefully, momentarily awed.

You were alive, he had to remember that. He was rocking back and forth like he had forgotten.

“I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispered, barely audible over the raging storm outside. “I should have kept you in front of me. Watched your back, instead of you watching mine.”

His hold on you tightened and he released a small breath when you pressed your nose into his throat. “I could have grabbed you, kept you from falling…”

His voice cracked and he pressed his mouth to the top of your head, breathing you in like a man starved. All he could do now was wait, wait for your body temperature to rise, wait for you to wake up.

He hated waiting.

The cave was wet, and water dripped steadily from the ceiling into the puddles forming near the entrance. The air smelled like steel and earth and his knees ached from the cold rock floor, his back stiff from how tightly he held you.

All he could do was ignore all the feelings that threatened to crawl through his chest by thinking about next steps. When you were awake, able to move, he knew that getting in contact with Steve or Sam was going to be difficult, but it needed to be done.

Briefly, his mind flashed to the bunker. Hydra had kept it a secret but SHIELD had found out, as it sometimes did. It should have been an easy mission, in-and-out, but as reachable as everything sometimes seemed, the weather had always been untameable, with a mind of its own.

Still, while they had prepared for it, no one had expected it to get this bad. Even now, the storm raged wildly outside. The sound of it was both anxiety-inducing and welcomed, background noise he hadn’t asked for but didn’t mind.

While your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed you closer to his body and angled you closer to the fire and shut his eyes.

You woke to the sound of breathing.

Not yours—his. Measured. Steady. Like he was forcing every inhale calmly, despite its aggression.

Your head was on his shoulder. His hand was on your thigh, warm and still. The cave was still cold and dark but the fire offered welcome heat and glow. Everything inside you ached—bones and skin all stiff and frozen, some cracked and some bruised.

You stirred slightly, a soft movement of your chin. Bucky felt it, he had listened closely as your breathing changed and your muscles shifted.

“Bucky…” Your throat was hoarse, lips dry. You were still pressed against him, his hands warm and solid, holding you together.

He didn’t answer at first. Just a small movement of his shoulder.

Then he exhaled hard. “We’re moving.”

The softness from before—his trembling hands, the whisper of your name, that broken honesty in his words and body—was gone. Replaced by that rigid, sharp-jawed version of him you’d only seen in combat or when he was forced to engage with strangers. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring toward the mouth of the cave like the storm may break in at any second.

You slowly nodded, your nose brushing against the skin of his throat. His throat bobbed before his hold on you loosened just a fraction.

“I can walk,” you rasped, words muffled as you tried to sit up.

Instantly, Bucky’s arms around you tightened. “No, you can’t.”

You tried again, “I can—”

“You can’t.” His voice cut like a blade, a little throaty and gruff. “Your ribs are unstable. Your shoulder’s fucked, and the gash on your side will rip open any second. You’re not getting back up.” He exhaled. “I’m not risking it.”

Instead of answering right away, you slowly wiggled your fingers and toes, trying to get feeling back in them. After a moment, you lifted your head off his shoulder and groaned in pain, wincing when your unused muscles moaned in pain.

“Hey, fuck,” Bucky’s exterior slipped for a second and he looked panicked, one hand on your good shoulder and the other on your arm, trying to offer some support. “Be careful.” He helped you slip off his lap, hand on your back—warm, solid, pulsing.

Once you were sitting up straight, Bucky leaned back on his heels, one hand subtly reached out towards you in case you needed him.

You swallowed hard and blinked away the exhaustion in your eyes. “Where are we going?”

“I’ve got a plan.” His tone was clipped, controlled. Every word chosen to shut you down before you could argue. You could tell by his stiff shoulders and the way he refused to look at you that he wasn't to be reasoned with right now.

Still, you had to try. “Bucky, look at me.”

He froze, kept his eyes on the floor. For a second, you thought he’d listen. You just needed to see him. Needed to hear everything his eyes had to say. Instead, he shook his head.

Bucky stood, already pulling his remaining gear together—knives, makeshift medkit, the remnants of his utility belt. He moved like a machine, like he’d mapped the next twenty steps and was already living in them.

You watched him carefully, watched his body and the stretch of his muscles. By his movements alone, you knew he had injured his leg a bit, perhaps a sprain. His ribs hurt, probably bruised. He hadn’t cleaned himself up, not like he had you. There was still mud and blood on his face but it did little to hide his exhaustion, the frustration that had etched into his skin.

Remnants of his soft whispers, his delicate touch still danced across your skin and you locked them away, kept them close to your heart as you came to terms with this version of him. You wanted him to look at you.

He rolled his shoulders once, picked up his jacket, now warm, and slipped it on before he knelt in front of you.

“This is gonna hurt.” His arms slid under your knees and shoulders, lifting you like it was nothing. But you could see the strain on his muscles. “Try not to pass out.” He slowly maneuvered you until you were draped across his back, legs and arms locked around him to the best of your ability.

You gritted your teeth, breath catching as pain stabbed down your side and back. You didn’t fight him—couldn’t, because his body was warm and solid against yours, still slightly soaked through, even trembling slightly beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

You wanted to thank him, wanted to tell him to take a moment for himself, knowing he must have spent hours just taking care of you, but you also knew better. Knew that you both had to get out of this storm.

You pressed your face into his neck as he bent to crawl out the cave. His knees and hands scraped against the rough, cold floor and you winced for him. He said nothing as his hold on your waist tightened and he stepped out into the storm.

The cold slapped you both in the face. The wind cut sideways through the trees. The rain had turned the world into a mess of slick rock and rotting leaves and ankle-deep mud. Bucky moved like he had done this a hundred times, like he had spent hours analyzing the terrain and perfected where to step.

You didn’t speak as he carried you down the ridge, every muscle in his body tense with focus. He didn’t look at you once, even when you had hissed in pain. His jaw was locked, veins tight in his neck, eyes scanning every inch of his surroundings. The rain and mixture of leaves slapped against his face. Instinctively, you wiped his cheek clean.

You didn’t recognize the path he was taking. It wasn’t toward the evac point—not unless he’d circled back, which didn’t make sense in this terrain or weather. You stretched your neck, trying not to pay attention to the coldness that seeped into your bones. His fingers tightened under your thighs.

“Where are we going?” You asked, lips brushing against his ear.

He hesitated for just a second. “The bunker.”

You lifted your head weakly, eyes wide. “The Hydra bunker?”

“There’s a comms room. Secure line. I can tap into SHIELD frequencies. Get a ping out.”

He really had thought about this. You frowned, the thought of Bucky holding you in that cave, his mind running rampant as he kept you alive, circled in your mind.

“But it’s full of—”

“It’s empty,” he said, with certainty that chilled you. “I already scoped it. Before I found you.”

“You—” You blinked, once, twice, and then leaned your head over his shoulder, trying to understand him. “What?”

“I saw it when I was looking for you. It was empty. I was going to go call and wait for help, but I turned around.”

You stared at him. Logically, you knew that made sense. If he had called for help, maybe neither of you would be in this situation. But, a small, twisted part of you frowned.

“You were going to leave me,” you whispered, even though you knew it wasn’t true. He had just said that he turned around and he did find you. But he could have taken longer, or not come to find you at all if he had been ordered not to.

Bucky finally turned his head and met your eye. And, there it was—something breaking loose in his face, just for a second, like the very thought you just had, had been eating away at him. “I was going to get help. But I knew I had to find you. So, I did.”

You looked away, chest tight, heart fluttering with something unexplainable.

He didn’t speak again.

It took an hour to reach the edge of the treeline. An hour of silence, mud, and Bucky’s unyielding grip around your trembling body. Every step he took was a choice, to not panic, not spiral, not let himself fall into the noise that threatened to tear his mind and heart apart.

He needed to stay sharp and diligent. You were depending on him.

So, when he saw the crumbling silhouette of the Hydra compound through the trees—half-collapsed, rotting into the ground—he didn’t hesitate, just kept walking.

“We’re close,” he muttered, and set you down gently behind a fallen log, hidden beneath wet pine boughs. His hand gripped your thigh and his finger curled under your chin, tilting your head so you could meet his eyes.

“Stay here. No matter what.”

“Bucky—”

He dropped his hand and pulled his knife from his side holster, checking the edge. “One of them might still be in there. I’ll handle it.” He pointed the knife at the ground. “Do not try and help me.”

You sighed. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” His voice was rough now. Not angry, but final. An edge to it that resembled the very sharpness of the blade in his hand. “I’ll come back for you.”

He looked at you one more time. Let his eyes meet yours for a moment before they travel the length of your body, pausing at your side.

Then he was gone.

The forest swallowed him whole.

You waited, every breath sharp in your chest. You were drenched, hair sticking to skin. Rain pattered softly on the leaves above you. Your hands trembled in your lap. You hated the way your body felt like a prison—useless, aching, broken. Hated that you couldn’t follow him.

You had been through worse, had survived so much worse. You could have helped him, could have stood on your own if you really had to.

Bucky made it so you didn’t have to. You didn’t know how you felt about that, about him.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Or, so you guessed.

Then, you heard it. A single, muffled thud. A body. There had been someone in there.

But then came nothing else. Just silence.

The underbrush shifted and he reappeared, soaked and stone-faced, blood drying on his knife and on his neck. You didn’t ask, didn’t have to. He was breathing more heavily, slowly, and you knew his injuries had worsened.

He was a super soldier, but he wasn’t immortal.

Bucky knelt beside you, eyes meeting yours briefly before scanning the sky through the trees. “I got through. Signal’s weak, but I managed to reach Steve. They’re getting the jet in the air.”

You reached out, fingers grazing his wrist. He didn’t look at you and didn’t pull away either. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife and you slowly pried it from his hands, tossing it beside you.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said softly. It was so quiet, like you weren’t meant to hear it.

He barely acknowledged what he said and you decided that he didn’t know he had said it, pretended like the words didn’t make you freeze, remind you of him in the cave, feeling and talking to you like he had already lost you.

You sat shoulder-to-shoulder as you both waited for the quinjet.

The warmth of your bodies pressed together reminded you strangely of home.

The extraction was supposed to feel like relief.

But to Bucky, it felt like exposure—too loud, too bright, too late.

The quinjet split the sky open with its roar, cutting through the clouds like a blade. Trees bent under the force of the rotors. Wind tore through the clearing. And all Bucky could do was hold onto you tighter, shielding your body from the chaos and branches like his own didn’t matter.

Sam was the first down the ramp. Steve right behind him. Both armed, both scanning for threats.

Bucky didn’t speak at first, just waited until Sam looked over at him, then stood up, his leg pressed against your back for stability.

“She’s critical,” he yelled, voice flat. “Bruised ribs, busted shoulder, hypothermic, and infection risk.” You looked at him, eyes wide. “She’s lost too much blood.”

Steve’s eyes flicked over both of you—your limp body, Bucky’s slashed and bloodied arm, the bruises blooming across both of your cheeks. He didn’t ask questions, just nodded. “Let’s move.”

A medic stepped forward with a stretcher. Bucky stepped in front of them like a wall. “Be careful.” You almost smiled. The medic—young, wide-eyed—nodded quickly. You slipped your hand into his and fingers curled around your hand.

Bucky helped you onto the stretcher, murmured something soft when you winced in pain. He didn’t let go of your hand until they forced him to.

Sam and Steve watched closely as Bucky followed right beside the stretcher, matching their steps, never more than an inch away. His jaw was locked, eyes burning. You reached out for him again and he took your hand in his.

You turned to the medic and pulled Bucky closer. “He’s injured,” you rushed out. “Badly. His leg, ribs, and arms.” Bucky tried cutting you off but you squeezed his hand. “Shut up, Barnes.”

The medic stared at you both and you blinked slowly. “Treat him, okay? Don’t listen to him. Listen to me.” You smiled softly, trying to ease the tension between the poor, young medic’s shoulders. “Talk to Steve if he complains.”

“Y/n,” Bucky muttered, “I’m fine.”

The quinjet lifted, slicing up through the trees.

You passed out again before they hit altitude.

The world returned slowly.

A dull ache in your side, your chest. The sterile scent of disinfectant. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

And then, warmth.

A heavy hand around yours. Thumb brushing back and forth in a pattern you could feel in your bones, something soft and ingrained.

You recognized the weight, the press of skin. You blinked, the ceiling fuzzy above you, mouth dry.

“Buck?”

His head snapped up from where it had been resting on his forearm. His eyes were bloodshot. His stubble had grown into something darker, rougher. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in centuries.

You tried to smile, muscles groaning after minimal use.

“You look like shit.”

For half a second, something cracked—his face shifted like he was going to laugh, maybe even cry. His eyes widened and his lips wobbled. But then he shut it down, wiped the emotion clear.

Slid the mask back into place.

He sat upright, hand still enclosed around yours. “You’re awake. Good.” He kept his voice smooth, monotone. It was killing him, pretending to be indifferent, but he couldn’t express the relief he was feeling. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long, hadn’t seen that smile.

You frowned, eyebrows furrowing. It hurt a bit and you faintly recalled soft fingers brushing against your forehead. “Don’t do that,” you whispered, clearing your throat.

Bucky blinked before he brought a paper cup filled with water to your lips. “I’m fine.”

Eagerly, you pulled the straw into your mouth and sucked, letting the water wash away the dryness. You finished all the water and wiped your chin. “I didn’t ask if you were fine.”

His jaw flexed. He looked away. Hand still around yours, thumb still tracing patterns into your skin.

You tightened your grip on his hand and his eyes met yours briefly before he looked at the monitors as if he couldn’t describe your charts with his eyes closed.

“Thank you,” you said, quietly, a small smile on your lips.

It was silent for a moment, something that could have stretched into something uncomfortable, but then he bowed his head and broke—his shoulders shaking just slightly, his hand gripping yours like he was trying to ground himself.

He didn’t cry, not really. But you could feel it—the sheer weight of everything he hadn’t let himself feel, the weight of your life on him, the heaviness of his guilt.

You stayed silent, held his hand tightly as your thumb drew circles on his skin. You had your own guilt; the weight of what you could have done, how you should have been more diligent, reached out for him, fought for yourself harder and made it to him, been less of a burden.

But this wasn’t about you. This was about him, and how he tried his best, his very hardest to keep you alive. How you made him confront his feelings for the first time, with the threat of loss looming behind him.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, hoarsely. “I—fuck. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never been that scared in my life. Not during Hydra, not even when I came back.”

You stared at him, heart tight and eyes shiny. You weren’t usually an emotional person, but these were unusual circumstances. When you had been swept away, as you were thrown around and bruised, all you could think about was him; how he’s your best friend and you never told him, how all you wanted was for him to be more, someone you could love and hold.

“I would never have made it,” he said, eyes bright, “If anything happened to you.”

Your eyes stung and your heart beat faster, the monitor beeped in warning. Neither of you noticed.

You breathed his name and he leaned closer, the heat of his body caressing yours. You brought your joined hands to your lips and kissed the back of his hand, slow and soft, eyes on him.

His breath caught like you’d hit him with a bullet, his entire body stilling. His lips parted in wonder and his eyes widened slowly.

“I’m okay,” you smiled. “Nothing happened. You made sure of that. I’m okay.” You needed him to know, needed him to understand that you wouldn’t have made it if anything happened to him, that you were grateful to him.

Before he could answer, the door slid open and Dr. Bates stepped in, tablet in hand, coat wrinkled like she hadn’t taken it off for weeks.

Her eyes fell on you, Bucky, then your joined hands. She smiled, just a little. “Sorry to interrupt.” Bucky straightened up but didn’t let go of your hand. You turned towards her. “I’m glad you’re awake, Y/n. It’s good to have you back.”

You smiled at her, glancing at the tablet in her hand.

“Thanks, Doc.”

“You’ve been under for two weeks,” she started gently, coming to the edge of your bed. Your eyes widened in surprise and you glanced at Bucky, who stared at you, unblinking.

“We had to keep you sedated—” she explained, “your body was in rough shape when you came in. Ribs deeply bruised, bordering on contusions. Your right shoulder was nearly dislocated, and you had early-stage sepsis. If you hadn’t been found when you were—” she paused, glancing at Bucky—“you wouldn’t have made it.”

You turned your head slowly towards him, lips pulling into a frown.

He looked away.

“You’re lucky,” the doctor continued. “He kept you alive long enough for us to stabilize you. Field-treated half of your injuries himself. Not exactly regulation, but…” she smiled, gently, “it worked.”

You gave Bucky’s hand the faintest squeeze. “So…Am I cleared to go?”

Dr. Bates hesitated, then nodded. “As long as you don’t overdo it. No combat. No gym. No carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup. You’ll need regular check ups—especially to monitor your lungs and immune response. And, you shouldn’t be alone.”

Before you could speak, Bucky’s voice—clear, rough—cut in.

“I’ll be with her.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them—calm, final, almost soft—settled something in your chest and made warmth swim through your body.

Dr. Bates blinked, almost like she’d expected a fight. Then she nodded again. “Good. Then I’ll start the discharge paperwork.”

She turned and left, and the door hissed closed behind her.

Silence fell again, heavy, but not uncomfortable.

You stayed quiet for a beat, still absorbing it all. The ache in your ribs had settled into something manageable, but another kind of ache twisted low in your chest, one you couldn’t ignore.

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes slowly growing heavier. “What about you?”

Bucky looked up from where he was still gripping your hand, a blanket of something softer, something resembling relief had been draped over his shoulders.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice soft. “Your leg…and your arm. Your ribs. You were limping when—when you carried me.”

His brows pinched together like you’d just reminded him of something he’d forgotten and you briefly panicked. Bucky would refuse to get medical attention if it meant he had to leave you, you knew he would. It was just who he was. You loved him so much.

Abruptly, you blinked—eyes wide for a second before you schooled them. You had never let yourself think it, much less admit it so openly.

“I’m fine,” he replied, quickly, trying to brush it under the rug.

You narrowed your eyes and swallowed the lump in your throat. “Don’t give me the bullshit brush-off, Bucky. What did they say?”

Before he could dodge the question again, the door slid open and Dr. Bates reappeared, a different tablet in her hands.

“Something wrong?” She asked, glancing between you.

You nodded gently towards Bucky. “Can you tell me the truth? About him. Did he let you take a look?”

Bucky gave a little sigh, leaning back in the chair. And yet, even then, he didn’t let go of your hand. You briefly wondered if he knew he was still holding it, but the weight of it, the way it felt like his lifeline, made you aware that he did.

Dr. Bates didn’t even hesitate, like she had expected this sooner. “He came in with three fractured ribs, a torn ligament in his left leg, and deep lacerations on his arm. Didn’t want to be checked and told us to prioritize you.” She sounded almost fond.

You blinked at him slowly and he looked away, mouth twisting into a hard line. He didn’t want you to know these things, didn’t think they were relevant. He had half a mind to remind the doctor of patient confidentiality, but then he lifted his eyes and the genuine concern on your face, in the tremble of your fingers, kept him quiet.

