Chapter Text
John lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him some answers.
Plain, white, empty. Like his mind should be.
But tonight, it wasn’t. Tonight, his thoughts were loud.
He turned his head to the glowing numbers on his bedside clock: 12:04 AM.
Too late to be awake, too early to give up.
It’s that damn gym session, he thought bitterly. That’s what did it.
◇ Earlier That Day ◇
After his morning shower, John hadn’t even bothered with breakfast. The tower was usually dead at this hour, perfect for the gym. Or so he thought.
As he stepped in, there was someone already there. Bob.
Lifting.
John stopped in the doorway, puzzled. Bob Reynolds did not strike him as the workout type. The guy was all soft energy and awkward charm—he didn’t need to train. Especially not with that terrifying other side of him locked away.
But there he was, shirtless, casually curling a barbell that looked like it weighed more than the bike John sometimes struggled to move.
“Morning, Bob... since when do you work out?”
Bob jumped, almost dropping the barbell. “Oh—hey, Walker. Uh, Val wants me to start training. Y’know, to defend myself in case I can’t—or shouldn’t—go all... well, Void.”
John nodded, only half-listening. He was too busy tracking the way Bob’s arms flexed around the barbell. The way his torso stretched and curved.
When the hell did he get abs?
Not just some half-assed muscle either; he was cut. Like someone chiseled him out of marble and then painted him soft and warm. The curve of his waist, the flatness of his stomach, the v-line-
John swallowed dryly. Jealousy, he told himself. That's all it is. God, how is that fair?
“Makes sense,” he muttered aloud, voice rough. He gestured vaguely at the weights. “Jesus, you’re... strong.”
Bob laughed sheepishly. “Yeah, um, thanks. Everything else felt too light, so I kinda kept moving up. This was the heaviest I could find.”
He wasn’t even putting it down while talking. Like it was nothing.
John’s throat tightened. His gaze trailed back to Bob’s chest, the definition of his pecs, the faint sheen of sweat across his collarbones.
He tore his eyes away. What the hell is wrong with you? He thought, cursing himself.
“Right—uh, well... carry on.” He cleared his throat and hurried to the other side of the gym, pretending to fiddle with equipment he didn’t even plan to use.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Bob watching him, that slight quirk to his lips like he knew something.
That made it worse.
◇ Back in the Present ◇
John exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. Shouldn’t be remembering the ridges of Bob’s stomach like he’d memorized them. He turned onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut.
It’s just... envy. Guy’s built like a Greek statue, and I look like a damn action figure someone forgot to finish painting.
But the excuses felt hollow.
It’s not like I’d-
He didn’t even let the thought finish. Not even in his own head.
He couldn’t like a guy. Not like that. He was raised better—or at least, that’s what his gut told him. Somewhere deep down, tangled up in Southern manners, fire-and-brimstone sermons, and locker room bravado.
Liking guys? That wasn’t him.
And yet...
Yet he kept thinking about Bob’s smirk. His voice. The casual way his muscles shifted under his skin. The warmth in his eyes when he smiled, like he was carrying light inside him.
Goddammit.
He sighed harder and finally, mercifully, sleep took him.
○ Dream ○
“Wait—you used to be Captain America?”
Bob’s voice, bright and amused.
John scowled. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” Bob chuckled, “you’re an asshole.”
John’s blood ran hot. He fake-laughed and closed the distance, shoving Bob against a wall. Put the little shit in his place, he told himself.
But Bob looked up at him, eyes glowing a shade of gold, gaze burning, wanting. Like he liked being cornered.
Yelena was saying something, but John didn’t hear. His pulse drowned everything out. He was staring into those eyes, that half-daring smirk, wanting to shove him far away, or kiss him. He wasn’t sure which.
And then suddenly everything changed. He was back facing Sentry again. The slicked-back hair, the gold suit, Bob’s face just sharper. Hungrier. Confident in a way Bob never was, like he owned the air he breathed.
John remembered the fight, the ease with which Sentry crushed them all. Bent his shield like it was tinfoil. But he hadn’t killed him, not when Valentina told him to.
That always stuck with him.
But now, in the dream, all he could focus on was how good Sentry looked while tossing them around. How the power fit him, how the confidence looked natural on him. Sexy, even.
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me—
John jolted awake, groaning. His head heavy, his heart worse.
Now I’m dreaming about him? This is a fucking problem.
He sighed and forced himself up, stumbling into the shower. The water wasn’t cold enough to erase the thoughts replaying in his head:
The gym.
The wall.
That golden stare.
He shut off the water abruptly, scowling at himself in the mirror.
“You’re not that guy, Walker,” he muttered to his reflection. “Not like that.”
But the words sounded fake.
And when he got dressed, pulling on a dark shirt, he caught himself thinking would he notice me like this?
He cursed himself under his breath and shoved the thought away, as if that’d be enough to kill it.
It wasn’t.
John was feeling... generous. Maybe restless was a better word, but he didn’t want to think too hard about that.
He made his way into the common area, straight for the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and rifling through the fridge. Feeding a team of supers was like prepping for an army; Alexei loved to remind them of that.
John didn’t mind the work. Cooking was simple. Predictable. Food didn’t talk back or make you second-guess yourself.
He was halfway through planning a mental menu when a familiar voice cut in behind him.
“Open to suggestions?”
Bob.
John turned, leaning back against the counter. “Sure.”
Bob stepped closer, peering into the fridge, his shoulder brushing John’s arm for just a second—barely a touch, but John felt it like a jolt to the spine.
“Eggs, bacon, French toast,” Bob suggested, a quiet hum in his voice.
John nodded. “Good idea, Bobert.”
Bob paused, head tilted like the nickname caught him off guard—but he didn’t protest. Just smiled faintly.
