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Being unceremoniously thrust into the public spotlight, as jarring as it sounds, does come with its fair share of perks.
John’s favorite coffee place, two blocks away from the Watchtower, hands out free pastries whenever John stops by. John still gets to help people, a part of his many careers he’s always appreciated. The Watchtower isn’t a bad place to live, and he’s even starting to like his coworkers-slash-roommates more.
On the flipside, John’s life is under more scrutiny than ever. It’s like that for all of the New Avengers , he supposes. Random people ask for photos in the street, even when John is in a hurry. Scummy tabloids at the grocery store checkout stir rumors of intra-team conflicts and even romances. He caught Yelena reading a copy over lunch once, but she’d just deny it if he ever brought it up.
John finds himself in the kitchen on a random Thursday morning when his new, very public life throws another curveball.
“It’s just a fundraiser,” Mel says, waving an off-white envelope adorned with a red seal in John’s face. “For a museum. The New Avengers should support the arts, right?”
John plucks the envelope from Mel’s fingers and tears it open. He pulls out a thick piece of paper, covered in gilded writing, and skims over its contents.
The New York Academy of Modern Art
cordially invites a representative of the New Avengers
to its annual fundraising gala
to take place on July 25th 2025 at 8 PM
“Oh, I’ve been there with Sam,” Bucky says, reading the letter from over John’s shoulder. “It’s a nice place. Decent collection.”
“You should go then,” John says, passing the letter to Yelena.
“I’m busy,” Bucky says, and doesn’t bother to elaborate.
“So am I,” Yelena says, and hands the letter back to Mel. “Also, I hate modern art.”
“Ava?” Mel pleads, “what about you?”
Ava stares at the letter, then up at Mel. “I’m good,” she says, and turns back to her cereal.
Mel pinches the bridge of her nose, no doubt cursing every single one of them in her head. “Fine. John it is. Take Bob with you.”
“Huh?” Bob glances up from his book, a copy of The Martian, a puzzled look stretching across his face. “Where am I going?”
“Why me?” John protests. “And why does he have to come too?”
Mel raises a single eyebrow, and taps a finger on the newspaper John has spread out in front of him. John blinks down at the story she’s pointing out. U.S. Agent Continues to Run Amok Through NYC. A picture of himself, standing under the cracked sign of a local business, glowers up at him.
“That was an accident,” John grumbles, snapping the newspaper shut.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mel says. “The public sees you as destructive. I shouldn’t have to tell you that’s a bad thing.”
“I still don’t get how I fit into all of this,” Bob says. “I haven’t destroyed any storefronts.” He pauses. “Not recently, at least.”
“They might be the best combination,” Ava interjects, like Bob and John weren’t even in the room. “And I’m not just saying that to get out of it. Walker, you need brand rehab. Bob, you’re just wholesome. You two are friends, right?”
There’s an awkward pause. Ava looks a bit bemused, and Bob becomes incredibly interested with the laces on his shoes.
“Anyway,” Mel says, blissfully cutting the silence short. “Bob. John. How do you feel about this?”
“It’s the least I can do, really,” Bob says. “I mean, you all have helped me so much these past few months. I can handle being at a fancy party for a few hours.”
Mel gets a funny look on her face, and checks the back of the invitation. “I have an idea,” she says, and oh no, John doesn’t like the tone of her voice at all.
“Just spit it out, Mel,” John says through clenched teeth.
“What if,” Mel says slowly, “you and Bob pretend to be together?”
Yelena snorts into her cup of tea. Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. Ava drops her spoon into her bowl, sending a small tidal wave of milk spilling over the side.
“Where’d that idea come from?” John protests. “I’m not even gay.”
“I am,” Bob mumbles, more to himself than anyone else.
“People love a love story,” Mel says, pressing a hand to her chest. “If you sell it right, maybe the public will move on from your… destructive tendencies.”
“It would convince me,” Yelena says, rather unhelpfully. “Might even make me start to like you.”
“Thanks Yelena,” John grumbles. “You’re too kind.”
“I think I can manage for a night,” Bob says, scratching his chin. “Could be fun, actually.”
“Pretending you’re dating Walker?” Ava asks. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
The corners of Bob’s mouth tick up into the makings of a smile. “I do love a challenge,” he says.
“I’ll let Valentina know,” Mel says, her phone already to her ear.
“Take lots of pictures,” Ava says. “The fridge needs some decoration.”
The night of the gala sneaks up far quicker than John anticipated. He putters around for the majority of the day, not really sure what to do with the bundle of nerves stuck in his stomach.
It was just a gala. It was just a few hours. It was just Bob.
It’s around eight when John decides he should get off his ass and start getting ready. He passes through the hallway leading to his room when movement in the corner of his eye makes him pause.