She continued, tapping her screen. “The serum accelerated his healing, of course. Most of it was resolved within days. He’s been medically cleared since the first week.” She paused, then added, almost like an afterthought, “He also requested a bed next to yours. Just in case.”

Your heart flipped and your ears felt warm. He was so obvious in his care, it dripped and leaked out of him no matter how hard he tried to keep it locked up and it was so beyond endearing, you almost burst into tears.

Bucky still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“He said—” she glanced at him, a small curve in her lips “—and I quote, ‘I’ll only sleep if I can hear her breathing.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you blinked hard, trying not to let it show too much but your heart rate had picked up and it was obvious on the monitor. “Oh.”

Dr. Bates softened, just a little. She leaned in, like she was about to tell you a secret. “He hasn’t left your side since the quinjet. If that tells you anything.”

With that, she set the tablet down on the edge of your bed. “Just sign whenever you’re ready and press the red button. It’ll only take an hour or so to get you discharged.” She smiled at you and then turned and left again, door shutting gently behind her.

Silence, familiar, settled between you, thick and humming.

You finally looked at him, a smile on your lips. “You’re an idiot.” It’s all you could stay, your heart on fire and chest bubbling with affection and love.

His mouth twitched and for a second, he looked younger. “Takes one to know one.” It was stupid, something he would have said to Sam, but your eyes were bright and his attention was divided.

You reached up slowly, hand trembling, and brushed your fingers across his knuckles. He didn’t usually let you touch him this easily. It was riveting, freeing. “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want you worrying about me,” he muttered. “Not when you were fighting for your life.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly, replied. “I’m not fighting anymore.”

He stared at you, deep blue eyes reminding you of the ocean, of the storm you both had survived.

“I’m not fighting anymore so you can stop worrying.” You smiled at him, sweet and soft. “I know you think that it’s your fault but it isn’t. You found me, saved me.”

Bucky cleared his throat and clenched his jaw. He didn’t need you telling him not to worry because it wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t change the fact that he stayed awake at night and hovered in the hallways, slipping into your room to make sure you were breathing, keeping an eye on your vitals.

“Bucky,” you said, voice thicker and full of steel. He sighed and slowly nodded. He was many things, filled with guilt, but he wasn’t immune to you, to your wants and needs. And what you needed was him to be honest, to listen.

“I hear you, doll,” he sighed, quietly. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He squeezed your hand once and almost pulled away but your grip tightened and you smiled.

As if you knew what he meant, could see the depth of his care. Like he hadn’t folded and crushed the love he had for you and shoved it in the deepest parts of him, trying to keep it hidden. It was unravelling, fast and without permission.

The door slid open quietly.

Natasha stepped in first, concern in her eyes but a small grin tugging at her lips at the sight before her.

Steve followed behind her. Sam too. They all looked tired, but relieved. The doctor had alerted them when you had woken up an hour ago, wanting to give you time to adjust.

They looked at you and Bucky—still close, your hand in his, his chair pulled right up against your bed—sleeping. Your head rested on the pillow and Bucky’s on his arm.

They didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. While they had been in and out of your room, sending flowers and asking for updates, Bucky hadn’t moved. He had only complied with getting medical help because it had been your last demand before passing out. He had stayed by your side for two weeks, unwavering.

Steve hadn’t seen him sleep. Bucky had refused any drugs that may have knocked him out and every time Steve came to check on him, he was up. Usually watching you. This was the first time either of them had seen him at peace, and it was with his hand around yours.

“They’re sweet,” Natasha whispered, her smile growing. She had known, of course she did. She saw the way you both looked at each other when the other wasn’t looking.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “About time, too. I almost owed Clint $50.”

Steve frowned, eyes drifting to Sam. “You bet on them?”

Sam shrugged and quietly laid down the flowers he had gotten you on the already full table. “It was Tony’s idea.”

Dr. Bates entered last, holding a juice box. “Oh, visitors.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Steve apologized, moving to the side.

“No worries, Mr. Rogers.” She set the juice box down on the table beside you. You needed the sugar before getting on your feet.

Before Steve or anyone could respond, Bucky shifted and his eyes flew open. His spine snapped up and he blinked at the people in the room, a frown on his lips. He glanced at your sleeping face and momentarily, his eyes softened.

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “She’s sleeping.”

“Hey, you,” Sam cooed, wiggling his eyebrows.

Before Bucky could growl in annoyance, you stretched your arms and yawned, your hand slipping out of his.

“I’m awake.” Then, “Don’t provoke him, Sam.”

Natasha snorted and you opened your eyes, smiling at the people standing in front of you. Sam rolled his eyes before he moved closer and ruffled your hair, his eyes softening.

“Hey, Y/n.” He picked up the juice box and poked the straw through it, handing it to you. “Glad you’re not dead. Don’t do that again.”

You smiled in thanks and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Sam. Don’t plan on it.”

Steve and Natasha moved closer too, soft smiles and softer words. They asked you how you were feeling, if you needed anything. Bucky stayed beside you, his fingers twitching, now that your hand wasn’t in his. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and leaned back in his chair, head falling back.

He hadn’t slept properly in days. Figures that he’d find a moment of peace beside you.

As you spoke to Natasha, your hand searched for his. You were okay, the pain was dull and the trauma wasn’t at the forefront. But, you still needed his comfort—no, wanted it.

Bucky felt your fingers brush against his and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he captured your hand in his. His heart fluttered when you squeezed and he looked away. He was in deep.

Dr. Bates cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly when the conversations died out. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re cleared to go.”

You sat up, eyes wide. “Really?” Steve’s lips quirked upwards at the excitement in your voice. Bucky felt his heart settle at the sound, at the way you had managed to light the room in a soft glow.

The doctor nodded. “All the paperwork is done. I’ve prescribed you some painkillers you can take, as well.”

You sighed in relief and turned to Bucky, eyes bright. You were glowing and he felt like a moth with the way he leaned in.

“Thank you, Dr. Bates. Truly.”

She smiled at you before glancing at Bucky. “Of course, Agent. Take care. I hope I don’t see any of you soon.” With that, she turned and left.

Natasha grinned at you and Bucky before she stepped back. “I’ll get your clothes, Y/n.”

You smiled at her gratefully as she slipped out of the room. Steve and Sam stood by your bed and you looked up at them. “So, what’d I miss?”

Sam clapped his hands together, instantly filling you in on all of the drama you had missed. Steve laughed quietly at his antics and Bucky snorted, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading and a real, genuine ghost of a smile on his lips.

The elevator ride to your floor was quiet.

Not in a cold, distant kind of way—but in the way people are quiet when there’s too much to say and not enough breath to say it. You moved slowly, one foot in front of the other, careful of your ribs and side. Bucky walked beside you, close enough to feel the heat of him, one hand a steady weight at your lower back.

The metal was cold against your thin sweater, but there was still something soft about it. The way he stayed beside you, rubbed his thumb up and down your skin, absentmindedly.

You could feel him watching you.

Not like before. Not scanning like a soldier. Just…watching. Like a man trying to memorize every detail before it’s gone. He was desperate, soaking in all your warmth and all the time he got with you. You could feel it, his earnesty.

Your floor was dim when you entered—peaceful, untouched since the mission. But, not entirely untouched. A folded hoodie on the couch. Your plants watered. A fresh pair of pajamas neatly laid across your bed, one you couldn’t see but knew was there.

You turned to look at him, brows raised and a hint of a knowing smile dancing on your lips.

Bucky’s jaw ticked. For a second, he looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I, uh, came by a few times. Brought you fresh stuff. Didn’t want your plants dying while you were—” He cleared his throat. “—while you were healing.”

Your insides felt all warm and gooey. He was making it so difficult to stay indifferent, to keep all your feelings and wants and needs hidden, like they weren’t about to bleed out of you.

You took a step closer to him.

“Thank you.”

His eyes flicked to yours, then away, like he couldn’t quite take the weight of your gratitude. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a rare and endearing nervous habit, eyes scanning your space like it was unfamiliar now. Like he didn’t belong, even though he fit here so perfectly.

You saw it clearly, the way he moved. The way his boots thudded soft against your rug. The way his broad body filled your kitchen doorway. He belonged here, in your space. With you. Not just for now, not suddenly. But always.

You ached for it, for him.

Bucky hesitated near the door, shoulders stiff.

“I’ll head out, let you settle in. Just…yell if you need anything. I’ll be around.”

You knew what that meant. It meant he would wander, hover. He’d be in the shadows, waiting and anxious. He had this habit, when he was worried. You first learned about it when Steve was injured on a mission they both went on. He never said it, but Bucky wanted to be there for Steven in case he wanted anything.

You had run into Bucky late in the night. Steve had missed dinner so you were checking on him, making sure he was pushing fluids, when Bucky’s large frame obscured your path.

Sometimes, and he’d never admit it, but when Bucky had nightmares about you, or anyone else on the team, he’d often seek them out at night. Just a moment, outside the door. All he needed was to hear you breathing, make sure you were okay.

That the Winter Soldier had not gotten to you.

“Stay,” you said softly. “Have a cup of coffee with me.”

He blinked, his hands dropping. “I—yeah. Sure.”

You padded into the kitchen slowly, feeling him trail behind. He sat on the stool at the island while you made two cups. His eyes were heavy on you the whole time, tracing every moment. He watched you carefully as you brewed fresh coffee, getting both of your favourite cups from the cupboard. As you waited, you glanced back at him and to your surprise, he smiled at you; soft, crooked, and quick, but attractive and warm all the same.

He loved you like this. In your space, as you carried yourself with no expectations. When he was new to the tower, years ago, he often found peace in just watching you to the most mundane tasks. It brought him a sense of calm, normalcy. How you moved with grace, carried yourself like you didn’t have skeletons in your closet.

It made him have hope. Like he could one day be okay, or a semblance of it.

When you turned to hand him the mug, his fingers brushed yours, a quiet jolt of warmth passing between you.

“You okay?”

He was quiet, eyes drifting across your face before he nodded. “Yeah. I am now.”

You sat beside him on the stool, legs barely touching, cups between you on the counter. The coffee was simple—black for him, creamy for you—but it felt like a ritual. Something sacred. You couldn’t remember the last time you had shared a mug with anyone else.

“Are you going on your run tomorrow?” Your voice was quiet, like you couldn’t dare to disturb the peace.

Bucky hummed, drinking slowly. “Maybe. Why?” He raised an eyebrow at you, concern creeping in. “Do you need something? Tell me, I’ll get it.”

You laughed, soft and breathy. “No, no. I was just wondering.”

His shoulders sagged and the edge of his lip curled up. “I’ll tell you if I go.” He paused. “I’ll run past that bookstore you like. Get you something so you won’t be bored.”

Your grip on your mug tightened and you lifted your gaze to meet his, warm and heavy. “You don’t have to.” He didn’t like small spaces and you weren’t even sure if he liked the bookstore, even though he always came with you, even when you didn’t ask.

“I know,” he replied, meaning something else. He set the mug down. “That was good. Thanks.”

You thought he might stay. That maybe, just maybe, he’d slide a little closer.

Instead, he stood.

“I should let you rest—”

“Bucky.”

He stopped. In his tracks, and breathing.

You stood too, slow and careful. You stepped towards him, giving him the chance to step back. He didn’t. Just stood still, frozen, like if he didn’t move, this dream might never turn to a nightmare.

You said his name again, like a prayer. He was almost undone. He should have stepped back, should have done something, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He needed this, needed you.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him towards you. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard—but his hands went to your waist without hesitation.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate, full of years of tension—your lips crashed onto his, hands fisting his Henley. He kissed you back just as hard, like he’d been starving. He swallowed your gasp of surprise and kissed you ferociously, pressing his chest against yours, hand cupping your cheek.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him messily, teeth against teeth. He pulled you unbelievably close, flush against him. He was wrapped around you, or you around him. He slipped his tongue into your mouth and you moaned, your hands sliding up his solid chest and into his hair.

When you pulled back, your chest was heaving, lips plump and bruised, face flushed. Your eyes fluttered open and you almost whimpered at the sight of him, hair tousled, lips plump. He looked completely undone, absolutely perfect.

“Stay,” you whispered, borderline begging. “Please, Buck. I want you. You belong here—with me.”

He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer before the deep blue swept you away. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he rasped, breathless.

“I do.” You pressed your forehead harder against his, kissed the edge of his mouth. “I do.”

You kissed him again. This time, it was slower, sweeter. Your hands moved to cup his jaw, your lips soft against his. He melted into it, groaning low in his throat. HIs hands trembled against your waist. He pressed a sure, hard kiss to your jaw before he pulled away, breathing heavily, gasping.

“Fuck, doll—fuck.” His arms pushed you into him further, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the skin under your eye. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He glanced down at your side before lifting his eyes. “Are you breathing alright?”

You exhaled through your nose, a quiet laugh. So caring, so obvious in his love. You don’t know how you never saw it before. How it wasn’t painfully obvious to you. He was filled with love, all you had to do was let him feel it.

Gingerly, you moved the hand on your waist to your side, slid it up to your abdomen. Then, up to your heart. It was beating incredibly fast, you wondered if he could hear it. His breath hitched and his eyes flickered to yours.

“I’ve never been better.”

He looked like he was a second from losing his mind. His throat bobbed and he tilted his chin.

“You sure?”

You sighed and fisted his shirt again. Nothing but pure honesty and desire and love in your eyes.

“Just kiss me, Bucky.”

He pressed his thumb into your skin, his pulse in his fingertips. He looked at you again, really looked, trying to search for the answers. You couldn’t tell what he was looking for so you stood still, smiled at him widely.

Whatever it was, he found it.

Bucky surged forward and captured your lips again, his heart beating rapidly against your chest as his arms circled your waist. In a rush of confidence, Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, trached the crevices of your teeth and gums before sucking your tongue, guiding your hips into his. You clawed at his back, guiding him blindly through your apartment. His hands never stopped touching—your sides, your arms, your face, reverent and shaking.

You barely made it to your bedroom.

He laid you gently on the bed, like you were something fragile and breakable—but his body trembled with restraint. He hovered over you, breathing hard, his eyes almost black.

“We don’t have to,” he whispered. “We don’t have to do anything. You’re still hurt.”

“I want to,” you whispered back. “I need to feel you. All of you. You’ll take care of me, I know you will.”

He kissed you again, tender and slow. Took his time exploring your mouth. Then, he kissed the edge of your lips, licked and kissed down your throat, nibbling and sucking. His hands brushed against your warm skin, your cheeks and neck and then slipped beneath your sweater. You lifted your arms carefully, letting him peel it off, revealing faintly bruised skin and healing ribs.

He stared for a beat, his expression softening, endearing, filled with affection. You had never really cared about your appearance, but his attention, the heat of his eyes, made you feel wanted.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your scars. “You’re beautiful.”

His lips immediately reattached to your neck, kissing down to your collarbone and your head fell back, trying to pry yourself open for him. “Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, “So fucking pretty.”

You smiled, pulling his shirt up. He let you strip him bare. His chest was covered in scars, blemishes, burns, healing wounds.

You traced them with your fingers, touch as light as a feather. The lamp beside your bedside cast a low amber glow across the room and painted his skin in warm gold. He looked godly, absolutely stunning above you.

He had one forearm braced by your head, the other cradled your cheek. He watched you as you watched him, anxiety swimming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently.

“Y/n,” he whispered, begging. You smiled at him and tilted your chin up, kissing a scar on his shoulder. He kissed you softly and your hands found home in his hair, fingers sliding through the thick, soft strands, tugging gently just to feel him melt. He made a sound in his chest, low and aching, and deepened the kiss, tongue flicking gently against yours.

His body—muscles, scars, and heat—pressed closely against yours. You could feel it, though, he was holding back. Whether it was because you were injured or he was afraid, you didn’t know. You wanted all of him, his strength and roughness.

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before he pulled back, eyes glassy and softer than you’d ever seen them. “This what you want?” His voice cracked a little. “Am I what you want?”

You touched his cheek, feeling the rough edge of stubble and the quiet vulnerability just under his skin. “I want you, Bucky.” He held his breath. “I want the man who waters my plants and dusts my shelves. The man who carried me through a forest and saved my life. The man who learned how to play different card games for me, the one who learned how to make tea the way my mother used to.”

He blinked, lips parting slightly. “Y/n…”

“I notice everything,” you said, voice trembling. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you breathe deeper when you’re trying to stay calm. How you always make sure you’re between me and danger. Regardless of what it is.”

He let out a soft, stunned breath. His hand slid from your cheek, down to your shoulder, then your waist, clutching like he needed to anchor himself.

“I didn’t realize…” His voice cracked and he bit his bottom lip. “Didn’t realize you watched me so closely.” He watched you closely, knew all of your habits and quirks. He hadn’t realized you were watching him just as closely.

“I always have,” you murmured, as if you hadn’t just turned his world upside down.

Something cracked open in him then.

He kissed you hard—like the dam had broken, like every piece of love he’d locked away had finally burst free. His mouth moved with aching reverence across your lips, your jaw, your throat. He kissed down your collarbone, your shoulder.

He pulled back only to help you undress completely. His hands were so gently—touching, peeling away fabric like it was sacred. He unhooked your bra and dropped it somewhere behind him, pausing when you were completely bare beneath him, worshipping.

“You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, doll.”

You reached for him in return, pulled at the waistbands of his jeans. He let you, watched with a gaze so soft it made your chest ache. When he was finally bare, you ran your hands over his ribs, his thighs. He shivered under your touch, leaning into it.

He kissed down your body, pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, swallowing the taste of your sweet sweat, memorizing it. You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pulled and scraped his hair and the nape of his neck. Your entire body felt like it was on fire.

Under a trance, Bucky pressed a soft kiss on one of your breasts, his fingers brushed the nipple of the other. He kitten-licked your swollen, aching bud before he latched on, circling his tongue as if he could have convinced your body to submit to him completely.

His other hand pinched and squeezed your other nipple, before he released your swollen and wet nipple with a pop, not even breathing as he latched onto the other one. All of your senses were going crazy, overwhelmed to the point of hysteria and tears.

He pushed himself up, rested his forehead against yours as both of your chests heaved. You leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to his swollen lips, licking his bottom lip. You both breathed in the other, bodies sweaty.

“I’d kill for you,” Bucky admitted in a rush, hoarse. You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath.

“What?”

“I would,” he said. “For you. I think I have, already. But you have to know. I’d kill anyone for hurting you.”

You heard what he was saying—really saying. It was a clear day. His devotion. He was panting, sweat collecting on his forehead. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose.

“I know,” you answered. “I love you, Bucky.”

His arm trembled but he caught himself. He stared down at you for a second before his entire face softened. He brushed his cheek against yours, lips and breath warm, tickling. “I love you, Y/n.” It was soft, like it was still a secret, but it took your breath away all the same.

He went back to kissing you.

Everywhere.

He took his time, dragging his mouth across your stomach, your hips, your thighs, murmuring soft praises into your skin. He kissed along the edges of your scars like they were maps that led him home.

When he finally kissed between your legs, it was with awe.