John grabbed the eggs and bacon, brushing past Bob. He wasn’t sure if he did it on purpose. Probably not. Probably.
Bob hopped up onto the counter, settling in to watch. He didn’t say anything, just... observed.
John tried to focus on the rhythm of cooking—the crack of eggs, the sizzle of bacon—but it was hard to ignore the feeling of being watched. Bob’s gaze was steady, curious, maybe even impressed.
It made John’s neck hot.
He kept his back turned, but his mind raced. Why’s he looking like that? Probably just curious. Right? Probably wondering why John even knows how to cook. Most guys like him weren’t expected to.
But still—he could feel Bob’s eyes tracking him.
John moved methodically between pans, tossing bacon, scrambling eggs, starting the French toast. Cooking gave him something to control when his thoughts wouldn’t sit still. When they kept straying back to things they shouldn’t.
Like how Bob’s legs swung lazily against the cabinets, or the way his hair looked slightly tousled, like he just rolled out of bed.
John set a plate down in front of him—Bob’s eggs the way he liked them, bacon crisped just right, golden French toast dusted with cinnamon.
Bob grinned, eyes wide, almost childlike. He wasted no time digging in, chewing fast like he hadn’t eaten in days.
John chuckled under his breath and poured him a glass of orange juice, sliding it across the counter.
“Don’t choke,” John said, smirking slightly.
Bob glanced up, cheeks full, and managed a muffled, “Thanks.”
John’s heart warmed against his better judgment. It wasn’t even about the food—he liked being able to give Bob something.
Hw tried not to think about that too much.
By the time Bucky wandered in, grumbling a half-awake. John set the plate down in front of him, earning a confused look from Bucky. He glanced over at Bob for an explanation, a shrug was his only response. He muttered a thank you to John and started to wat his food greatfully
One by one, the team trickled in, sleepy-eyed and pajama-clad, gathering plates like the start of some weirdly functional family sitcom.
Yelena was the last to arrive, pausing mid-step in her ridiculous bear-print pajamas that Alexei had forced on everyone. She squinted suspiciously.
“Did I miss someone’s birthday? Why is it cheery in here?” she muttered, scanning the room like she expected someone to spring a prank on her.
“Walker’s in a good mood, that’s all,” Ava chimed in, sipping from a mug. “Don’t ask too many questions or he might stop.”
Their laughter echoed softly, the kitchen briefly alive with it.
Bob watched John—watched how his shoulders weren’t quite as tense this morning, how his mouth kept almost smiling.
He’s different today.
Bob didn’t get it.
He didn’t get him.
And when everyone else drifted off, pulled back to their routines, it was just Bob and John left standing in the kitchen, a pile of dirty dishes between them.
Without even needing to discuss it, they fell into step together. Bob washing, John drying.
It felt weirdly... easy. Quiet, sure, but comfortable.
Their fingers brushed when Bob passed him a plate. Just that—a brush of skin—but John pulled his hand back a little too quickly, eyes flicking down like the contact startled him.
Bob blinked. He didn’t mean to he wasn’t even thinking about it. But now the air felt a little denser.
Their conversation was light, surface-level. Bob asked about a new mission. John answered with half a smile. The whole time, though, Bob cpuld feel that distance. Like John was walking a wire between them, one wrong step from tipping away completely.
It unsettled Bob more than he wanted to admit.
He didn’t get why it bothered him so much. He was close with the rest of the team. He could throw himself into Ava’s space, or lay sideways on Yelena’s bed, or bug Bucky until the man finally cracked a grin.
But John?
John was stiff, formal. Every rare joke from him felt like a trophy Bob had accidentally earned. And lately, even that seemed to be slipping.
It was driving Bob nuts. He wanted to be closer. Wanted to... fix it, whatever it was.
But every time he tried to think of how to start, his brain blanked.
Later, sprawled across Yelena’s bed like a mopey teenager, Bob stared at the ceiling.
“Lena, what do I do?” he groaned.
Yelena didn’t even look up. She was coloring on the floor, feet swinging idly in the air. “Move on,” she replied flatly.
Bob sat up, scandalized. “What? Move on? What do you mean by that?”
“Oh—my bad. I meant talk to him,” she deadpanned, still coloring. “Say something like ‘please talk to me more because I’m madly in love with you.’”
Bob flushed hot, scoffing. “I’m not saying that. And I’m not in love with him.”
Yelena gave an unconvinced grunt. “Then don’t ask for my help if you’re just gonna argue,” she shot back without heat, her sarcasm curling at the edges. She held up her drawing. A lumpy, round guinea pig in a cape. “Look, Nat. It’s you.”
Her real guinea pig blinked slowly as she held up the paper for comparison.
Bob watched them, head lolling back against the bedframe, heart heavy.
Why does it even matter this much? he thought. Why did John’s distance feel like rejection? Why did his silence make Bob feel like he was ten years old again, peeking over the stair rail while his parents argued in the kitchen. Like he was intruding where he wasn’t wanted?
Yelena was still babbling to the guinea pig. “You gotta start lifting weights, little muscles. Maybe I’ll get you a tiny gym set. Training brings people closer, right?”
She giggled at her own joke, adjusting the paper on Nat’s back like it was a powerlifting plate.
Then. Something clicked.
Bob sat bolt upright.
“Wait.”
Yelena blinked up at him, startled. “Wait what?”
Bob stood so fast the bed creaked. “That’s... actually a great idea.” He was already halfway to the door. “You’re a genius, Lena.”
And he was gone, darting down the hall before she could ask what the hell he meant.
Yelena looked at the guinea pig, bemused.
“What idea?” she asked it, poking Nat’s soft belly. “Does he think I pay attention when I talk? Idiot.”
Nat just blinked.
Yelena shrugged, going back to her coloring, but a grin tugged at her mouth