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You did not want to come out tonight.
Well, in part you were curious as to what exactly a gala entails, but with your ragtag team of mercenaries almost nobody was invested in appearing tonight. Well, aside from Alexei eager to show off the team. You rarely see Yelena and Ava dress formally, their dresses notably elegant and distinct.
Your own feels pale in comparison, having to shove yourself into a box that you could not quite seem to fit. Sleek black silk cloaks you, its floor length obvious as the hem brushes the marble below you. The lot of you had hardly any time to view one another, crammed into the backseat of a limo Valentina had used to collect you. At least now you can get a decent look at everyone after the initial round of press.
Bob had been invited along with the team, but was forced to take a separate vehicle. He was maintaining a low profile ever since the incident only a few months prior, and nobody could fault him for that.
“Do you think they have hoity toity hors d’oeuvres or something?” Yelena prods, probably just thinking aloud, “I’m starving,” she sighs, pacing towards the entryway that led to the main dance hall. Her blonde hair is tousled with waves, her bangs framing her face. Stubbornly, she attempts to blow it away to no avail.
“You think with your stomach. The whole common fridge has a shelf dedicated to your pickles and cheese,” Ava retorts, but she’s grown fonder of the team nonetheless.
Alexei storms in front of everyone else, bursting into the room several paces ahead with extreme enthusiasm.
The banter fades into the recesses of your conscience, more focused on the grandeur of the main hall. A grand staircase greets you, your hands gingerly raising your dress as you descend. An air of opulence floats about the room, a crystal chandelier hanging upon the ceiling.
Your lips part in awe, continuing to step down. Many view your group, your eyes raking over the audience until you find him.
His eyes are transfixed upon you, hopeful, admiring, and yearning. The Bob you see is a far cry from the one lounging around the compound, no loose sweaters to hide his figure- a fitted tuxedo hugs his torso.
“He’s doing the googly eye thing,” Yelena whispers, eliciting an amused scoff from you. She seems entertained by playing matchmaker, but you’re sure Bob has his own problems to manage. He doesn’t need you.
Still, the most polite course of action is to greet your coworker/friend/roommate of course, so you find yourself weaving through the crowd while the remainder of the team disperses into the room. Unbeknownst to you, he’s been doing the same, hopeful for your company ever since he arrived.
Up close, he doesn’t seem so startlingly different in contrast. He’s still the same man. A crooked boutonnière stands proud upon his lapel, a lock of hair refuses to be styled, and his cerulean eyes seem to always be focused on you.
“You… you look beautiful,” he says, reverent as ever. He cautiously steps closer to you, as if attempting to fathom that you’re even real.
Because you’re not a memory stolen from the Void, nor a fleeting glimpse of joy in his previously bitter life. You’re real, tangible and absolutely striking. Your lashes kiss your cheeks as you glance towards the ground, a bit shy.
Of course someone as wonderful as him has the ability to make your knees weak.
Your eyebrow raises, playfully eyeing him. “You’re one to talk,” you shrug, a moment of pause standing between the two of you. You’d hoped that the two of you would grow more comfortable conversing. There was occasional banter, where you’d share details of your day. The store clerk at a bagel shop in the city, a little girl pointing up at you with awe, and the kind lady on the subway. He’d do the same while the two of you cleaned around the compound or went grocery shopping. Spending time with him became domestic, something that terrified you and stoked the flames of your fondness for him.
“..do you wanna dance?” You offer, extending a hand towards him.
“Sure- yeah,” he nods, his free lock of hair bobbing with the movement,
“if you’ll have me.”
A scoff escapes you, as if the thought of turning him away was ridiculous.
“Why wouldn’t I?” You comment, not leaving any room for questioning. The two of you weave your way through to the dancing portion of the hall, his hand resting on your own as the other rests just above your waist. You step a tad closer, the air stifling and your breath almost stilling.
His hands rest tentatively, yours doing the same. You feel a streak of boldness, your thumb gingerly smoothing out his lapel. You almost don’t notice the way his heart is racing beneath your palm.
“I was hoping you’d be able to stay at the compound with me this week,” he confesses, “I’m due for a night of rest.”
You cock your head to the side, eyebrows furrowing with concern.
“Trouble sleeping lately?”
“That, and everyone’s been on their toes lately. Been remindin’ me-“
Suddenly, a jolt of force almost seems to knock you over. You don’t catch a decent look of their face, your shoulder stinging from the impact. Your torso is knocked, half pried out of Bob’s hands as the hand on your waist supports you.
His eyes are flooded with concern, never once leaving you as he scans you frantically.
“Hey- you ok?” He inquires, voice tinged with worry. The raspy quality to his voice has you attempting to steady your legs, lest you almost tip over once more.
You can feel the gaze of several onlookers, but you find yourself seemingly unbothered. His is the only one that matters.
“Yeah, ‘m fine,” you mutter, the hand that was once on his chest finding purchase on his shoulder. If anything, from an onlooker’s perspective this could’ve been played off as him dipping you, which seems to stir something within your stomach.
“You’re more heroic than you give yourself credit for,” you tease after a moment, the two of you stepping in tandem with the surrounding couples.
“It’s more natural than you think,” you murmur, your hand resting on the nape of his neck. You almost don’t notice the way he melts, leaning into your touch.
Curiosity flickers behind his eyes, a warmth blooming within his chest.
“Do you like me playing hero? N-not that you need saving or anything-“ he rambles, but trails off once he sees you. Not the hardened front for press, but the kind, empathetic and caring person he’s come to know. The one who gently glides behind him in the kitchen to add something to the skillet, who accidentally locks eyes with him from across the conference room, who’s lingering touches have been seared to his skin and worshipfully committed to memory.
“Yeah. I do.” You whisper, your lips pressing together before they part for a cheesy grin.
Your steps are careful, measured, worried your step on his toes. Despite your coordination as a mercenary, you still manage to be rendered immobile by his presence. Especially when he’s holding you like porcelain, hands cradling your figure like you were worth more than anything.
“I’m up to stay behind from a mission this week.”
Something small twists in your gut, guilt eating away at your conscience. You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s a far cry from your main priority- yet his smile keeps your worries at bay for now. Keeping him company is enough, the soft moments between the two of you something sacred and almost saccharine.