“Let me taste you,” he begged, voice gravelly.

You nodded, breath catching as he settled between your thighs. He shifted downwards and pressed his nose against your cunt, holding down your hips as your legs twitched. You cried out and pulled at his hair but he was adamant, ignoring the pain and pushed your legs further apart.

You squirmed under him as he stared at your cunt before blowing warm air on it, finding your agony adorable. You knew though, that he’d notice if you were in pain before you did.

He spread your legs even further before he kissed your pussy softly. “Fucking pretty pussy,” he praised. His tongue was slow, teasing, reverent—licking up through your folds, curling just right against your clit. His hands held your hips, thumbs stroking circles into your skin as he worshipped you like you were holy.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “Please.”

“I know, doll,” he nodded, his nose brushed against your slick folds. You grinded your hips against him, trying to get some sort of relief. “You taste like heaven,” he groaned. He licked a harsh stripe of your core. Pressed his face closer to your cunt as his tongue pushed in and out of your sopping hole, licking and sucking as if you were his last meal.

He traced his name, his devotion, into your gummy walls, his nose pressed against your clit. You moaned out a broken, gagged version of his name and arched your back as his nose dug further into your clit, rubbed it until he’s sure you’re all he’ll smell for weeks.

His hand pressed against your cheek and you clutched his hand, brought his metal fingers to your lips and sucked. He groaned into your cunt and the vibrations had you seeing stars.

He curled the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost screamed, tears fell down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chanted, words muffled by his fingers.

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hummed at the sight of your pleasure, the way tears prettily fell down your cheeks, and lifted his fingers from your tongue. Before he could bring his hand back towards him, you grabbed it and settled it on your chest. His wet, dripping fingers pinched your nipples, teasing the sensitive skin.

“Bucky,” you panted, hips arching. “I’m close, please, baby.”

Despite everything inside him telling him to keep going, he pulled up, releasing your clit with a messy pop. He kissed your folds and cooed as you cried out, licking you clean. “I know, Y/n, I know.” He kissed your inner thigh. “But if you’re gonna cum, I want it to be around my cock, pretty girl.”

You stopped breathing. “Bucky…Oh my gosh.” He kissed up your body, licking the wetness from his lips, grinned like he’d never truly lived before. He hovered above you again and you cupped his face.

“You’re insane,” you laughed, giddy.

“I really like you, doll.” Bucky was grinning, and although his eyes burned into yours, you couldn’t tell if he was speaking to you or your pussy.

You laughed and curled your fingers around his dog tags, pulling him close. “I need you,” you whispered. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. He kissed you softly before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised. “I’ll go slow.” He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifted your head. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation before he glanced down at your lips.

Pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Bucky lifted your head, his gaze almost scoldering. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation, before he glanced down at your lips.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” Bucky needed you to know that you were safe with him. “I’m serious, Y/n.”

“I know, Bucky.” You traced one of his dog tags. “It won’t. I trust you.”

He wrapped one of his hands around his hard, leaking cock and slid up and down once. “I’ll make it feel good, doll.” Your pussy fluttered at his words and he could feel it against his legs. He almost, almost, lost it right there and then, instead, he brushed the back of his hand against your cheek, looking as sinful as ever.

Slowly, he pushed himself in.

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls made you both moan in unison, your body lit up as he sunk in completely, the base of his cock hit your core. The stretch felt amazing, so good, and all you could do was tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob.

“Fuck,” he groaned out, knuckles white with how hard he gripped your skin. “Fuck, so fucking tight and warm.” You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and he jerked his hips upwards, filled you to the brim, his tip reached parts of you no one ever had.

When you licked a long stripe of his neck, sucked his adam’s apple until it was red, he collapsed on top of you, his cock leaking in your pussy, veins pulsing.

You welcomed the weight of his body. He felt so warm; so real, so yours, you could feel the weight of his muscles against yours, the weight crushed the lingering loneliness that had crept into your bones over the years.

You wrapped your arms around his body, scratched his back and pulled at his hair as you littered his throat and jaw with kisses.

Desperation clawed at Bucky and his thrusts became erratic as he pushed your body flush against him, forcing your hips to match his bruising pace as more slick poured from your legs and onto the sheets, your needy moans mixed with his broken ones.

“Close–I’m, oh,” you stuttered out, eyes closing when Bucky’s fingers grazed your clit, his own eyes shut for a second when your walls squeezed him impossibly tight as he pressed his fingers against your clit. He could feel it, the dizzying feeling of euphoria building in his chest, the way it was running through his veins. He could tell you felt it too by your breathing, the way your pussy wept for him.

Stars danced around in your vision and he knew his own vision mirrored yours, the tightness in his core was almost unbearable and he tipped his head forward and pressed his lips against yours, smiling briefly when your hold on him tightened. “Go ahead, doll. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock,” his voice was sweet, borderline crazed.

You fell limp in his arms when he thrusted into you once, twice, right against your cervix, and you had come undone for him, release washed over you, body weak as your legs shook under his. His hands were all over your body, caressed your skin to comfort you as your body convulsed for him.

His lips littered soft kisses to any skin he could reach, and when your walls tightened completely, coating his cock in your cum, he softly cried out your name as warm ropes of his cum filled you to the brim.

You could barely blink, senses still overwhelmed as he kept kissing you, kept cumming, filling you up so well, until you could almost taste him. Quiet praises filled with love and encouragement were whispered against your skin as he remained buried up to the hilt in you, his hips still pushing his cum into you, almost as if he had no control over himself.

Your entire body was shaking and he wrapped his arms tightly around you, rubbed your back gently until your whimpers turned into heavy breathing, until all you could mumble was some variation of his name. He forced his hips to still, forced himself to breathe deeply.

“I love you, Y/n,” he said, devout. “You mean so much to me. I’ll protect you, always.”

Bodies sticky and sweaty, he ran his hands up and down your back, nails grazed your skin to ground you. He was sure he was still cumming but if he could distract you, keep your attention on anything other than your overly stimulated, stuffed pussy, he’d do so.

“That’s it, doll,” he cooed lovingly, kissed the shell of your ear. “I got you.” He smiled when he felt you nod in the crook of his neck. “Did so well for me, pretty girl.” You simply hummed in response, unable to form any sentences at the moment. Bucky rested his cheek against your head, fought the urge to grind his hips against yours.

You breathed in Bucky’s scent slowly, head safely tucked in the crook of his neck. The way he held you now, so soft, so lovingly, had your heart settling. You could barely feel your legs, moaning lightly when his cock twitched inside you. Wrapped around his body, you pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, sucked softly when he tilted his head to give you more access.

Your fingers tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck and he shuddered. You could have fallen asleep right there and then, with his cock stuffed safely in your pussy, sticky wetness fusing your both together.

Slowly, Buckley lifted himself off your body and you both hissed. He brushed your hair out of your face. You stared at him and his legs wobbled at the look in your eyes. You brought a hand up to his face and traced the length of his eyebrow, brushed your fingers down his nose, and along his cheek.

“Pretty,” you mumbled, and he leaned forward and kissed you softly.

It was different, slower, more intimate as he cupped your cheek and tilted his head, lips plush against yours. You moaned into his mouth at the intimacy of it; the way his cock was still buried inside you, the way your mixed juices still leaked out of you, the gentle caress of his hand as he whispered loving praises into your mouth.

Gently, Bucky pulled out of your sopping cunt, biting back a groan. He shifted his weight and maneuvered your body until you were laying in his arms, your back pressed against his chest. He knew he had much to clean up, but your eyes fluttered shut occasionally so he put it off, knowing you needed him more.

He ran his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he was right behind you. You snuggled into him, back pressed flush against his chest and he wrapped an arm around your waist.

“Let me run you a bath,” he whispered, pressed a kiss to your head.

You shook your head and waved him off. “Maybe later. I can’t feel any part of my body.”

Bucky laughed, but he lifted himself a bit, looked down at you. “Do you need anything? Medicine? Water? Does anything hurt?”

You snorted and slowly shifted, chest pressed to his. You wedged your leg between his, ignored the stickiness that coated you. “Only you could fuck me like this and be this worried after. Just hold me, Buck.”

He smiled at the fucked-out look on your face, pride bubbling in his chest before his eyes skirted to the scars on your skin. He kissed your cheek and slowly pulled himself away from you and out of bed.

“I’m going to grab you a glass of water and clean you up. I’ll be right back, doll.”

You hummed and squeezed his bicep. “Okay, baby.”

By the time he came back, you had fallen asleep. He placed the glass of water on your side and sat beside your sleeping body. His hand hovered before he cupped your cheek. “I don’t think I could survive ever losing you, Y/n.”

"I love you," he whispered, the words flowing out easily.

Maybe it had always been easy, with you.

5K notes · View notes

em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

Text

Detonate

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!/New Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: Move in day is happening at the Thunderbolts/New Avengers Compound, and Bob is having a hard time dealing with the changes.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Smut, and Fluff (the triforce of fun!), Reader and Bob are very close friends, Bob is still coming down from the Sentry medical trial he went through (going through a bit of a rough time), Bob is nervous and a bit scarred, but he’s super comfortable with the reader, they’re very close.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Bob is a darn yearner in this (but that’s just how it is), would I say this is hot hot sex? Yeah. Oral (fem receiving), Fingering, Hair Pulling, Body Worship (like in general), Praise Kink on full display here, Overstimulation Kink, Cock Warming (kind of…The vibes are there lol)

Author’s Note: This was a request made by an anon, I did kinda insert smut in this but I thought it kinda fit nicely into the landscape of the story! I hope everyone enjoys it! It’s a long one!

Word Count: 22,288 (holy fuck)

“Okay! Car is packed! You sure you got everything, Bob?” You asked, straightening up from where you’d just wrestled your final duffel bag into the trunk, the zipper half-stuck from being too full. A strand of hair clung to your cheek in the early morning heat, and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. The hatch creaked shut with a groan of protest– and your poor car was now packed to the brim with what felt like your entire life.

Labeled boxes overflowing with tech gear, your clothes crammed into vacuum-sealed bags that had slowly started to reinflate. Half a dozen posters rolled into tubes. A shoebox full of knick knacks, mismatched cords, and pins from old missions. And of course, the plastic bin of tangled charging cables that had somehow followed you from dorms to safehouses to apartments since 2020 without ever being untangled.

You turned, squinting into the sun, and found Bob exactly where he’d been standing for the last five minutes–rooted by the passenger door like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to get in yet.

His hoodie sleeves were tugged down past his wrists, hands fidgeting near the frailed seams of it. His hair was still a little damp at the edges from his shower, and the morning light caught in the light brown locks that draped around his face, framing it and caressing it so nicely it was as if someone was holding his cheeks.

At his feet sat two cardboard boxes and that was it.

One was a store-bought shipping box, pristine and almost too clean, like it hadn’t been lived in yet. The other was older, more worn, marked in thick black Sharpie with your handwriting: Books for Bob.

He gave a sheepish shrug, his voice small.

“D-Didn’t really have m-much to bring. Just had those t-two boxes, remember?”

You paused.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. Not the first time he’d gestured vaguely to the corner of your shared living space with that soft, self-deprecating shrug–two boxes and a borrowed life. But it still hit you low and hard in the chest, like it always did, because he wasn’t being dramatic.

That really was all he had.

Two boxes.

One was filled with clothes you’d helped him pick out on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, just a week after he’d admitted–haltingly, almost ashamed–that the threadbare scrubs Valentina gave him weren’t actually his. Just something someone had tossed his way after the Void incident, like a temporary name tag slapped on a stranger. You’d taken him shopping that day not because he asked, but because you noticed. Because the way he tugged at his sleeves and kept checking if his shirt covered the scars on his wrists said more than any words ever could.

The other box…Well, it hadn’t started out as his. The books inside were yours. Dog-eared, tea-stained, a few with notes scrawled in the margins. But slowly–so slowly you almost didn’t notice–they’d migrated across the apartment. From your nightstand to the coffee table. From the coffee table to the arm of the couch. Until they found a home at the far end of the sectional, right next to the blanket he always folded the same way and the chipped mug he used whether it was clean or not.

That corner had become his sanctuary.

He didn’t say much when he read–just curled in on himself, long legs tucked up beneath him, blanket pulled over his knees, tea going cold in his hands while the soft lamplight pooled around his shoulders. He read them again and again, like the words were anchors. Like they reminded him that he existed. That he was still here. Still allowed to take up space.

And every time he said it–this is all I have–you felt the weight of how much he meant it.

And how badly you wanted to give him more.

Because you remembered the day where you agreed to take him in.

Not in the vague, hazy way people recall calendar events or checkmarks on a to-do list–but in the bone-deep, clear-cut way that memories get branded when they’re born from moments that matter.

It had been the night after the last press conference. The final gauntlet of public statements, forced smiles, and tightly controlled answers. Cameras flashing. Journalists circling like vultures around roadkill. Words like “recovery,” “reform,” and “containment” were getting tossed around like they meant something, like they could undo what The Void had done in New York.

And through it all, Bob had stood just behind Valentina’s shoulder–silent, unmoving, eyes glassy like he was watching it all from underwater. Like his body was there, but he wasn’t.

When the cameras finally shut off and the world stopped demanding things from him, it was like watching a puppet go slack. His shoulders caved. His posture buckled. Whatever thin thread that had been holding him together snapped the moment no one was looking.

Then, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the team finally had the opportunity to sit down and talk. No comms in their ears. No missions ticking like time bombs in the background. Just silence, pure uninterrupted attention, and a problem that none of you had the answer for.

Bob was still in the compound, still alive and kicking, but he was barely present. He spoke in short bursts, when prompted, and gave mechanical answers–like he was on a scripted loop with a shaky voice. His eyes never focused on the person in front of him. He ate only when someone put something in his hands, and even then, it was minimal–just enough to pass as functioning. Barely enough to keep him upright. He slept too much for days on end, then not at all for a stretch so long that the medical aides started whispering about sedatives again.

He hadn’t even been given a proper room, he was just tucked-away in a corner bed in the medical wing, hidden behind a curtain that never fully closed. The air in there always smelled antiseptic and medicinal in a nauseating way. The lights were always buzzing faintly, like they needed to be replaced but nobody would do it. And the nurses assigned to check in on him swapped out too fast for him to learn anyone’s name.

You had passed by his bed once that morning, and you had caught him sitting upright with the sleeves of his scrubs tugged down over his hands, staring blankly at the white wall. His tray of food was untouched, and the plastic fork had been snapped in half.

And because of you Valentina called that meeting.

The conference room was too cold and too bright, the overhead fluorescents were a jarring contrast to the hollow, silent fatigue hanging in the air. You sat near the end of the long, mahogany conference table, with a dull ache still pulsing under your ribs–healing fractures from fighting the Sentry that hadn’t quite fused. Every time you shifted in your seat, the pain reminded you of why you weren’t on active rotation anymore, and why you were the only one not running logistics or field reports.

Valentina stood at the head of the table with her clipboard. Yelena paced around because she couldn’t keep still, sharp eyes flicking toward the window every few seconds because she thought something was going to fly through it. Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched–stone-faced, but simmering beneath because he had other things to do and this was just another thing he needed to deal with. Walker was on edge, a spitfire as you would call him, always loaded up with something to say, but for once, he kept his mouth shut. Ava stood beside you in total silence, and Alexei…Well, even he had stopped trying to lighten the mood, because he knew how serious the situation had become.

The air was thick, and palpable, heavy with everything that was unspoken between the group. Everyone was waiting for someone else to offer a solution.

Because the homing of Bob Reynolds–The Sentry, The Void–was a question none of you knew how to answer.

Until you said it…

”I’ll take him.”

The words slipped out before you’d fully thought them through, though you had been mulling it over for a bit.

The room had gone still in those moments, and Valentina’s eyes lifted from her clipboard to look at you, she seemed caught off guard that you were willing to take him in–especially after all he had done.

You could feel Yelena stop pacing behind you, the sudden absence of motion louder than her footsteps.

”I’ve got the space,” You said, quieter now, “And I’m not on active rotation right now because of…Y’know…” You gestured vaguely to your side, where your ribs were still taped under your shirt, “So I can keep an eye on him until the Tower’s ready. Just a few weeks. It’ll give him some place quieter and less…Sterile.”

For a moment, nobody responded, it was as if you had sucked all the air out of the room like a vacuum seal.

Then Bucky gave you a slow, almost unrecognized nod.

Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian that you were pretty sure meant “Of course it’d be you.”

Valentina tilted her head and scribbled something onto her notes without comment.

Walker shifted like he wanted to object, but thought better of it.

And everyone else…Had nothing better to offer up, so they had to agree to it.

That night, when you pushed open the curtain to the medical wing, you found Bob was already awake.

He was sitting on the edge of the cot, motionless, elbows balanced on his knees, hands limp between them like they’d forgotten how to hold anything. His hoodie–one he must’ve asked for or found from the pile of clothes Valentina handed him weeks ago–was bunched at the wrists, the frayed threads twisted around his fingers. He hadn’t put the hood up, but his hair had fallen over his face in soft, uneven strands, just enough to shadow his eyes.

He wasn’t looking at anything. Not the wall, not the bed. Just…Out. Like the space in front of him was wide open, endless, and empty.

You stepped in quietly. No sudden moves. Just a presence, steady and real.

“Hey,” You said, your voice a hush in the too-bright room.

His head lifted a little. Not all the way. But just enough for you to catch a flicker of blue under the fall of his hair. You took a few steps closer, not touching, but close enough that your presence could be felt in the air between you.

“Thought you might want to get out of here.” He didn’t speak, didn’t nod. But he didn’t shrink away either. His gaze found yours–and for a second, just a second, you saw the faintest crack in the fog.

“I–I don’t…” He started, voice barely audible, rough like it had been unused for too long. “I don’t know w-where to go.” You felt your heart swell slightly, hearing the way he croaked out the words, how timid he sounded, how scared he was.

”You’ll be coming with me just for a little while…Until the Tower’s ready.” You explained softly, keeping your distance still. You could see his jaw tighten, and he shook his head.

”I–I can’t…What if…What if he comes back?” His voice cracked on he. It was barely a whisper, thick with dread and self-loathing.

And your heart fractured a little at the way he said it–not like a warning, but a confession. Like he believed The Void was a thing still inside him, curled in the corner of his chest, waiting to be let out. Like he believed he wasn’t safe.

”Well,” You started, voice quiet but sure, “Then I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. Hmm?” You let the words hang there–soft but certain. It wasn’t a dismissal, nor a sugar-coated promise, it was just a truth from you to him.

And then you held out your hand.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just…Open. Steady. Waiting.

It was a gesture to show you weren’t afraid of him or his touch. You weren’t bracing for him to break something or bolt or pull away. You simply stood there with your palm outstretched, and your eyes on his.

It took him a second to truly process what was happening, but then, with the hesitance of a person who was afraid of themselves, he reached out and wrapped his boiling hot hand around yours. You immediately gave it a small squeeze of reassurance, and gave him the warmest smile you could muster.

And that’s how it all began.

