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Yelena hated the Fourth of July.
Not the day itself, not the representation of America, with all its consumerism and celebrating of mediocrity.
Fourth of July reminded her of dried grass under her feet, the taste of watermelon on her tongue as she shared a piece with Natasha, watching the kids in Ohio throw water balloons at eachother.
It reminded her of watching Alexei burn hotdogs on their rusty grill, laughing and watching Melina try and cover the burnt taste with ketchup, trying to hide her frown from the neighbors.
“Ketchup tastes like red sugar, too sweet,” she would whisper to the giggling girls as they walked around the block party, mingling.
And as the evening would fall, Yelena and Natasha would gather with the other kids and hold onto sparklers, twirling them around and laughing freely.
Glittering from the fireworks, miles away, would light the sky up and rumble in her chest. The reflections of the glow, illuminating Natasha’s eyes and she felt like she could live in the moment forever.
Then it was taken away.
Snatched by Dreykov and the Red Room. Any memories of explosions glittering in the sky were replaced by explosions that rattled her teeth. Screams of joy replaced by terror. The wind ruffling her hair as she sat on a blanket, now the hot gust as she scrambled on concrete, nails breaking, to escape the fire.
Destruction. Caused by her.
•
Bob hated the Fourth of July.
Not the day itself, where he could wander barefoot through the block party, a Capri Sun in hand. The kids would compete to see who could drink theirs the fastest, Bob would join, his cheeks hurting from laughing at the hijinks of his friends.
But as he laughed, his eyes would seek out his mom and dad, a small twinge in his stomach. His parents were drinking, but that was what all the adults did, surely things would be okay.
A neighbor worked the grill and flipped patties. Bob would grab a hamburger and douse it in ketchup, grinning while watching the older kids push eachother into the sprinklers and egg eachother on, sneaking sips from the spiked punch on the end table.
The evening would fall and everyone would watch the fireworks, a popsicle melting cold and sweet on Bob’s tongue. He would feel so at peace in the chaos of the colors in the sky.
Then they would go home.
His dad would stumble, slap his mother over some imagined slight. Bob would step forward, try and stop it.
The sounds of explosions would meld in his mind with the sounds of fists hitting flesh. Bruises blooming on his body, red and blue and purple like the fireworks in the sky.
Anguish. Caused by him.
•
“Yelena, let’s go!”
Yelena laid out on the couch and ignored Alexei’s call, the remote limply hanging in her hand as she flipped through channels. Bob was in a loveseat off to the side, a book in hand.
The television view was blocked by a pair of legs, clad in American Flag shorts. Yelena closed her eyes and prayed for patience, before looking up at her father.
“Lenaaaa, you love fireworks, come with us!”
She pursed her lips and shook her head, tightening her grip on the remote. “No, I think I’m good here,” she muttered, sliding into the cushions further. Alexei frowned and looked over at Bob, who was now hiding behind the book.
“You two are no fun,” Alexei whined, turning and leaving the pair.
“Oh leave them alone,” Ava said, walking into the living space with John’s son propped on her hip. “Not everyone likes fireworks,” she added, putting the toddler down and watching him shakily make his way to his father, his arms up in a silent plea to be lifted.
John acquiesced and lifted his boy up, kissing one of his chubby cheeks. “We should head out now to get a good spot,” he said, shifting the boy to hold with one arm so he and Ava could link hands with the other.
“Bucky and Mel are already there, they save us spot,” Alexei called, opening the door and ushering out the couple and child, waving at Yelena and Bob.
“Have fun, guys,” Bob called out halfheartedly, lowering the book to wave back.
Alexei slammed the door and Yelena muted the tv, sighing heavily. “It’s never this quiet,” she heard Bob say meekly. She kept her eyes shut and nodded, sliding down so she was laying fully on her side on the couch.
Yelena felt a bone-deep exhaustion in the quiet, and the soft cushions of the couch engulfed her and she drifted to the sounds of pages flipping and Bob’s steady breathing.
•
BOOM
Yelena sat up with a start, her heart pounding, her hand going to her thigh. No holster, no weapon, she was not prepared and going to die and —
A loud whistling followed by another resounding clap, her eyes wildly searching in the dark, the television on and still muted, a light in the darkness.
“Yelena, hey, it’s okay, it’s just, it’s just the people on the streets,” Bob was standing, hovering, a hand reaching out, but not touching her.
She shifted, standing abruptly. Bob took a step back and held his hands out in alarm. “Woah, Yelena, hey, are you okay?”
She looked up at him and nodded, feeling a tear trail from her eye, down her cheek. Another loud explosion of sound and she jumped, trembling, hands clenching at her sides. Bob stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of her head. She melted against him and hid her face in his chest, her arms wrapping around him and squeezing him close. His heart was racing, too.
They stood like that for a few moments, each stiffening slightly when another firecracker would go off, then relaxing back into the embrace in the ensuing silence.
“You know, people think it’s fun,” Yelena whispered, her lips moving against his sweater. “They think the noise and the lights are so fun. They don’t know what it means, really. The sulfur smell, the burn of a bullet, the fear,” she took a deep breath and pulled back, looking up at Bob, the light from the television leaving half his face in shadow.
“It’s not a great holiday tradition,” he chuckled weakly, bringing a hand up to run through Yelena’s hair.
She laughed gently, her eyes locked on his, sparkling green meeting the deepest blue. His fingers kept working through her locks and she inhaled deeply, breathing in Bob’s fabric softener and skin scent, a swooping sensation hitting in her belly.
“Maybe.. maybe it’s time to make our own traditions?” Bob asked, his eyes locked on her lips. She nodded silently, letting him take her hand and lead her to the elevator. He pressed the button for the roof, and held her hand the whole silent ride up.
The doors opened and he walked to the helipad, Yelena gripping his hand and following behind, her shoulders tensing slightly as the noises of the crowds below grew louder.
“I don’t really like this - this holiday,” Bob began, standing side-by-side with Yelena, his eyes up on the stars that had started to blink into existence in the twilight.
“My dad… he always drank, that wasn’t anything new. But something about the holidays brought the worst out in him. Maybe it was seeing how other families were. Or how the other kids acted. Who knows,” he shrugged and ran his free hand through his hair, pushing his curls back from his forehead.
“But I think I could maybe, maybe come to like it… if I spent it with you.”
Yelena tore her eyes from the darkening sky and looked at Bob, who was looking down at her with pure affection, his bottom lip between his teeth.
Yelena felt herself breathing and felt her feet on the concrete, but she felt like time had stopped and like she was floating.
All that existed in that moment were his eyes.
She smiled at him, unbridled joy filling her as she got on her tiptoes and kissed him clumsily, her arms wrapping behind his neck, fingers tangling in his locks.
The first whistling began and a firework exploded high in the sky above them, illuminating their embrace in sparking phosphorescence.
Bob tasted like the memory of sweet watermelon and made her feel like she could live in the moment forever.
🎆