The first few days weren’t quiet.

They were full of soft noises, background ones–drawers opening, kettle whistling, the low static of the TV at night. Bob didn’t talk much those first couple of days, but he hovered around you, and he listened when you would talk to yourself. You never pushed for conversation, you just offered him space, and food…Lot’s of it.

You hadn’t realized how deeply the Sentry serum had affected him until the end of day one, when you caught him standing in front of your open fridge like he was looking into a portal.

”Are you hungry?” You asked, causing him to jump ten feet into the air–literally–with guilt flashing through his expression.

“I–I didn’t want to ask, I–I know we just ate two hours ago…I–I just…I’m starving. It feels like my stomach is e-eating itself…I–It really hurts.” Your brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that his metabolism had gone haywire after the serum, which caused him to have this unresolved hunger–you couldn’t imagine the pain he had been experiencing throughout the time in the medical wing of the compound, especially with food that was not too appetizing. So in an instant you were there to help, shuffling around him to look into the abyss that was your fridge, grabbing a stack of Tupperware and piling them onto the kitchen island.

“Let’s get you something to eat then…” He had pasta, leftover chicken and rice, cold soup, some roasted vegetables, and half a loaf of bread.

He ate and ate and ate and you sat nearby, flipping idly through your phone but mostly just watching him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t rushing, it was just a constant conveyor belt of his fork travelling to his mouth. His hands didn’t tremble–but his shoulders stayed tense, like he was waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You didn’t though…You just kept refilling his water and asking if he wanted anything else.

By the time he finished his second bowl of rice and reached sheepishly for the rest of your peanut butter with a spoon, you knew what the rest of the week would look like.

Thankfully Val had given you her credit card, because you had restocked the fridge twice in four days, and he apologized every time you brought a new bag of groceries inside the apartment.

“You’re not eating too much,” You said flatly on day three, unloading yogurt and apples and protein bars onto the counter while he slowly restocked the fridge, looking guilty, “Your body’s catching up, just let it.” You added. He bit the inner part of his cheek.

“But–“

”Bob.” You interrupted gently, giving him one of your looks, the one that encompassed all the words of reassurance. He stopped and nodded, surrendering.

Though he still apologized the very next morning when he finished all your maple cinnamon oatmeal–which had eight packs left last time you had checked.

By the end of the first week, the fog started to lift–just enough for you to really notice the change.

You had caught him lingering in the hallway after his first night of catching two full hours of uninterrupted sleep. He looked confused and unsure. Like he didn’t know what to do with the energy that began to vibrate through him again. Like he was afraid that if he overdid himself things would happen again.

So you handed him a basket of laundry and asked if he wanted to help, and almost in an instant he took the offer. It was an easy pastime, and he didn’t mind helping you, especially with everything you had been doing for him.

By the second week, you finally managed to drag him to Target in the early hours of the morning–when there wouldn’t be chaos, or crowds, just the hum of employees and muffled pop music.

The mission was to get him some clothes. Just an array of hoodies, sweatshirts, sweatpants, boxers and undershirts, and of course socks. He didn’t ask for any of it, but you had guided him aisle by aisle, nudging his elbow to encourage him to pick out whatever he wanted.

Once you reached the bath and body care section you helped him pick through scents.

”Get what you want,” You said, “Do you like lavender? Mint? Vanilla?” He shrugged, popping one of the caps open to sniff, before returning it to the shelf. He ended up picking one that reminded him of your conditioner–a mix of coconut oil, sage, and grapefruit.

You didn’t call him out on it, but he knew you noticed just by the smirk that came up on your lips, and how you gently bumped shoulders with him on the way to checkout.

That week, he finally showered alone.

The week prior, you had to sit on the floor of the washroom with your back turned towards the door, and knees drawn up to your chest. You listened to him closely, and heard him take shaking breaths behind the curtain as the steam curled around you.

When he asked you to stay in the washroom with him he knew it was an awkward request, but you listened intently to his reasoning, even though you had already made up your mind to do it regardless. If it helped him, the awkwardness was secondary to you.

”I don’t w-want to be alone…I’m afraid I’ll…I’ll see him…W-Whatever I was.” And you had been there every time, until day eleven, when he said he wanted to try to be on his own. You gave him that privacy, and closed the door. He came out fifteen minutes later, wrapped in the towels you had left on the radiator smelling like a whole citrus section in a grocery store.

By the third week, the apartment smelled like lemon zest and something faintly burning at least once a day.

You had started waking up to the faint clatter of mixing bowls and the low creak of cabinet doors. The first time it happened, you walked into the kitchen at 2:43 in the morning, to find Bob standing at the stove barefoot, sleeves rolled up, squinting at a dog-eared page in one of your long-forgotten cookbooks,

You startled him when you padded in.

”S–Sorry–I didn’t mean to wake y-you,” He whispered, glancing over his shoulder, “I–I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d try s-something.” You looked at the mess—sugar scattered across the counter, a cracked egg leaking beside a whisk, flour dusting the air like snowfall. It should’ve felt chaotic, but it didn’t. It felt like motion. Like healing, somehow.

“Want company?” You asked, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with your knuckles.

He hesitated for only a second before giving you a tiny, grateful nod.

That happened again the next night.

And the one after.

He made banana pancakes at 1 a.m., grilled cheese at 3:00, and once attempted a souffle with comically disastrous results.

Eventually, you offered a different solution.

“How about we try watching a boring movie instead?” You asked as he stood in the living room one night, holding a bowl of half-mixed muffin batter. “Might help wind your brain down a bit more than cooking and baking.” He pursed his lips, looked down at the bowl, then back up at you.

”…O-Okay.”

You didn’t put on anything exciting, just some old obscure movie. It was the kind of film where nothing really happens, you didn’t need to observe and you certainly didn’t have to pay attention to it.

Bob settled onto the couch beside you, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Halfway through, his head started to dip sideways.

You felt the soft weight of it first–hesitant but real–when he let it rest on your lap.

You froze. Not because it startled you, but because it meant something. The trust in that gesture was palpable. Heavy.

His hair, now finally growing out in soft, tousled waves, was thick and slightly uneven—darker at the roots, lighter where the sun had kissed it through your windows. A little unkempt, curling faintly behind his ears. You let your fingers hover over it for a second, unsure…

Then you touched him.

Gently.

You threaded your fingers into the locks at the crown of his head, letting your nails lightly scratch his scalp, slow and rhythmic. He didn’t pull away.

He sighed.

A soft, long exhale. And then–you felt it happen.

His breathing evened out. His shoulders softened. The tension in his jaw unclenched. He didn’t just rest his head on your lap–he slept.

It was the first time he’d truly let go.

The first time he’d let you hold him without flinching from the weight of being seen.

You stayed there for hours, barely moving, running your fingers gently through his hair while the muted light from the screen flickered across his cheekbones.

You didn’t dare wake him.

The next morning, you didn’t mention it.

Neither did he.

But something had shifted. A soft, invisible thing between you. A comfort that didn’t need words.

And when the email finally came through a few days later–Tower’s ready. Moving in next Friday–he was the one who walked into the kitchen holding a roll of tape and a stack of folded boxes.

“I can help you pack,” He said, and you let him.

Now after the weeks bonding with him you found yourselves in front of the car staring at the boxes that had defined his stay with you. You shrugged and opened the passenger door for him.

“Well, now you’ve also got the car full of my chaos to babysit with your boxes,” You teased, “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to co-pilot-slash-box guardian.” Bob blushed at your comment and shook his head, stepping into the car with ease as you handed him both of his boxes.

“A-At least the ride is only half an hour. P-Please don’t drive like a m-maniac.” He commented, watching you place a hand on your chest, feigning offence.

”I follow the rules of the road…It’s everyone else’s fault that I have to drive the way I do.”

——————

The Tower loomed like a monument to a future neither of you were quite ready for yet.

All glass and steel, the building glittered in the late morning sun–its reflection cutting across the sky line in clean, perfect angles. The closer you drove, the more you felt the tension shift in the air. A pressure. Something expectant. It was the kind of silence that clings to the edge of change.

The security gate recognized your plates on approach, and the barrier lifted with a hiss, allowing you to pull into the underground parking garage that smelled like burning concrete. Your tires glided across the laneway, as you found your assigned spot–Bay 21A, right beneath the elevator hub.

With straight precision you backed into the spot, putting it between the lines perfectly without cheating–Bob liked challenging you by covering the screen that showed the footage of your review cameras, and every time you somehow managed to impress him with your pure skill of parking like an expert.

You let out a soft sigh and cut the engine, letting the silence envelop the car completely.

Bob sat quietly in the passenger seat, picking at the lid of one of the boxes in his lap. He was nervous to see everyone again–he had told you that multiple times when he was helping you roll up your posters in your room–and every time he said it you tried to reassure him there was nothing to worry about. This was another one of those times where his nerves were coming out to haunt him, along with guilt for what he had done to everyone.

Slowly, you reached over and covered one hand with yours, giving it the faintest squeeze, which brought him out of his trance.

”They’re not expecting anything from you,” You said quietly, “You being there is enough…Okay?” He nodded once, but didn’t look at you. His gaze was locked on the glossy dashboard, eyes wide with the kind of dread that sinks its claws in and pretends to be logic. You gave him a moment, then gently opened your door.

The air in the underground garage was cooler than the heat outside, but still held the faint echo of gasoline and ozone. You circled the car, popping the trunk and pulling out the first set of bags while Bob slowly emerged on the other side with his boxes in his arms. You could feel his nerves in the way he hovered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, watching you slowly empty your trunk and mentally checking off the things that you labeled.

Bob crouched down carefully, setting his two boxes on the smooth concrete with a quiet thud. You didn’t even have to ask what he was doing—because you already knew. It was in the set of his shoulders, the way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows with precise movements, knuckles cracking once like a silent warm-up. You arched a brow as you slung one of your overstuffed bags onto the ground beside him.

“You’re gonna try to carry all of it, aren’t you?” He gave you a small, sheepish look as he reached for the nearest vacuum sealed bag.

“J-Just want to get it done in one trip…I-I can handle it.”

You didn’t doubt that he could. You’d seen what he was capable of–really capable of–once.

It had been during your second week together, when he’d sneezed of all things. A completely ordinary, human, unremarkable sneeze. But when he braced his palm against the edge of the counter, you heard the wood crack. Split straight down to the support beam. The look on his face afterward had been sheer horror. He apologized for an hour. Then he avoided touching anything solid for the rest of the day.

He hadn’t used his strength since.

Not until now.

You watched silently as he lined up the boxes like a game of cautious engineering. He braced your backpack against the top of the stack with his knee, then reached for the plastic bin full of tangled cords. You winced.

“You’re gonna throw your back out before we even get to the lobby,” You muttered, crouching beside him. But when you reached for one of the smaller bags, he stopped you with a gentle touch to your wrist.

“I got it.” He said firmly, with no stammer or nerves. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Bob…” He didn’t look at you–just adjusted the bin one more time on top of the pile, his arms curling around the whole absurd tower of your combined belongings like it weighed nothing. And maybe it didn’t–not to him.

But the stillness in his face made you pause.

Without thinking, you stepped closer and gently reached out, fingers curling around his jaw to turn his face toward you. He resisted at first, a quiet kind of resistance–not physical, but instinctual. Like he didn’t want to be looked at too closely. But he didn’t stop you either. His eyes were closed tightly, as if he was shielding something from you.

“Hey,” You said softly, thumb brushing just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open your eyes.”

He let out a soft sigh and blinked, once.

The gold shimmered faintly through the blue–just a soft hue, like the sun glinting off metal buried under water. You smiled, small and knowing, a breath of fond exasperation curling from your lips.

“Knew it,” You murmured, tracing the warmth of his cheekbone gently, “You better shake the gold outta those eyes before the elevator doors open, or Yelena’s gonna throw a knife at you on instinct.” He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been nerves. But it was something. And then he nodded, clutching the tower of boxes tighter as you stepped back and popped the trunk closed with a gentle slam. You locked the car with a chirp, then turned and motioned with your head.

“C’mon, Hercules. Eightieth floor, express ride.” Bob followed you closely, his steps careful but somehow steady beneath the weight of everything he carried. You led the way into the sleek glass elevator at the far end of the garage, pressing your palm against the biometric scanner until the panel lit up green. The numbers climbed on the display, fast and smooth, the elevator doors sliding open to reveal a surprisingly quiet car.

“Eighty,” you said aloud, and the panel blinked in acknowledgement.

The doors closed. The hum of the lift filled the silence.

You glanced over at him. “Still with me?”

“Y-Yeah,” He whispered. “Just…Trying not to break anything.”

“You’re doing great,” You said, and reached out to squeeze his elbow. His knuckles were white around the box edges, but his jaw was unclenched. That was progress.

The numbers blinked in rapid succession, each floor a soft ding that echoed in the space like a countdown. Bob stood beside you, arms wrapped around the towering stack of boxes and bags, the gold in his eyes dimmed now to a whisper. You could feel the nervous energy vibrating off him—not in any visible way, but like static on the skin. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. His fingers shifted to tighten their hold around the base box. You glanced up at him and gave his elbow another quick squeeze.

“Hey,” you murmured, “Deep breath. This isn’t the press room. It’s home…Kind of.”

And then–ding.

EIGHTIETH FLOOR.

The doors slid open.

And chaos hit like a brick wall.

“DUDE, THAT WAS MINE!”

“It was not, I CALLED DIBS!”

“I tagged it with my name!”

“Your name is not ‘BOOG’, Walker, it’s not exactly an ironclad claim!”

The common area was a battlefield of cardboard boxes, scattered shoes, half-assembled IKEA furniture, and rogue throw pillows that looked like they’d been used in an actual skirmish. Somewhere between the couch and the kitchenette, Walker and Ava were tangled in a tug-of-war over a branded coffee machine neither of them had apparently paid for.

Alexei was shirtless, inexplicably, perched on top of the breakfast bar with a screwdriver in his mouth and a kitchen cabinet door in one hand.

Alpine was sitting in the center of the chaos like some smug, unbothered little queen, tail flicking as if supervising the disarray, licking her paws and wiping her face.

Bucky stood a little ways back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene like he was trying to calculate how quickly he could disappear before anyone roped him into it. His hair was tied back messily and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing his polished vibranium arm.

Yelena whipped around the corner, sleek boots scuffing across the hardwood, hair cropped into the fluffy bob you remembered but now styled back with deliberate, greasy charm. It looked like she’d stolen a page out of Bucky’s post-pardon playbook: part assassin, part disgruntled congressman. The effect was wildly successful. She froze mid-step the second she saw you.

Her eyes bounced from you to Bob.

To the boxes.

To Bob’s arms.

To Bob’s face.

“…Holy shit,” She muttered.

The noise didn’t die instantly, but it dropped. Just enough for everyone to glance up from their various ridiculous activities and follow her stare.

Ava blinked twice.

Walker’s brows lifted in slow, dramatic awe.

Alexei whispered something in Russian that definitely sounded reverent.

Even Alpine paused her paw licking, like she knew something was off in the room suddenly.

Because Bob Reynolds didn’t look like the man they’d last seen sitting glassy-eyed behind Valentina at that press conference. He didn’t look hollow anymore.

He looked solid. Stronger in more ways than one. It was evident he had been eating well with how broad his shoulders had become. In addition, the group could see the slight confidence in the way he stood beside you–like he wasn’t a disappearing act anymore.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, forearms flexed under the absurd weight of what he carried, jawline more defined, face not quite as sunken in. The faint sun-kissed warmth of his skin, the way his hair curled slightly at the base of his neck from the shower, the steadiness of how he stood–all of it painted a picture none of them were expecting.

Bob stood there frozen for a breath, blinking like the elevator had transported him to another dimension instead of the eighty-fifth floor of the most secure building in the country. The silence that followed was thick, stunned, and oddly reverent.

Then, without fully realizing he was doing it, Bob crouched down and gently eased the tower of boxes to the floor, careful not to drop or jostle a single thing. He took a step back, pushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, and gave the room the smallest, most hesitant wave imaginable.

“H-Hey,” He said, his voice quieter than it had been all morning. It wasn’t shaky, but it wasn’t loud either–just a soft offering. “Uh…Hi.”

There was a beat of silence before the reaction hit like a slow-building wave.

Walker, never one to play things subtle, gave a long whistle and crossed his arms. “Damn, Y/N has really been feedin’ you, huh?”

“You’ve grown into the size of a house.” Ava muttered, almost in disbelief.

“You look better,” Yelena said simply, “Much better,” Then she paused, a rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “We’re glad you’re here Bob.”

“Da,” Alexei added from his perch atop the counter, “We thought you would show up glowing from the eyes shooting laser beams…This is better.” Bucky stepped forward at last, the quiet anchor among the chaos. He met Bob’s gaze evenly.

“You look good, man.” There was no flourish to it. Just truth. And it hit harder than any of the jokes or smirks.

Alpine leapt gracefully off the couch and padded over to Bob like she was the real authority of the floor, circling him once before rubbing up against his leg like she approved. That–more than anything–made Bob let out a shaky little exhale. You saw it in his shoulders. A sliver of tension released.

“I…Th-Thanks,” Bob said softly, pushing his sleeves back down and tugging them past his wrists again. “It’s good to see you guys. I-I didn’t think…you know…”

“We’d all be here together under one roof?” Yelena offered helpfully.

“I was gonna say ‘still like me,’ but–yeah, that too.”

“We’ve all had our Void moments,” Walker said, slinging an arm lazily around Ava’s shoulder, who ducked out from under it immediately. “Just glad you’re back. For real this time.” You gave Bob a small nudge with your elbow, and he glanced at you like he still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming this part. Yelena stepped forward, clapping her hands once.

“Alright, you two. You’re both in the south wing–rooms 804 and 805. Hopefully you two are okay with sharing the washroom.” You snorted softly.

”We’ve been sharing a washroom for the past four weeks, I’m sure we will manage just fine.” Bob’s ears turned pink, but the faint grin tugging at his lips told you he didn’t mind.

The others returned to their chaotic unpacking–Walker trying to assemble a lamp with brute force, Ava muttering about WiFi passwords, Alexei still shirtless for absolutely no reason–and Yelena waved you and Bob off with a lazy salute, “Go get settled!”

You nodded and turned down the hall with Bob trailing just behind you, his eyes darting over the sleek white walls and polished wood trim like it all felt too new to touch. When you reached the south wing, the hallway widened. Soft LED lights glowed inlaid against the baseboards. You reached two adjacent doors labeled 804 and 805.

“This one’s you,” You murmured, thumbing the pad on 804 until the panel clicked green. The door slid open, soundless.

Bob stepped in.

And stopped.

The room was huge. High ceilings stretched up, a soft echo already present in the sterile quiet. White walls. Pale oak flooring. A twin-size mattress resting on a raised platform bed frame with no sheets. A basic black desk and chair in one corner. A minimalist bookshelf built into the wall with three empty shelves, and natural sunlight beaming through the large window panes that lined the walls with a cityscape. That was it.

No color. No lightbulbs warm enough to feel like home. No blankets tossed over couch arms. No ceramic mug sitting on a coaster. No smell of your lemon-ginger tea or vanilla candles. Just newness. Cold and clean and…Blank.

You didn’t miss the way his body language changed. His shoulders didn’t drop. They stayed stiff. His mouth twitched–not with a smile, but with something like confusion and disappointment carefully stitched together.

Because sure he was back, but he’d lost something in the return.

The cozy warmth of your living room–the worn grey sectional with the throw pillows that never matched. The bookshelf bursting with novels stacked sideways and double-layered. The corner where the floor lamp glowed gold at night. The soft scent of cinnamon, lemon, and fresh laundry that clung to the fabric. The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen while he sat curled under the blanket with a book cracked open across his knees.

This place didn’t have any of that. This place was a reset button. And Bob–after weeks of slow, careful healing–was suddenly standing in an empty room with nothing that looked like it remembered him.

You stepped in beside him quietly.

“You okay?” You asked, voice soft. He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t carry truth behind it. His eyes were scanning the walls like he was waiting for them to close in.

“It’s just…Quiet,” He said finally. “Too clean…It kind of reminds me of the lab in Malaysia.” You touched his elbow, giving it a gentle stroke, a comforting smile appearing on your face.

“We’ll fix that.” He turned to look at you, brow furrowed, like there was no way that would be possible, “You’ve got your books. Your mugs. The blanket. We’ll get your lamp and your tea, and I’ll buy one of those weird lemon candles if you miss the smell.”

That got the tiniest laugh out of him. Barely there. But his eyes softened.

“I miss the couch,” He admitted.

“I miss it too.” You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “But we’ll make this work, Bob. Just give it time.” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and silent, eyes lingering on the bare bookshelf now, like he was trying to will it into holding memories that didn’t exist yet. You let out a small sigh and reached up to touch his warm smooth cheek to draw his attention down to you.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go out,” You started gently but firmly, like it was already decided, “And we’ll pick out paint, plants, decorations, throw blankets, dumb little desk trinkets…Whatever it takes to make this place feel like it’s yours okay?” Your thumb brushed just beneath the curve of his eye, and his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t used to being held this gently.

His eyes were glassy–not with tears, but something close. That strange shimmer of overwhelm that comes when your heart is too full of quiet things. When someone sees you exactly where you are. For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Then he sighed, low and quiet, and leaned into the touch–not all the way, but enough to press his cheek into your palm, like he was absorbing it.

“…Okay,” He whispered.

The single word carried a thousand more underneath it. Agreement. Gratitude. Hope. A soft kind of surrender.

You let your hand fall away gently, not wanting to make it weird, not wanting to overstep–but you caught the way his eyes followed the movement like he wasn’t quite ready for it to end. So you cleared your throat lightly and nudged him with your shoulder again.

“Alright. Enough brooding. Come help me set up my room before I lose my mind trying to untangle all those extension cords I packed like an idiot.”

Bob blinked, then let out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

There wasn’t a single second of hesitation. No pause to overthink it. He just followed–like he always did with you now. Like he wanted to be where you were, because that was the only place that made sense anymore.

Bob went back to where he had left your boxes and gathered everything into his arms again, balancing everything with pure precision, cradling the whole mess in his arms as he walked down back to your room. You tapped the panel on your own door–805–and it opened with the same quiet hiss.

He followed you slowly making sure he didn’t bump into you in the process as the door closed behind the both of you once he stepped in fully. The quiet that settled over the space was immediate and unforgiving.

The room was the exact same as his. White walls, pale oak floors, empty shelves, the bed frame with no warmth, the desk, and the wonderful view of the cityscape. You stood there for a moment, expression unreadable, then sighed, letting your shoulders relax.

“Well,” You muttered, stepping into the room a little more fully and crossing to the wide, clean-lined windows. You pressed your thumb to the side panel, and with a soft click, the glass slid open, letting in a breeze that stirred your hair and carried in the smell of the city: hot concrete, wind, and faint smoke from a food truck somewhere below. Bob set everything down in a neat row near the foot of the bed–the vacuum sealed bags, and the labeled boxes with generic scrawl ‘Desk Stuff + Nightstand’, followed by ‘Y/N’s Books,’ and ‘THIS HAS BREAKABLE STUFF IN IT DON’T DROP!’. He set that one down with exaggerated care, like it contained lit dynamite.

You put your hands on your hips.

”Guess we’ll start with whichever box is first.”

Bob gave a soft huff of acknowledgement, already crouching down and slicing open the tape on the topmost one with the side of a key he pulled from his pocket.

The first item out was your worn, pilled blanket. Fleece, with a weird faded pattern of crescent moons and stars and old Sharpie stains you swore were from high school. You plucked it from the box and immediately tossed it across the bed, smoothing it out with a flick of your wrists. The effect was instant. The sterile mattress looked lived in now.

Bob handed you the next item without comment–your bedside lamp. An old brass thing with a twisted base and a shade that looked like it had been mauled by a cat in a past life. You plugged it in and clicked it on. The bulb flickered once, then glowed with a soft amber hue that made the whole corner of the room feel warmer.

“Better,” you said softly.

Next came a small cluster of mismatched mugs–two chipped ones with cartoon characters, one heavy ceramic thing that looked handmade, and one novelty mug that said ‘Running on Coffee’. You lined them up on the desk next to your portable kettle and stash of teas and hot chocolate packets–something that you also had in your old room in your apartment as well, it was just for convenience, especially if you were enthralled in whatever you were doing and didn’t want to leave your room.

Bob unpacked your books with care, handing you each one like it was fragile. You stacked them on the shelf haphazardly: poetry first, then science fiction, then a tiny shrine to emotionally devastating literary fiction. You placed your favorite–Never Let Me Go–face-out on the middle shelf like it was sacred. Bob didn’t question it.

There was a box of trinkets and sentimental chaos next. You fished out a tiny figure of a goat in a superhero cape–a gift from Ava–a tarnished lucky coin, a broken watch you hadn’t had the heart to throw away, a photo strip of you and Bob from the CVS kiosk. You pinned that to the corkboard on your desk without a word, right above your calendar–like it was something you wanted to remember, especially because it was one of Bob’s good days during the four weeks of staying together.

Soon, the space began to fill.

Your flannel was tossed over the desk chair. A plant was set by the window–half-dead, but stubborn. You arranged your pens in a clay cup. Bob found your spare set of fairy lights and handed them over without being asked, and you looped them around the headboard, twisting the cord to keep it tight.

And then…Came the collection of posters.

You pulled the long cardboard tube free from the box with a reverent sort of care and twisted the cap until it popped with a quiet snap. Bob glanced over as you began to slide the rolled posters out, one at a time–each print carefully preserved with tissue paper and worn edges. There were no fold lines. These weren’t flimsy college dorm reprints. These were theatrical releases.

Real ones.

Bob crouched down beside you looking at them closely with curiosity. You could imagine the questions going through his head.

“I used to work at a theatre during my internship,” You said, peeling the tissue from the first one and holding it up against the light. “Whenever we’d change the marquee, they’d let the staff take whatever we wanted from the promo bin. I fought for this one.”

The poster was tall and dramatic–Vertigo by Hitchcock. Bright swirls of orange and red, the silhouettes locked in that spiraling, dangerous fall. It was striking. You stood slowly, angling it toward the wall above your bed.

“They’re all long like this,” you added. “Old school sizing. And I want them to start high and cascade down like a film reel.” You grinned to yourself. “I know it’s excessive.”

Bob stood up behind you, brushing off his hands. “It’s you.”

You turned to glance at him.

He looked a little sheepish. “I mean…You love movies…So…The r-room wouldn’t be yours if you didn’t have s-something dedicated to it…” You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh, grabbing the removable adhesive tabs from the supply pile and peeling one open between your teeth. But when you hopped up onto the mattress and tried stretching, the top corner still sat a full foot out of reach.

You frowned and leaned on your tiptoes, paper flopping awkwardly in your hands.

“Damn it…Maybe I could get a stool or so–.”

“I could, uh–“ Bob cut in, voice low and a little unsure, “I–I could…Put you on my shoulders?” You paused mid-stretch, glancing back over your shoulder.

He was standing just behind the edge of the mattress now, hands half-lifted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you or if he’d made some kind of grave error by suggesting it. His eyes flicked up to yours and then back down to the floor, as if it might open up to eat him alive to give him a better alternative.

You turned the rest of the way around, brows lifting, poster still in hand. “You’re offering to carry me like one of those boxes over there?” You asked, motioning to the discarded cardboard.

“No! I-I mean–not like that, I wouldn’t–” He flinched a little at himself, then groaned softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like a box. I wouldn’t treat you like a box.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way he stumbled awkwardly through his explanation.

“So, not like a box,” You teased gently, stepping closer to the edge of the mattress and letting the poster droop at your side. “You sure you’ve got me? Because I’m not exactly made of foam peanuts, and I just recovered from my broken ribs…” Bob looked up at you then, really looked, and something in his face shifted. Softened. You weren’t sure if it was the golden glint rising behind his blue eyes again or just the quiet steadiness that lived somewhere deep in his chest now—but it was enough.

He swallowed once and nodded “I–I know he’ll be c-careful…You’re…You.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flip.

And then you held out your hands.

“Alright, alright…What’s the worst that could happen? Let’s do it…” He stepped close and braced his warm, soft palms at your calves, waiting for you to climb onto his shoulders with careful movements that bordered on meekness. You perched cautiously, gripping the top of his head gently for balance as you settled on the muscles shifting a bit to make sure you weren’t hurting him. His hands moved instinctively–large and steady–one resting just above the backs of your knees to keep you stable, the other hovering in case you swayed.

From your new height, the top of the wall was suddenly accessible. You could reach it easily now, the edges of the Vertigo poster fluttering against your chest in the soft breeze from the window.

“This…Is weirdly effective,” you murmured, peeling the backing off the adhesive tabs. “If anything fails with the Thunderbolts…Or New Avengers…Whatever we’ll be named…I think we could go do circus work.”

“Don’t tempt me…” Bob said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. You turned the poster and pressed the top corners to the wall with slow precision, smoothing the paper down with practiced hands. The steadiness in him was almost soothing–warm and solid and unshakable. Bob shifted slightly beneath you as you pressed the last corner flat, moving his hands to the tops of your thighs–strong, but gentle. Always gentle. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the fabric of your shorts, and every so often, you caught the subtle rise and fall of his breath, steady like the rhythm of an old song you didn’t know you’d memorized.

“There,” you said softly, leaning back just enough to take in the full image of the Vertigo poster now secured high on the wall. It looked perfect–like it belonged. “One down, five to go.” Bob let out a quiet laugh, almost a breath more than a sound, and gently backed away from the wall to give you space. His hands never left your legs until the very last second–he steadied you instinctively as he shifted, his palms ghosting along your thighs before slipping away like the weight of a blanket being pulled off in slow motion.

You wobbled slightly, still perched up high, but Bob crouched at your side before you could even flinch. With practiced precision, he reached into the pile of still-rolled posters and plucked the next one out of the tube without looking. He offered it to you with both hands like it was sacred.

You took it with a quiet “Thanks,” but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he tilted his head back to look up at you.

And in that moment, something flickered behind his eyes again–the soft, golden, like glow of a late summer sun cresting through the clouds. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t overwhelming. Just there. Lurking in the blue like a memory half-awake. His mouth parted, barely.

You looked down at him and saw it immediately. That faint shimmer. That quiet power. That strange, ancient thing that gave him the ‘power of a million exploding suns’ as Val had coined.

Your free hand moved without thought. You reached down, ran the side of your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone with a featherlight touch, and felt him still completely beneath you, his eyes still locked on yours.

“Does he know me?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked once, then twice.

His lips parted again, and this time, sound came—barely more than a whisper, shaped around hesitation.

“H-He does,” He said, voice caught somewhere between himself and something deeper. “B-But he…he doesn’t remember what he did. When we all fought…” You felt his breath catch just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it aloud in this space. Like voicing it would make the memory real again. But he kept going.

”I think…He remembers you from the night that Val’s people gunned me down…” His eyes scanned over yours, unreadable, searching, “But I don’t know for sure…It’s like–like flashes.” Your thumb stilled against his cheek. You could feel the muscles in his jaw shift beneath the skin, tense and taut like he was trying to hold the rest of it back. His pulse was hammering against your inner thigh, you could feel it radiating into his muscles.

“W-We aren’t fully c-connected anymore,” He admitted. “At least…Not the way we used to be. It’s quieter. But also…Stranger.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

Bob swallowed hard, then added in a low, almost guilty murmur, “I can still do the whole s-super strength thing–I mean, clearly,” He gestured halfheartedly to where you were still balanced comfortably on his shoulders, “But I d-don’t know where he begins and I-I end anymore. It’s not like flipping a switch. It’s not that clean.”

You brushed his cheek again with the pad of your thumb. “Does it scare you?” He shakes his head immediately.

”I-It used to…A l-lot but I think I can manage it a bit b-better. You’ve been able to help w-with that.” You were about to say something–something honest, something warm, something just for him.

Maybe it was going to be “You’re doing better than you think.” Or maybe “I see you, Bob. All of you.”

But the words caught on the edge of your tongue like a thread snagging in fabric–because the door hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, and Walker’s voice cut through the room before you even had time to turn your head.

“Jesus Christ–”

Bob stiffened instinctively beneath you.

You both turned at the same time–which was unavoidable due to the position.

Walker was frozen in the doorway, one hand still braced against the panel, his eyes squinting like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. His gaze flicked from you–perched high on Bob’s shoulders, one hand still cradling his face like a lover’s whisper–to Bob, who was blushing so hard it looked like he might actually combust on the spot.

Walker blinked. Once. Twice. Then gave a slow, amused whistle.

“Well…That is not what I expected to walk in on.”

“Walker,” You deadpanned, not moving from your place. “Knock next time.”

“You don’t even have a real door,” He said, walking in like he owned the place, arms crossed and boots heavy on the floor.

“I was just–s-she needed help with the posters,” He mumbled, carefully lowering his arms to begin letting you slide down. “I w-wasn’t–It’s not what it–”

”No need to explain yourselves….It’s all good.” You finally slid off Bob’s shoulders, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood, your hands brushing his shoulders gently on your way down. Bob looked like he wanted to retreat into the nearest drawer.

Walker, mercifully, spared him further commentary.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Lunch just got here. Got delivered a bit late, but it’s hot. Couple boxes of noodles, some dumplings, and that weird green juice that Yelena keeps pretending she likes. If either of you want in, better grab a plate before Alexei eats everything but the box liners again.”

“Thanks,” You said simply, brushing your hand on your shorts. “We’ll be there in a few.”

Walker gave Bob a wink that made him flinch like he’d been hit with a spotlight. “Don’t take too long.”

Then he was gone, the door whispering closed behind him like nothing had happened.

The silence that followed was thick with whatever had just almost happened–suspended, tender, delicate like breath on glass.

You glanced over at Bob.

His face was still flushed. His lashes low. But there was the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, yes. But not retreating.

You let the silence stretch for another beat, just long enough to let the moment settle without breaking it.

Then you turned to him, voice soft, but sure.

“We’ll finish after lunch,” You said, like a gentle nudge. “I don’t trust Alexei not to start sampling the furniture if we wait too long.”

Bob exhaled a short, nervous breath through his nose–half a laugh, half relief–and nodded.

“Y-Yeah…Okay.” You reached down to the scattered pile of posters and gathered them into a neat stack, tucking them carefully into the cardboard tube like you were handling film reels from an archive. Bob crouched beside you to help without being asked, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he adjusted the cap and clicked it back into place.

“Thanks,” You murmured. You meant it for the posters. And everything else.

He just nodded, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then back down again with a faint flush still clinging to his cheeks.

You rose to your feet first, offering him a hand to stand. He took it without hesitation, his palm warm and steady in yours. You didn’t let go right away–even once he was upright again. Not until you had squeezed once, just barely, and let it go as if you hadn’t done it at all.

As you both turned toward the door, Bob hesitated–just for a second–and looked back at the Vertigo poster on the wall. The first thread of something new stitched into this blank place.

His voice was low when he spoke. “It looks good up there.”

You glanced at him with a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” You said. “It does.”

And then you left together–out into the bright hallway, toward the sounds of laughter and clattering chopsticks, and the smell of soy sauce and scorched dumplings

———————

The next morning rose slowly, spilling honeyed light across the edge of the skyline just beyond your window. It kissed the walls in soft amber streaks, warming the pale wood floors and the flannel still slung over your desk chair. The city was just beginning to wake–quiet traffic below, a distant horn, the hush of wind curling through the slight crack in your window.

You stirred beneath the weight of your fleece moon blanket, legs tangled and one arm draped across your stomach. The pillow beneath your cheek was the same one from the apartment, the cotton worn soft from too many washes, still faintly infused with the scent of lemon detergent and something unmistakably Bob–clean, warm, a little tangy from that body wash he never bothered to read the label of. You turned your face into it without thinking, breathing in deeper, letting the scent settle in your chest as you thought about yesterday.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you. Head tilted back, lips parted slightly, eyes wide and gold-touched like he was seeing something divine.

Your chest tightened a little as the image flickered back to life behind your eyes.

You could still feel the curve of his hands on your thighs, the way they held you steady–not possessive, not hesitant, just… Sure. Like you belonged there. Like he couldn’t imagine you anywhere else.

You’d meant to say something.

You had–right before Walker burst in and shattered the moment with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

But you hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had your body. Your pulse thudded low in your belly, not urgent, but present. Like the idea of him had taken root in your blood and was now blooming slowly, quietly, just beneath the surface.

You turned onto your back with a soft sigh, eyes tracing the ceiling for a few slow seconds before throwing the blanket off and sitting up. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded across the room, pushing your hair out of your face to cool yourself down.

You crossed into the shared bathroom, the silence between your quarters familiar now, softened by the faint scent of mint toothpaste and warm skin left behind in the air. You knocked lightly on the frame–habitual, gentle–before stepping through into his room.

Bob was already awake, bent slightly at the waist as he tugged the drawstring of his dark sweatpants into a loose knot. The hem of his maroon sweater had ridden up with the movement.

Your mouth went a little dry.

It wasn’t even that much skin. Just a sliver. A glimpse of pale muscle right beneath his navel, the edge of the soft line that led lower, disappearing into the fabric of his waistband. But there was something about the way it caught the light–casual, unbothered, unknowing–that made your pulse jump traitorously against your ribs.

It was too early for this. Too early to feel like your skin was buzzing with the ghost of his hands. Too early for your brain to short-circuit over a slouchy sweater and a knot being tied.

Bob straightened slowly, letting his sweater fall back into place. He reached up and raked a hand through his hair, tousling it gently between his fingers, like he hadn’t bothered to check the mirror yet–maybe he didn’t need to though. A few strands stuck up stubbornly, and his palm lingered for a second at the crown of his head, like he was debating whether it was worth taming.

Then his gaze slid over to you.

His eyes lit up the second they landed on your face–gentle and warm, crinkling slightly at the corners, and you felt it hit you low and soft in the chest.

“M-Morning,” he said with a small, sheepish smile. It was the kind of smile that curled just a little to one side and took its time settling in like it had nowhere else to be. “You, uh…Slept okay?”

“Yeah,” You said, and you meant it. Then, after a beat: “You?” He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck.

”I got…Maybe an h-hour or two, b-but it’s a new place, so any sleep is good sleep.” You gave him a small nod, agreeing with him. Bob’s eyes flicked over you–just for a second. There was a blink of hesitation before they dropped down, tracing the loose hem of your sleep shirt where it hung just past the tops of your thighs. You were still warm from sleep, hair mussed from your pillow, collar stretched just enough to show the slope of your shoulder. Nothing scandalous. Nothing intentional. But his breath still caught.

You saw it.

The way his throat flinched with a quiet gulp as he tried–bless him–to return his gaze to your face like he hadn’t just nearly lost it at the sight of your bare legs and bed-warmed skin.

His ears pinked, and he gave a small, nervous chuckle–like he had been caught red handed stealing something, “Uh…W-we’re still doing the shopping thing, right? F-for the room and all?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” You said, smiling as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe. “Of course. I’ll go get ready.”

You turned, heading back toward your room before either of you could combust from the tension curling quietly between you. Just before you slipped out of view, you looked over your shoulder.

”Oh, make sure you eat something by the way,” You added softly, “We may lose track of time…Don’t want to risk you passing out or something.” He let out a breath that was probably meant to be a laugh, eyes following you with something tender, almost awestruck.

“R-Right, I’ll d-do that.” You gave him a small smirk, then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a quiet click, letting the buzz in the air ebb.

—————————

The store was massive.

That was the first thing Bob said–softly, under his breath–as the automatic doors whooshed open in front of the two of you and the sheer overwhelming scale of the home decor superstore revealed itself like a cathedral of curated domesticity. Neatly stacked rugs, end caps of throw pillows arranged by season, hanging plants suspended like jungle chandeliers from industrial beams. It smelled like eucalyptus, lemon oil, and waxed wood floors. Music played somewhere overhead—something instrumental, cheerful, and entirely ignorable.

“Stick close,” You teased, brushing his elbow with yours. “You get lost in the storage section and I’m not coming to rescue you. That place is a labyrinth.”

“I-I won’t,” He muttered, eyes wide as they took in the sheer number of lamps.

Despite his nerves, Bob was easy to lead. You grabbed a cart–he insisted on pushing it–and you moved together aisle by aisle, your steps steady, his just a half beat behind. He didn’t say much at first. Just sort of…Hovered. Eyeing everything like he wanted to throw it in the cart. You gave him space to acclimate, letting your fingers trail over textured blankets and woven baskets until, eventually, his hand reached out too.

The first thing he touched was a throw pillow.

It was simple–soft knit, goldenrod yellow with a stitched sun on the front. He ran his thumb over the embroidered rays like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

You watched him for a moment, then smiled.

“That’s a good one,” You said. “Warm. Soft…And the design suits you.”

“M-Me?” He asked, pointing at himself.

”Yeah…It’s the sun…And you…Y’know…Have the power of a million exploding suns…Remember?” You murmured, nudging him gently, watching his ears turn pink as he looked down at the pillow again with a sheepish smile on his face.

Bob held the golden sun pillow a second longer, running his thumb along the stitched rays like he was trying to memorize the texture. Then, after a beat, he placed it gently in the cart.

From there, it got easier.

The two of you drifted down the aisles in quiet tandem, picking out what felt right and skipping what didn’t. In the paint section, Bob stood still in front of the wall of color swatches for a long moment, brows knit as he scanned shade after shade of white-gray-beige. You could see the hesitation brewing in his eyes–too many choices, too many wrong ones.

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his gaze.

“What are you drawn to?”

He hesitated, then reached toward a swatch a few rows up. It was a soft, cloud gray with the faintest cool undertone. It looked almost blue in some light, depending on how Bob held the little tile. You took it from his fingers and read the name.

“Cathedral.” You muttered.

“L-Little dramatic for a p-paint swatch.” Bob replied, his eyebrows crinkling together slightly.

“It’s fitting I think…Could’ve been named anything though, Dolphin Gray even.” That got the smallest smile out of him. The kind that tilted the corner of his mouth before he looked away like he hadn’t meant to do it.

The employee at the counter mixed the paint while you grabbed a tray, rollers, edging tape, and a drop cloth Bob insisted was overkill because he wouldn’t make a mess, but you threw it in anyway. While the shaker did its thing, you pulled him back into the decor section. That’s when he stopped at the string lights.

“Warm white,” He murmured, almost to himself, fingers brushing the edge of the box. “Not too bright.” You nodded and added two sets to the cart.

Next aisle over, you spotted a small section of candles on a recessed shelf–there were only a few options, and they were all tucked into recycled glass jars. Your fingers drifted over a few of them until you settled on one that caught your eye. You slid it off the shelf and popped the lid off before inhaling slowly. Vanilla. Lemon. Something faintly earthy beneath it all, like ginger or roots. It wasn’t exact, but it was close. You turned and held it out to him

“This one smells like my apartment.” He took it from you immediately, cradling it in both hands like it was something fragile. He slowly lifted it to his nose, and closed his eyes, as if he was absorbing every inch of the scent. You couldn’t help but smile at the moment, at the gentleness, the calm that invaded his face, like he was remembering your living room. When he opened his eyes again, they were soft and relaxed.

“I-It really does…” He responded before slipping it into the cart without any explanation.

A few minutes later, in a section of half-price indoor plants, Bob paused in front of a small hanging basket. A trailing pothos, lush and green, leaves curling over the edge like ivy from a fairy tale. He crouched slightly to get a better look, brushing the soil gently with his knuckle.

“I-I think I’ll get this one,” He said after a moment. “Room’s got a lot of light…Feels like something should grow in it, y’know?” You smiled at his train of thought, looking down at the greenery.

“I think it’s perfect.”

He picked it up, holding the pot carefully against his chest like he was already invested in keeping it alive. It suited him more than you could’ve imagined. This gentle care. The quiet desire to nurture something in his own space. To bring life into a place that had once only held silence.

By the time you circled back to pick up the paint, the cart was full: the sun pillow, the plant, the candle, two boxes of lights, a gray fleece throw blanket, a small framed print of an old seaside map Bob claimed reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place, and a wooden picture frame you nudged into the pile without comment. For the extra photo strip you had–just in case he ever wanted it on his nightstand.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And when you caught Bob glancing down into the cart, his eyes tracing over the soft, mismatched collection of items, you saw it: the slow, quiet realization that this wasn’t just stuff.

It was the beginning of something that could finally feel like his.

He looked over at you, his hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and smiled–really smiled this time.

“Thanks for helping,” He said softly.

”Don’t thank me yet, we still have to paint and get all this stuff set up.”

——————————

Back at the compound, the city traffic gave way to the familiar hush of the underground lot as you pulled into Bay 21A. Bob unbuckled quickly, murmuring something about “not letting you carry anything,” before slipping out of the car and circling to the back. You barely had time to pop the hatch before he was already stacking the bags in careful tiers against his chest, paint can balanced on top with the plant cradled like a fragile infant in the crook of one elbow.

“I can help, you know…I’m not a piece of glass,” You said, raising a brow as he adjusted the throw blanket and tucked the bag with the candle under his arm like a seasoned pro.

“I-I got it,” He insisted, cheeks already pink with effort and pride. “B-Besides…This stuff’s important. I don’t wanna j-jostle it.” He glanced down at the plant with something bordering on reverence.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grabbing only the receipt and the keys before trailing behind him toward the elevator.

Back on the eightieth floor, the moment the door hissed open to the hallway, Bob adjusted the box of lights with his forearm and moved with quiet precision down the hall like a man on a mission. You tapped the panel for his room, and as the door slid open, he stepped inside and finally exhaled.

Everything was still as it had been the day before–blank walls, stripped bed, faint echo in the corners. But the weight of your shared errand buzzed in the air like something alive now. Potential. Comfort waiting to be built.

You breezed across the room and tapped the window control again, letting the breeze rush in.

“Not getting high off paint fumes today,” You said over your shoulder. “If we pass out mid-coat, Alexei will probably assume we were huffing it.” Bob let out a breathy laugh and carefully lowered the mountain of bags to the floor.

“I’m gonna change,” You added, already backing toward the door. “Don’t want to ruin my decent street clothes.” Bob gave a little nod, brushing the back of his hand across his brow where a stray curl had fallen.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll probably do the s-same,” He murmured, already toeing off his shoes by the entryway. You ducked out with a small smile and padded back into your room, flicking on the light. The process didn’t take long, you pulled on a pair of sleep shorts–soft and worn from years of laundering–and a baggy, sun-faded t-shirt, with the Stark Industries intern logo barely visible across the chest. The hem hung loose past your hips, and the neckline was wide and flimsy. A small smear of old red paint still clung to one of the sleeves from a project you’d long forgotten.

You grabbed a few bobby pins from your nightstand and pulled your hair back loosely, pinning the front sections away from your face, before returning back to Bob’s room soon after.

He was standing by the window, adjusting the drop sheet with one hand, the soft gray fleece blanket already tossed over the desk chair behind him. The sweatpants were still the same–dark, loose, slung a little low on his hips–but the sweater was gone now, and in its place…

A white undershirt.

And not just any undershirt. The kind that clung.

It clung to him like a second skin–thin cotton stretched just slightly across his chest and shoulders, outlining the sharp lines of his upper body like someone had sketched him in soft charcoal and left the strokes unfinished. The fabric hugged the slope of his collarbones and dipped gently over the muscles in his arms–biceps carved like they’d been sculpted by Phidias. You could see the outline of every ridge, and every subtle shift as he moved. The shirt was just snug enough across his stomach to trace the flat plane there, but loose enough around the hem to flutter when he bent slightly at the waist to grab the roller tray. The light from the window hit the curve of his deltoids, casting shadows you didn’t know cotton could catch.

He looked like a man carved from warmth. Golden light bled across his skin, tracing the veins in his forearms as he flexed his grip on the tray, veins that twisted like poetry across the backs of his hands and up toward the cuffs of his sleeves. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this–but God, it still felt like it.

Every time felt like the first.

Bob looked over his shoulder and caught you standing in the doorway, his mouth parting slightly when he saw you in your baggy shorts and oversized shirt, your hair pushed back with a few stray wisps curling around your temple. His gaze flicked over you slowly–hesitantly–like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop.

“Y-You, uh…Look ready,” He said finally, his voice a little rougher than before. “G-Good shirt for painting.” He added, motioning to the outfit. You stepped in slowly, trying not to stare. But he looked like something out of a sun-drenched dream. Still gentle. Still Bob. But the kind of quiet you wanted to trace with your hands.

“Same to you,” You murmured, voice soft. “Didn’t know we were modeling for a Carhartt commercial today.”

He flushed instantly, tugging the hem of the shirt like it might somehow hide the obvious breadth of him.

“I-It’s just an undershirt,” He replied, his face turning a deep red–even though his lips were twitching into a smile that was a slow bloom of nerves.

Bob’s hands moved with care as he peeled the lid off the paint can, the soft metallic creak cutting through the quiet of the room. The scent hit immediately–sharp and chemical, softened only slightly by the breeze curling in through the open windows. He crouched to pour the soft gray paint into the tray with slow, deliberate control, letting it pool into the rigid plastic until it settled into a smooth, mirrored surface.

You stood beside him, your roller already in hand, trying hard not to stare at the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he steadied the can. He looked…Absurdly good. The undershirt hugged his frame like it had been designed with reverence, clinging to every dip and line and curve that his oversized sweaters usually swallowed whole. The light caught the pale sweat glistening at his temple, and when he reached back to set the can down, his shirt pulled just tight enough across his back that you had to actually will yourself to blink.

“You ready?” he asked gently, offering you your tray like he didn’t know he looked like a golden-age painting of ‘boy-next-door who also bench presses cars for fun.’

“Born ready,” you murmured, grateful your voice came out steady.

You dipped your roller into the tray and began to work, and Bob followed without hesitation, starting from the opposite wall. The gray went on smooth and clean. It was a quiet shade–not dull, not harsh–something in-between that felt like soft stone or the sky right before a storm. It caught the light well, turning the blank sterility of the walls into something deeper. Something lived in.

You painted in tandem, the rhythm of your movements syncing without you even realizing it–dip, roll, sweep, and stretch. You didn’t speak much at first. Just worked. Occasionally you’d catch him glancing at your section, making sure your coverage was even, and you’d glance over a beat later and find that he had already finished another wall and was patiently waiting for you to catch up, roller dripping, his shirt sticking slightly to the curve of his spine.

After about thirty minutes, you both stepped back, breathing a little heavier now, speckled with the first coat and faint dots of gray flecked on your arms and calves.

“It’s… Already better,” Bob said softly, wiping his hands with a rag he’d found in the bag. His eyes were on the wall, but they flicked to you after a second. “It doesn’t feel so…Blank anymore.” You nodded, brushing a stray streak of paint off your wrist.

“Yeah. Kinda feels like a place a person might actually live now.” You both stood there in the middle of the room for a moment, shoulders relaxed, the hum of the city outside brushing the edge of the silence. And then he sat–right on the floor, cross-legged in his paint-streaked sweatpants, undershirt rumpled slightly at the waist. You followed, easing down beside him, knees knocking once before settling close.

Conversation stirred back up–light, easy and in hushed tones.

But you weren’t really listening. Not completely.

Because Bob was…Glowing.

Not in the Sentry way. Not that raw cosmic glare that split the sky. No–this was something else. Something low and golden and warm. It lived in the curl of his laugh, the tiny streak of gray on his collarbone where he’d bumped the roller against himself and hadn’t noticed. It shimmered in the way he looked at you–really looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile every time it curved. And when he talked, it wasn’t just words–it was an offering. A thread pulled between you. One you both kept holding.

You realized then that you hadn’t stopped watching him for the last five minutes.

And based on the way his eyes dropped to your mouth mid-sentence–lingered there, soft and stunned like it wasn’t on purpose–you weren’t the only one.

Bob blinked once–slowly–and then again, like he was trying to recalibrate his vision. His gaze kept flicking down from your eyes to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him had given up on pretending not to notice the way you looked sitting there beside him, sun-drenched and soft and glowing in the afterglow of effort.

Then he cleared his throat, but it came out more like a gulp. A quiet hitch of breath that gave him away.

“You, uh…” His voice barely rose above the quiet in the room. He reached up and gestured with two fingers, a small motion toward your cheek. “Y-You’ve got paint… Right here.” His hand hovered near his own cheekbone, mirroring the spot. “Can I…?”

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned forward, heart suddenly pressing against your ribs like it wanted to rip out of you and escape. Bob’s hand moved slowly as if rushing might ruin the moment that was simmering between the two of you. His fingertips grazed your skin with a featherlight touch, his thumb brushing the smear of gray just below your eye.

He didn’t pull away when it was gone.

Neither did you.

The hush that settled between you was different now. It wasn’t silence. It was a sound held gently between two people on the edge of something too big to name. His hand lingered against your face, thumb tracing the faintest curve of your cheek like he needed to memorize the texture. And when you looked up at him you saw it.

That same light.

Not the blinding kind. Not the kind that cracked the sky and split atoms. But the kind that came just before dawn. Soft. Resolute. The kind that touched everything gently and asked nothing in return. It lived in the blue of his eyes now, threaded through with something honey-warm.

“Y/N…” He whispered, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say your name like that–soft and aching, like it meant something he hadn’t dared admit aloud yet.Your hand found his cheek the way it always did. That familiar path of comfort, of care. The one place he always let you touch, even when everything else in him trembled. Your thumb brushed just beneath the apple of it–soft and supple–and his eyes fluttered at the contact, lashes dark against flushed skin.

He leaned into it, just a little. Just enough to let you feel how much he needed it–how much he needed you.

And then the air changed.

It was subtle. A breath caught in a hush. A tremble at the edge of stillness. Like the second before rain kisses the ground. Bob’s eyes held yours–not with uncertainty, not with apology–but with care so tender it undid you. As if this–your hand on his face, your knees pressed close to his, the light painting silver across your bare shoulder–was the holiest thing he’d ever known.

“I–” he started, voice barely a sound, and then stopped. His throat moved around the words he didn’t have yet. Instead, he reached up–slowly, slowly–and covered your hand with his own, pressing it further into his cheek like he didn’t ever want it to leave.

You could feel the tremor in him.

Not fear. Not anymore.

Just the weight of everything he was finally ready to let you see.

Your other hand rose without thinking, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw, then curving around the back of his neck where soft curls dampened with heat. You pulled him closer–just enough for your foreheads to touch. Just enough to feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips.

“Bob…” You whispered.

Your lips were almost touching now, but you continued to let the moment swell, and ache.

His mouth hovered a whisper away from yours, the barest sliver of air separating you–shared breath, warm and trembling. You could feel the curve of his bottom lip brush yours when he exhaled, and that smallest touch–so light, so accidental–made your stomach coil with heat. You leaned forward instinctively, but he didn’t move back.

He didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

You felt it when his lips parted. When the tip of his tongue darted out, barely grazing your bottom lip in an attempt to taste you. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a question. A pull. And it made your breath catch so sharply that your chest almost forgot how to fall.

Then he whispered it.

Something small.

Something that cracked your ribs open with its softness.

“…I-I’ve daydreamed about t-this moment.”

His voice was low and shaken, like a confession whispered in a church pew. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he inched just closer–his nose brushing yours now, and the tremble in his hands telling you this was costing him something to say aloud.

everything in you was focused on the man in front of you—on the tremble in his voice, on the way his breath feathered across your lips, on the reverence in his eyes like he was standing at the altar of something holy.

His confession lingered between you like incense—soft and heavy, curling into your ribs. You could feel it there, warm and aching, as your thumb swept the line of his jaw. His hand was still covering yours like it was a lifeline, like if he let go, the whole world might collapse inward.

So you didn’t let him fall.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

Just enough that your lips brushed his again—deliberately this time.

A whisper of a kiss. A promise made in the hush between heartbeats.

He shuddered the moment you touched him, and you felt it everywhere—in the curl of his fingers at your jaw, the way his breath hitched low in his chest, the quiet gasp he let out like the wind had been knocked clean from his lungs.

And then—

He kissed you back.

Not rushed. Not greedy. But slow.

So slow it made your skin prickle.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of aching reverence usually reserved for relics and prayers. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t unsure. It was careful—like every second of it mattered. Like he didn’t just want to taste you—he wanted to remember you. Your shape. Your breath. The way your lips parted for him like a secret being told for the first time.

It was holy.

You tilted your head, deepening it slightly–your hand sliding from the back of his neck to tangle in the curls at his nape, anchoring him to you. His hands curved along your hips, firm and trembling all at once, like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare.

And God–you wanted closer.

So you shifted.

One slow, smooth motion.

You moved into his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world–your knees pressing into the paint-flecked floor, your body fitting against his like you were meant to be there. Bob inhaled sharply against your mouth, and you swallowed the sound with a kiss deeper than the one before.

He melted beneath you.

You felt it–every inch of tension releasing from his body like a dam giving way to floodwaters. His arms wrapped around your waist now, strong and warm, pulling you in with a groan so quiet you could’ve mistaken it for a plea of mercy. His hands splayed at your lower back, fingers flexing like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold you like this.

Your lips danced together, slow and consuming, mouths parting just enough to breathe the same air, to taste the softness in each other’s sighs. His tongue brushed against yours in the subtlest question–timid but wanting–and you answered him by tilting your hips forward ever so slightly, deepening the kiss until your whole body was singing with it.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

There was nothing else.

No city outside the window. No walls still half-painted. No ghosts of past lives or broken silences.

Just the quiet miracle of his mouth on yours–every kiss a verse in a psalm neither of you had ever dared to read aloud until now.

When the kiss finally broke, it was slow. Lingering. His lips chased yours for one last brush, like he didn’t want to stop. Like the parting itself was unbearable.

You pressed your forehead to his again, your breaths mingling, your chest rising and falling in time with his. He looked at you and his eyes were liquid sunlight, the warm glow invading the ocean blue of his irises–but they were unbearably tender.

And then he closed them tightly.

Like it was too much for him. Like having you this close was triggering something in him he needed to get control over. His hands at your waist tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself. Bracing for impact.

You leaned in.

Not to tease. Not to rush. Just to give.

And with aching care, you pressed your lips to one of his eyelids.

A whisper of contact. A kiss that was less about passion and more about trust. You felt his breath stutter–his body going still beneath yours like he’d just been blessed. Like no one had ever done this to him. Not like this.

You kissed the other eyelid just as slowly.

And when you pulled back, his breath trembled out of him—ragged and low, laced with something that made your stomach tighten and your hands ache for more.

Then–

He surged forward, finally.

His mouth found yours again, harder this time. Still gentle, still reverent, but charged now. A hum of electricity laced through the softness. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your hands instinctively fist into the fabric of his shirt. You clung to him—not out of desperation, but out of instinct. Because of course you would hold onto him. There was nothing else in the room. Nothing else in the world.

Your fingers curled at his shoulders, dragging across the thin cotton, feeling every flex of muscle beneath it. He groaned softly against your lips when you tugged just slightly–his hands slipping lower, cradling the curve of your spine like you were something breakable and divine all at once.

You kissed him like you meant it.

And he kissed you like he couldn’t believe it.

When he finally pulled back–barely, just enough to breathe–his forehead pressed to yours again, his breath hot against your cheek. His lips brushed the edge of your mouth with every word.

“I–uh…” He murmured, voice cracked and raw around the edges, “I think maybe we should go to your room.”

You blinked, still catching your breath.

He swallowed, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. “I mean–just ‘cause–there’s a lot of paint fumes in here,” He added, clearly flustered, clearly not thinking about paint at all, “A-And I don’t wanna get dizzy and…Fall over or something while you’re…O-On my lap…”

The way he looked at you then–flush blooming down his throat, hands still cradling you like he didn’t want to let go–it was too soft to be funny. Too vulnerable to mock. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his and letting your lips ghost across his jaw.

“Right,” You whispered. “Wouldn’t want to pass out while kissing or anything.”

His breath caught again–so beautifully–and he nodded.

“Y-Yeah,” He murmured, dazed, “That would be…A tragedy.” Your lips hovered just over his skin, brushing the warmth of his jaw with a breathless smile. His hands stayed firm at your waist like he was still trying to convince himself you were real–that this was real–that you were really curled into his lap with paint on your legs and want in your eyes.

You let your mouth ghost lower, just to the edge of his neck.

Then, softly–like a secret–

“Take me to my room,” You instructed gently.

Bob inhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching at your hips like the words had struck something sacred in him. He blinked once, as if to double-check he’d heard you right, and then nodded–so small it was barely noticeable.

He rose with you in his arms, like it was nothing. Like you weighed less than air.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Instead of going through the hall like any rational person might have, he turned and headed straight for the bathroom that adjoined your quarters and his–taking the shortcut–the private path. You giggled under your breath at the way he moved with such gentle urgency, like the act of walking was suddenly too slow. Like he needed to get you there now.

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck as he carried you, your lips brushing the delicate skin just beneath his jaw, sucking gently at the faint stubble there. His steps faltered for a second when he felt your lips there–nothing more than a soft press of your mouth to his pulse and a little pull–but it was enough to make him grunt softly and pick up the pace.

“Y-You’re really not helping,” He muttered, breath shaky and hot, his fingers tightening just slightly around your thighs where he held you. You kissed his neck again, smiling against him.

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to be,” You replied.

He let out something that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe a groan–then fumbled with the bathroom door, kicked it open a little too fast, and spun the both of you through it like a man possessed.

By the time he reached your side of the quarters, he was a little breathless, and completely flushed–enough that you could’ve sworn you saw blush peeking through his white undershirt. You kissed his throat again, and that was it.

You felt his hands shift as he bent forward, setting you gently on the bed, your back sinking into the familiar comfort of your duvet. Bob hovered over you for a breathless moment, suspended between want and worship. His chest rose and fell above yours, his curls shadowing his forehead, damp from the warmth blooming beneath his skin. Your legs were still loosely looped around his waist, cradling him there, holding him in that weightless space between everything you were and everything you were about to become.

Then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Not on the mouth this time. But everywhere else.

Soft, fluttering presses of lips to skin. A brush at your cheekbone. Another to the edge of your brow. A third to the tip of your nose, which made you let out the kind of breathy laugh that pulled something tight in his chest.

He kissed your forehead last, and lingered there, just long enough to let you feel the shape of it. When he finally pulled back, his hands slid gently to your thighs. He rubbed slow, reverent circles into your skin–paint-flecked, warm from effort, bare from mid-thigh down. His thumbs pressed into the dip just above your knees, and then, with a soft inhale, he murmured–

“Let me go lock the door…So we don’t get interrupted.”

His voice was low. Still frayed around the edges with awe.

You nodded, your legs loosening around his waist as he coaxed them gently down with the flats of his palms. You let them drop to either side of him, feet brushing the floor now, knees parted slightly around where he still knelt between them.

He rose with quiet care, and you sat up slowly onto your elbows, the hem of your oversized shirt falling back into place, bunched slightly around your hips. The cotton was thin and soft and stretched with sleep, one side still slipping off your shoulder. You shifted your weight just slightly, legs swinging idly off the edge of the mattress, watching him.

The room glowed with the kind of light that only happened at dusk.

Evening had begun to settle behind the skyline just outside your windows–cool shadows bleeding slowly across the hardwood floor. But the city’s sunset didn’t reach this far into your quarters. Not fully.

Instead, the soft amber glow of your nightstand lamp lit the space.

It cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

The bulb was shielded behind a woven linen shade, diffusing the light until it looked like honey melting through gauze. It hit the edges of the room with a quiet softness–just enough to turn skin to candlelight and shadows to velvet. The kind of light that made everything feel slow and sacred. That turned every breath into something you wanted to hold.

You watched him walk across the room barefoot, his white undershirt clinging to his frame like it was woven from sunlight and tension. The muscles in his back flexed beneath it, pulling at the thin fabric just slightly with every movement. His hand reached for the sleek panel on the wall near the entryway and pressed his thumb to the edge of the glass.

A quiet chime confirmed it. The soft swoosh of magnetic locks sliding into place.

And still–he stood there for a second longer, his hand lingering against the door panel.

You saw it, even from across the room.

The rise and fall of his shoulders.

The silent inhale. The weight of the moment catching up to him in the hush between the lock and the turning back.

Then he did turn.

And when he looked at you, it was like gravity itself had shifted–like you were the axis now.

That soft glow from your bedside lamp painted amber along the edges of his jaw, spilling gold into the hollow of his throat and casting his frame in the kind of warmth usually reserved for cathedral windows or old film reels. His undershirt clung to him in the most unfair way–ribbons of cotton stretched delicately over muscle and tension, bunched slightly at the waist from where your legs had wrapped around him only moments ago. And yet, he looked…Hentle. Steady. Like something you could pray to if you didn’t know better.

He came back to you slowly.

Each step measured.

Deliberate.

His gaze never left you–not once–as he returned to where you sat on the edge of the bed, your thighs parted just enough, feet brushing the hardwood, shirt draped long over your hips. You shifted as he approached, moving like you meant to scoot farther up the mattress, to lay back and make room. But his hand stopped you. Gentle. Firm.

“N-No,” He said, voice soft but sure. “I…I want to stay here. L-Like this…Trust me.” Bob leaned down, hunching slightly to meet your mouth where you sat at the edge of the bed–legs parted, eyes glowing in the lamplight, waiting for him like gravity waited for stars. His hands braced on either side of your thighs, and then he kissed you again–slow and a little clumsy this time, the angle not quite perfect, his spine bending to reach you. But it didn’t matter.

You moaned into it anyway.

Because he was right there. All of him. The weight of his chest against yours, the tension in his arms, the way his breath hitched as your hand slid back up beneath the hem of that cruel little undershirt.

Your fingers clawed at it. Not delicately. Not with patience. Like you needed it gone. And Bob–sweet, reverent Bob–broke the kiss just long enough to whisper,

“Y-Yeah, okay–hang on–”

His voice cracked as he tugged the shirt over his head in one rushed motion. The cotton caught briefly on the back of his neck, then slipped free with a quiet shh of static and landed somewhere near your feet.

And then there he was.

Bare.

Bathed in lamplight.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had imagined this. Of course you had. It was always in flickers and flashbacks–like when his scrubs had been practically shot off him when he distracted Val’s special ops so you, Walker, Ava, and Yelena could escape the vault. But this–seeing him like this, lit in soft honey gold, the shadows of his body sloping into the hollow of his ribs and the rise of his chest—this was different.

He wasn’t chiseled. He wasn’t flawless. But God, he was real.

The kind of real that could wreck you again and again and you would say thank you.

His skin was flushed, warm from exertion, and his arms flexed where they framed you–long and lean, thick in the right places, his veins peeking just beneath the surface like scripture written under skin. His shoulders were broad, with scattered beauty marks kissing his skin, and all you could do was bite the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes drank in every inch.

And then your hand followed.

You reached for him–almost reverently–palm sliding flat against his stomach. The skin there was soft, but the muscle underneath twitched, hard and sudden, at your touch. His hips jolted the barest bit, a sharp inhale escaping through parted lips.

You let your fingers drift up.

Across the ridge of his abs, over the slight dip between his pecs, tracing a slow, steady line up the center of his chest.

“You look like a god,” You whispered.

And he hummed.

Low. From somewhere deep in his chest. Like the compliment vibrated straight through him and he couldn’t contain it.

His head dipped as he let out a breathless sound against your cheek–half a laugh, half a groan. “Th-That’s… That’s not true…”

You pressed your hand flat over his heart.

“It is,” You murmured, voice soft but insistent. “You’re the sun, Bob. You shine.”

And he hummed again–longer this time.

The sound of it curled between your legs like silk.

He shuddered a little, then kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, like he didn’t know what else to do with the feeling. You moaned into it and dragged your nails lightly down his ribs just to feel the way his body reacted to you–twitching and shifting a bit.

And when you whispered, “God, I could worship you like this,” His breath hitched so hard he nearly stumbled.

His breath was ragged now–hot and uneven where it puffed against your cheek, like every single thing you said was costing him control he barely knew how to hold onto in the first place.

“You…” He rasped, voice frayed and unsteady, like it was coming from somewhere much deeper than his throat, “You don’t… You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You smiled against his jaw.

“Yes, I do.”

His hands gripped the blanket–white-knuckled, grounding himself in the cotton and not the way your voice made his muscles twitch beneath your touch.

“You don’t understand,” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, like he couldn’t even look at you without giving something away. “I… I can’t keep–if you keep saying things like that–if you look at me like that–I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

His voice broke off with a shuddering inhale. His whole body trembled slightly over yours, caught between restraint and desire, and God, it was glorious.

You lifted your hand again–slow, gentle–and brushed your knuckles along his cheek. The scruff there was warm and soft, velvet over steel. He turned his face toward the touch before he could stop himself.

“Look at me,” You whispered.

He hesitated.

But only for a second.

Then he opened his eyes.

And it confirmed everything.

That glow wasn’t just a metaphor. It wasn’t poetic. It was real. His irises shimmered like molten honey shot through with starfire–like something barely leashed beneath the surface had opened a single, trembling eye.

The Sentry.

You saw it flicker there. Just enough.

Not violent. Not threatening. But watching.

And you smiled.

“I was right,” You murmured. “You really are the sun.”He tried to look away again. His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, his arms trembling where he held himself over you.

“You’re playing a d-dangerous game,” He warned, voice hoarse. “I don’t think you…I-I don’t think you know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” You breathed, sliding your hand down the curve of his ribs, across his waist, back to the firm plane of his abdomen. He flinched under your palm, hips jerking forward slightly before he caught himself. “I want all of it. I want both of you…And I know you can control it.”

Bob let out a sound then–something low and wrecked, somewhere between a moan and a growl, like the words had reached some part of him buried deep and sacred.

“Y-You don’t understand,” he whispered again, almost begging this time. “You don’t u-understand what you’re doing.”

You cupped his jaw and kissed him again, slow and hot and certain, your tongue sweeping into his mouth like a vow. His hands flew to your thighs, fingers gripping tight now, anchoring himself there as he kissed you back with everything he had. Desperate. Consuming.

And when you pulled back just enough to speak again, lips brushing his as you said it–

“I do understand.”

You leaned in and dragged your teeth lightly along his bottom lip, and his whole body shuddered.

“And I want it anyway.”

He groaned–loud this time. No holding back. No shame. Just the pure, guttural sound of a man unraveling.

And when he kissed you next, it wasn’t careful.

It was devotional. No longer the soft, trembling offering it had been moments prior. This one was hungry. A little rough around the edges. A gasp swallowed. A whimper chased. Bob’s hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt like he couldn’t stop himself, and you arched up instinctively, giving him the space–giving him everything.

The fabric lifted slowly, dragged over your ribs, baring warm skin to cooler air. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. His breath caught when he saw you in the golden light, chest rising with something close to reverence.

Then his hand slid behind you, trembling but sure, fingers working the clasp of your bra. It came undone with a quiet snap, and he slipped the straps down your arms with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. He let it fall to the floor like something holy, something he would not dare to crumple.

And then you laid back.

Slow, easy.

Your shoulders met the mattress first, followed by the curve of your spine, the arch of your hips, and the duvet puffed beneath you, soft and sun-warmed from the light still pouring through the linen lamp shade. Your chest was bare now, rising and falling with anticipation, skin kissed in shadows and gold.

Bob just stared.

And for a second, he didn’t move.

Because you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The way the light painted across your collarbones, soft and sloped. The subtle curve of your breasts, rising with every breath. The softness of your belly, the delicate line of your ribs. You looked like art. Like a myth. Like something that should’ve only existed in dreams.

He swallowed hard. His eyes shimmered.

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees between your thighs again.

His hands slid up your sides–warm, large, trembling just slightly. He mapped every inch of you like he needed to learn it by heart. His palms ghosted over your waist, up the softness of your ribs, and then…

He cupped your breasts carefully.

And let out a sound so low, so shattered, it made you ache.

“You’re…” He whispered, voice catching, “You’re s-so soft… So—God—beautiful.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and the contact sent a ripple through you—sharp, electric. Your back arched slightly, and he leaned in without thinking, mouthing gently at the swell of one breast while his hand continued to cradle the other. His lips were warm. Open. His breath huffed against your skin as he kissed, sucked, nuzzled—like he couldn’t decide what to do first.

“You’re perfect,” He whispered again, voice rougher now–lower, tinged with something molten that flickered beneath the surface.

His mouth closed around your nipple–slow and hot–and you gasped aloud, your fingers threading into his curls as your thighs shifted on either side of him. He moaned into you. Soft. Almost desperate. His tongue flicked gently, again and again, drawing it into his mouth with a devotion that bordered on worship.

“You d-don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured between kisses, dragging his mouth across your chest to give equal attention to the other. “Y-You’re everything… Every fucking thing–”

His voice cracked again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

That tone.

Just slightly deeper. Not quite his. Not quite the Sentry either–but something born of both.

It vibrated through his chest, warm and unsteady, like two frequencies overlapping. He kissed you again–lower now–over your ribs, then your navel. Every press of his lips was filled with awe. His hands stayed at your waist, holding you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

“I c-could die right here,” He whispered, his voice still shaking, still fighting to stay human. “You…You’d be the last thing I see and I’d be okay with it. I swear, I—”

His mouth found your stomach, trailing down with the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips, his hands never stopping their gentle, grounding rhythm. Circling. Worshipping.

You reached down, fingers finding his jaw, guiding him up for another kiss. And when he kissed you again, it was with more hunger. More heat. But still careful–still Bob. Even when his hands roamed again–up, over your ribs, back to your breasts, where he cupped them and whispered broken praise between kisses.

“So soft… Fuck, you’re so soft…Please let me… Let me love you–let me remember all of this–”

His voice shook with restraint, with reverence, with want so deep it nearly broke you. Your fingers still cradled his jaw when you whispered it.

“I’m yours.”

You didn’t even realize the words were leaving your mouth until they’d already cracked the air between you open like a vow, and Bob stilled like you’d just spoken the incantation that undid him.

His breath caught, sharp and audible–like his lungs didn’t know whether to inhale or collapse. His eyes fluttered shut. And when they opened again, they glowed. Not bright. Not blinding. But deeper. Gold laced in blue. A quiet surrender written in starlight.

His hands clenched at your waist, and his voice came out low. Lower than before. The edges rasped with something rough, barely reined in. Like the Sentry had pressed just behind his teeth, watching from the shadows of his throat.

“Can I…” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Can I take these off?”

His fingertips brushed just beneath the waistband of your shorts–trembling, reverent, barely there.

“Yes,” You breathed, hips tilting upward in offering.

He let out a sound like a prayer and leaned forward to kiss your mouth again–deep, slow, aching–before pulling back and sliding down the bed. His hands rose to your hips, and with careful fingers, he began to peel your shorts and underwear down your thighs. Inch by inch. Like unwrapping something sacred.

He didn’t rush. Not for a second.

He took his time baring you to the honey-colored light. His gaze never left your skin–like he was memorizing every inch, every curve. Like this was the moment he’d waited his entire life for.

And then, when the cotton hit your knees, he paused.

He bent forward.

And kissed the top of your thigh.

Soft. Open-mouthed. Warm, and wet. Doing the same to the other.

His breath stuttered, and he sank lower–kneeling now. Fully. Both palms spread wide across your thighs, grounding himself there. And it made sense then, why he had stopped you from crawling back on the bed. Why he kept you on the edge like this.

Because it let him kneel. It let him worship. He kissed your thighs like they were holy. Lips brushing up toward where you ached for him most, the anticipation a silk-wrapped noose around your lungs. He looked up once, just once, and the heat in his gaze nearly burned you alive.

“I-I’ve wanted this,” He whispered, breath trembling against your skin. “I’ve dreamed of this–of you–just like this…”

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

Because his mouth descended, slow and devastating.

A kiss–directly over your folds.

Tender. Lingering. His breath was warm. His lips parting against you in something deeper than intention.

You gasped–soft and sharp–as his tongue followed, slow and exploratory, dragging upward with a pressure that made your whole body seize. He moaned into you. Like the taste of you had broken something open inside him.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Until your hips were arching. Until your hands were in his hair. Until all you could hear was the wet, reverent sounds of him worshiping you like you were his only tether to the world.

He kissed every part of you like it mattered. Like he could feel your heartbeat in his mouth. His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting, spreading, cradling you wider. His thumbs pressed into the crease where thigh met hip, holding you open for him, and he groaned–deep, low, wrecked–as his mouth found your clit.

He sucked gently, lips sealing around it, and your whole body jerked. A breathless cry ripped from your chest, and you felt his hands tighten, grounding you. His tongue circled, slow and sure, his lips sliding against you in worshipful rhythm.

“Bob–” You gasped, the name slipping out like a plea. “Oh, my God–”

He moaned again–vibrating against you–and the sensation made your head fall back. The edge of the mattress bit into your spine, your legs trembling where they hung over his shoulders, and still–he didn’t stop. He didn’t even falter.

His mouth moved like it was built for this.

Slow. Devoted. Intoxicating.

You felt the tension coil–tight and deep–in your belly, in your spine, in the backs of your knees. And Bob felt it too. You could tell by the way his hands gripped tighter. The way his tongue flicked just a little faster, more precise now, teasing and coaxing as he devoured you. He drank your sounds like nectar. Like every moan was oxygen. His own breath was ragged now, and still–he praised.

“You taste like heaven,” He whispered, lips brushing you wet and wanting, voice thick and torn in two. “So fucking sweet–so good–God, you’re everything–”

You were shaking.

You were unraveling.

Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, and still–he stayed locked in place, mouth relentless and full of worship. One hand slid up your belly to your chest, grounding you again, his fingers curling over your ribs while the other stayed hooked beneath your thigh.

And then–

He flattened his tongue and dragged it up the center of you, slow and hard, and sealed his mouth around your clit one last time–sucking, flicking, groaning into you with a desperation so tender it broke you wide open.

The orgasm hit like sunrise.

Warm. Blinding. Slow at first—and then fast and full, like light spilling over the edge of your bones. Your whole body arched into him. You cried out–his name, the stars, everything–and his arms locked around your hips, holding you steady as he worked you through it, mouth still worshipping, still licking, still kissing every quake of pleasure like it was a gift he’d been waiting a lifetime to receive.

And when you finally collapsed–boneless and glowing, chest heaving, eyes wet with aftershocks–Bob pulled back slowly, lips slick, face flushed, and looked up at you like a man reborn.

He was breathless.

Shaking.

But his eyes were molten gold.

“You’re…Everything,” He whispered again, voice reverent. “Everything.” The words melted into your skin like heat, and when he spoke next–his lips still brushing just above your knee—it wasn’t just Bob.

“I want to give you another one…”

His voice was wrecked. Darker. Threaded with something molten and greedy.

“I want to feel you fall apart again, just for me…”

Before you could speak–before you could even breathe–his hand slid up the inside of your thigh. His fingers were slow, wet from where he’d worshiped you moments ago, and when they reached your center, he groaned softly at the heat still there.

“So warm,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Still trembling for me.”

Then—you felt it.

The press of two fingers, thick and slow, gliding through your slick folds, parting you with devastating precision.

You gasped—legs twitching from the aftershocks still fluttering through your body. “B-Bob—wait—”

But he didn’t pull away.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing—lit with starlight and hunger—and smiled. Soft. But feral.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, fingers still dragging gently through your folds. “I know you’re sensitive. But I promise—I’ll be so gentle.”

And he was.

Even when he slipped the first finger in, and then the second—stretching you slow, curling inside you with aching care—his touch was worship. His breath shook with restraint, with reverence, with something barely caged beneath his ribs.

You cried out—half from pleasure, half from overstimulation—as his fingers began to move. A steady rhythm. In and out, in and out, curling at the top each time until sparks flared up your spine.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours. “So fucking good for me.”

The pace never quickened. But the pressure built. And built.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thigh with every stroke, like he was timing his mouth to your unraveling. Your hands fisted in the duvet, your hips twitching every time his fingers brushed that devastating spot inside you—and still, he moved like a man being fed by your pleasure. Like this—wrecking you gently—was salvation.

“I can feel you,” he whispered, voice thick. “You’re clenching around me already, aren’t you? You’re so close…”

You whimpered, nodding, barely able to hold yourself up.

He pulled his fingers nearly all the way out—then pushed them back in, slow and deep, curling them harder this time. You choked on a sob.

“I want it,” he murmured. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go again—one more. Just one more for me.”

Your thighs shook. Your lips parted on a gasp as the pressure bloomed hard and fast this time—your body raw and exposed and aching for him.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your inner thigh as he worked you open on his fingers. “I want to see your soul when you come. Please, baby, show it to me.”

The second orgasm hit like a wave breaking against rock.

Rougher. Hungrier. You cried out again, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs locking around his wrist as you shattered all over him. The sound that tore from you wasn’t pretty–it was real. It was desperate. It was a gift.

Bob groaned–deep and guttural–as you pulsed around his fingers, your release soaking him, your voice ragged and broken as you whispered his name again and again.

He didn’t stop until your body finally slumped back against the sheets, spent and shaking, your skin glistening with sweat and devotion.

Only then did he slide his fingers free slowly, and lift them to his mouth.

He sucked them clean.

Eyes locked on yours.

And when he finally stood–shoulders heaving, sweat dripping down the curve of his throat–he looked like a god descending from whatever mythical place they belonged to

The Sentry was still there in the golden flicker of his eyes. Greedy. Glowing. Waiting.

“Now,” He said, voice low and reverent as he reached for his waistband, “I’m going to make love to you.” You were still gasping, chest rising in sharp, uneven waves, your limbs spread across the bed like they’d melted into the duvet. Your fingers twitched where they gripped the sheets. The light from the nightstand made everything feel golden and close, like time had slowed just for the two of you.

Bob moved carefully.

Softly.

You barely noticed at first–only the shift of pressure beneath your thigh, the way his hand skimmed under your back. But then he was there, lifting you just enough to guide you farther up the bed. His touch was trembling but sure, all Bob again–no flicker, no pulse of divinity. Just the man. The hands that had brushed paint onto your walls, the voice that had whispered to you in the dark when nightmares clawed through the silence.

“L-Lay back,” He murmured, eyes searching your face like he needed permission again. “J-Just wanna get you comfortable…”

You nodded, boneless and warm, your heart still fluttering in your chest.

He kissed your neck as he helped you settle, lips brushing right where your pulse fluttered. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was grounding. Anchoring. The kind of kiss that said you’re safe. That said I’ve got you.

You sighed against him.

And when he pulled back just enough to stand again, his hands went to his waistband.

He hesitated.

Only for a second.

But then–he slipped his thumbs beneath the edge of his sweatpants and boxers, and pushed them down slowly, hips rolling just slightly as the fabric slid over his thighs.

And there he was.

His erection stood proud and flushed, the head a soft blush red, glistening at the tip, his length thick and veined–aching and heavy with want. It wasn’t just beautiful–it was intimate. Unfiltered. Bob, exposed. Unhidden. And yet… utterly perfect.

You inhaled softly, lips parting around a soundless gasp. He looked vulnerable like this, not in shame, but in reverence. He wasn’t flaunting it. He wasn’t posing. He was present.

Breath stuttering slightly, Bob stepped out of the bunched fabric around his ankles and nudged it aside with his foot before crawling onto the bed, careful not to jostle you too fast. He kissed your knee first, then your hip, then the soft underside of your ribcage, working his way up your body with aching, deliberate slowness.

You reached for him without thinking, needing to touch all of him now. Your hands slid across his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, the little tremors in his arms. He nestled between your thighs as he reached you fully, bracing himself on one forearm while the other arm hooked gently beneath your thigh, guiding it up and around his waist. Then–

He slipped one arm behind your neck.

Cradling you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

His hips rested just above yours, the heat of him brushing your center, not yet aligned–but enough to make you both moan at the contact. His body blanketed yours, but not heavily. He held himself up with care, like every ounce of pressure he applied was measured, considered.

His lips found your throat again, this time pressing just below your jaw. “Y/N…” He whispered, voice cracking. “T-This is all I’ve e-ever wanted.”

You turned your head, your lips brushing his temple, then his cheek.

“Bob,” You breathed. “You’re so good. You’re so perfect…I want you so bad.”

He let out a shuddering sound. A whimper, almost. And when he kissed you again–open-mouthed, lips dragging along your collarbone–you felt him whisper something against your skin.

“I’m gonna go slow… I–I wanna feel all of you. I want you to feel me.”

His voice stuttered again, and that alone almost undid you. Because it was him.

Not the Sentry.

Not the glowing power that had shimmered behind his irises. Just Bob–soft, trembling, and wrecked with love, and holding you like you were divine.

Bob shifted just slightly–allowing his hand to slip between your bodies, low and slow, until he wrapped his fingers around himself. You could feel the tremble in his arm as he lined himself up, the heat of him pressing right where you were still soaked and aching for him.

“Okay?” he whispered, eyes searching your face.

You nodded–barely, breath caught in your throat–and lifted your hips just enough to meet him.

His hand slipped to your thigh, guiding it back up around his waist, and then–

He kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Tongue brushing yours like it was a prayer. And as your mouths moved together, slick and open and gasping, he began to press in.

The stretch stole your breath.

The head of him pushed into you, thick and hot and slow, and your lips parted with a gasp that he swallowed greedily. His whole body shuddered over you as he sank deeper–inch by inch–your walls fluttering around him, still trembling from the afterglow of the orgasms he’d already given you. Every nerve ending felt raw and alight, turned inside out by pleasure, by sensation, by him.

“Oh my God,” you whimpered, nails digging lightly into his back.

He moaned into your mouth–long and low and desperate–and pushed in further, your body yielding for him, stretching to accommodate the full length of him. His hips trembled with restraint, his hand never leaving your thigh, thumb brushing small circles into your skin to soothe you as he sank deeper and deeper.

You felt full.

You felt wrecked.

You felt like you were being split open in the most perfect, intimate way–and still, he didn’t stop. Not until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against yours, his chest heaving above you like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And then…

He stilled, breathless, inside you.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel the sweat on his skin, the warmth of it, the shiver still running through him as he tried not to move. He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your temple–his lips brushing each place like a whispered offering.

“You feel…” He choked, “You feel so good–so warm–so soft–”

Your hands slid up his back, anchoring there, and he kissed the corner of your mouth again.

“I don’t ever wanna move,” He whispered, voice wrecked and thick and glowing at the edges. “I just wanna stay right here. Inside you. Forever.”

You whimpered, barely holding onto your breath, your hips twitching slightly beneath his.

”Bob…I’m all yours and…My god you’re amazing.” He groaned against your skin–low and needy–and kissed the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your throat.

Then, softer–

“Tell me when,” he whispered. “I won’t move until you’re ready.”

You breathed in slowly, body still adjusting to the stretch of him, to the heat and fullness and sheer beauty of having him this close. His thumb was still brushing lazy circles against your thigh, the other hand stroking your hair back from your temple.

And then you nodded.

You turned your face to his, kissed him slowly, and whispered:

“Now.”

He moved.

Just a little.

Just enough for you both to feel it–just enough for the glide to send a shudder through your spine. His hips drew back, slow and measured, and then pressed forward again with aching care. Your mouth dropped open around a moan—his name falling from your lips—and he echoed it with a broken sound of his own.

Every thrust was deliberate.

Every movement was a confession.

Every time he sank back into you, he gasped–like the sensation was too much, like he still couldn’t believe you were real beneath him, taking him in, holding him so tight and perfect and wet.

“You’re perfect,” He rasped, hips rocking into you slow and deep, his lips never straying far from your skin. His hips rolled into you slowly filling you with each deep, reverent thrust like he couldn’t bear to pull away too far. His lips trailed up your jaw, brushing your cheek, then your temple, and every time he bottomed out, he moaned like your body had answered a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

You gasped again–sharp, breathless–your back arching into him. The motion pressed your chest to his, and your nails curled slightly into his back. Just enough to drag. Just enough to leave a faint trace.

Bob shuddered. His breath hitched, and he groaned–low and ragged–into your skin.

“D-Do that again,” He begged, voice breaking, “God–please–do that again.”

You did. Fingertips digging a little deeper this time, dragging down his spine, and the reaction was immediate–his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering with a gasp that sounded possessed with pleasure.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his voice muffled against your skin.

“Fuck–you feel like heaven–you are heaven–” He breathed, hips beginning to move again. A little faster now. Still deep. Still careful. But urgent.

His hand cupped the side of your face, brushing hair from your cheek, and the other remained locked at your thigh, holding it high around his waist. You could feel every inch of him–the stretch, the heat, the connection–and God, it was unbearable how good it felt.

“I’m not hurting you a-am I?” he whispered, just barely audible. “T-Tell me if I am, tell me–”

“No,” You gasped. “No, Bob, it’s perfect–you’re perfect–please don’t stop–”

That made him whimper. His whole body shivered above you, and you felt the light from the lamp begin to shift. It had been warm and muted before–but now, it pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Like something responding to the heat in the room. Each time he thrust into you, it grew just a little brighter.

Neither of you noticed at first–too lost in each other, in the intimacy coiling tight between your bodies–but you felt it. That warmth. That power building in the air. The glow of something just beneath the surface.

Bob kissed you again–messy, deep, almost broken–and your hips rolled up to meet his. You were moving with him now, chasing the friction, your body writhing beneath his, needing it. Needing him.

“I-I can feel all of you,” He moaned, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies met, his voice wrecked. You keened at the words, thighs tightening around him, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He was fully inside you now with every stroke, and you could feel another orgasm building, hotter and faster than before–simmering low in your belly, pulsing in time with the light around you.

His face hovered over yours, sweat clinging to his temple, lips trembling with restraint.

And his eyes–

They glowed.

Bright now.

The Sentry wasn’t gone.

But he wasn’t in control, either.

Just there. Watching. Letting Bob feel it all. Letting him worship you with everything he had—every thrust, every kiss, every broken praise.

His voice dropped, deeper than before. Still Bob. But laced with something else.

“Where do you want me?” He asked, his breath hot against your cheek. “Where do you want me to come, sweetheart?”

You met his eyes–gold and blue and glowing–and you moaned through clenched teeth, your whole body beginning to tremble again.

“Inside me,” You gasped. “Please, Bob–I want you to come inside–I want to feel it–want to feel you fill me up–”

He snapped.

His rhythm faltered. His hips ground against you harder now—still deep, but no longer controlled. There was hunger now. Desperation. He chased it with everything he had, every stroke punctuated by breathless moans and praise, his mouth dragging along your skin like he couldn’t stop kissing you, couldn’t stop telling you how perfect you were.

“Gonna give it to you,” He choked out. “Gonna give you all of it—fuck—you’re mine—”

The light in the room brightened to a crescendo–gold washing over every surface, turning the walls to fire and your skin to sun-kissed silk. And just as you felt your orgasm snap again–fast and hard and all-consuming, your body tightening and convulsing around him–

Bob let out a broken moan, that sounded like he was on the brink of crying. He was out of breath, and so hot it felt like he had fallen from the sun.

And then the lightbulb burst.

Glass popped with a sharp, cracking sound, shards raining harmlessly inside the shade as the room flickered and dimmed.

And he poured into you.

Thrusting deep one last time–hips locked against yours, arms shaking, his name echoing from your mouth as his pleasure hit–blinding and endless. He held you through it, his body shaking over yours, gasping your name like it was the only word he knew.

And somewhere–distant, muffled–you heard raised voices. Muffled arguing, like yelling.

But it was all far away.

Because your ears were ringing.

Like someone had struck a tuning fork behind your ribs and sent the vibration through your entire body. You could feel the aftershocks echoing in your spine, down your legs, across your fingertips still curled in his back.

Bob’s body trembled against yours, skin damp with sweat, chest heaving like he’d run miles through a sunstorm just to get to you. He didn’t move—not right away. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder as he whispered your name again. Softer this time. Wrecked. Worshipful.

Your hands were still in his hair, fingers brushing through the damp curls at the base of his neck, your heartbeat thudding in your throat. Your whole body felt molten—boneless and glowing, like you’d been struck by lightning but kissed by it too. And the warmth between your legs, the slow throb where he still pulsed inside you, grounded it all in something sacred.

You shifted slightly—just enough to feel him twitch as he began to soften, still deep inside, your bodies tangled like ivy in the low light of the room.

He kissed your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then your lips—slow and trembling, a thank-you in every brush.

“I-I love th-that I get to call y-you mine…” He breathed, barely audible against your lips.

One of your hands cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking his flushed cheek, and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

But then…

The sound of shouting finally cut through the quiet.

Your eyes opened.

Bob’s head lifted slightly, brow furrowing. Somewhere down the hallway—muffled through the compound walls—came the unmistakable sound of bickering. Loud. Confused. Walker’s voice, sharp and irritated. Yelena’s voice following with something distinctly Russian and exasperated.

“…I’m telling you that wasn’t the oven–” Walker yelled.

“Then what was it, genius? Light bulbs don’t just explode like that!” Ava screamed.

“Maybe you sneeze too hard–” Alexei chimed in.

“Oh my God, shut up, all of you–there’s glass in the hallway–”Bucky interrupted.

Bob pulled back slowly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were still a little dazed, his hair curling at the temples from sweat, and his cheeks were flushed pink from effort and something more vulnerable, and then he glanced over at the remains of your lamp's lightbulb. The connection was immediate.

”Oh…O-Oh Jesus Christ…” He whispered, and you watched his face go a deeper red. “Oh god…T-They’re gonna know it’s me…W-What the hell is wrong w-with me?” You let out a soft and breathless laugh, before reaching out to caress his face.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.” You leaned in and gave him a gentle is on the lips, as he groaned.

”I just b-blew every lightbulb on this level…God o-only knows what e-else I did.” You snorted, now picturing every level of the Tower needing replacement light bulbs and tears of laughter began prickling at your eyes.

And Bob, still buried inside you, still flushed and glowing, started laughing too. Quietly at first. Then louder. The kind of laugh that shook through his chest and softened everything. Like the sound of guilt melting into joy. Like sunlight cracking through the last remnants of a storm.

”We’re definitely going to need a really good excuse.” You murmured, leaning forward to steal another kiss, earning a soft hum from Bob.

”I k-know…But that’s f-for future us t-to worry about I think…”

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