“What are you even doing?” John asks, and stops dead in the doorway to one of the Watchtower’s many bathrooms. He leans against the doorframe and folds his arms. “What is this, a middle school girl’s sleepover?”
Yelena glances up from where she has her fingers buried in the wild mane that Bob tries to pass off as an acceptable haircut. “I’m turning him into a movie star,” she says around the bobby pin between her teeth. “What else does it look like?”
Bob, his face covered with the shimmery sheen of a still-drying face mask, meets John’s gaze and shrugs.
“You should start getting ready, Walker,” Yelena says, and pins a section of Bob’s hair back. “Iron your suit. Shine your shoes. Make yourself look presentable so everyone at the gala won’t notice your less-than-desirable personality.”
Bob snorts, and knocks his fist against Yelena’s. “See you in a bit John,” he says, his tone far kinder than Yelena’s.
“You kids have fun,” John says. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Yelena flips him off, and John takes that as his cue to leave. He pauses in the hallway long enough to hear Yelena ask Bob how he feels about eyeliner of varying colors, and stabs the up button on the elevator.
John would never admit it, but he takes Yelena’s suggestions. He assumes Bucky and Alexei wouldn’t be the type to brush someone else’s hair before a party, so he gets ready by himself. He finds an old suit, buried in the back of his closet with far too many memories of his ex wife hanging off every thread. It’s wrinkled, and a spray of dust blooms in the sun streaming through his window when he brushes his hand across the sleeve. John winces and tosses the suit onto his bed. Better find the iron.
His shoes are next- equally buried in his closet and somehow dustier. John fetches a clean sock from a drawer and scrubs in vain at the thin layer of grime coating the surface. It works well enough, and the brown leather even has a bit of shine to it after a few minutes.
John glances down at the shoes in his hand, then the suit on the bed. He shakes his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his brain, and reluctantly tugs the suit on. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do.
He finds Bob waiting for him in the Watchtower’s lobby, fiddling with his phone and tapping his foot on the shiny marble floor. Yelena’s managed to wrangle Bob’s hair into a flattering slicked-back look, with a few loose strands curling around his ears. It’s not too dissimilar to how his hair was styled when Valentina had her claws in him, but the blonde never suited him anyway. His suit, charcoal grey with a blue tie, is a far cry from the baggy hoodies and sweats Bob seems keen on wearing on even the hottest of days that plague New York summers. He looks… fine. John doesn’t dare let his brain attach a stronger to Bob than that.
(Elegant. Stylish. Handsome. He could go on.)
“Hey,” John says, pushing the hodgepodge of thoughts on how nice Bob looks to the dark corners of his mind. “Ready to go?”
Bob nods and slides his phone into his pocket. “Sure. You look nice, by the way.”
That makes John pause. Evidently, Bob has no problem voicing that he likes how John looks. “Thanks,” he says. “You too.”
Bob hums in acknowledgement and trots off towards the exit. His time at the Watchtower has served him well. Bob looks far healthier than when a ragtag group of mercenaries first discovered him hundreds of feet beneath a mountain. There’s a spring in his step that wasn’t there before. He stands straighter, walks with more confidence. John is happy for him, really. Despite all the ribbing, he does genuinely care for Bob. Maybe more than he’s ready to admit to himself.
Alexei insists on driving them, despite the museum being a manageable walk from the Watchtower. “The New Avengers do not walk to parties,” he declares. “No matter how close it is.”
“The environment applauds your commitment,” John grumbles, and clicks his seatbelt on. Next to him Bob snorts, and follows suit with his own.
“I hate this,” Bob groans, tugging at the tight collar of his dress shirt with a wince as Alexei peels off down the road. “I feel like I’m suffocating. How does Bucky wear one of these every day?”
“You’ll mess up your tie if you keep doing that,” John says. “Do you even know how to fix one?”
Bob’s hand stills on the fabric of his tie. “No,” he says after a beat.
“That’s what I thought,” John says, only slightly smug.
“It’s not like I’ve had a lot of opportunities,” Bob grumbles, but lets go of his tie and tangles his hands in his lap instead.
John glances over at him, and sighs. “Come on, it’s all crooked now. Lemme fix it.”
Bob raises an eyebrow and turns to face John in his seat. “Knock yourself out, Walker.”
John loosens the top knot of the tie, and smooths the fabric down. It’s oddly intimate, having his fingers inches away from Bob’s neck.
“Look at you two,” Alexei crows, grinning at them in the rearview mirror. “Already like a married couple. You may be better at this than I thought.”
John jerks away, Bob’s collar feeling hot under his fingers. Bob blinks those stupidly blue eyes of his a few times, then turns away from John to face the window.
“Ah, young love,” Alexei says from the front seat. “What a beautiful thing.”
They don’t speak for the rest of the drive.
True to his word, Alexei gets them to the museum in no time at all.
“Have fun!” Alexei booms, far too loudly considering the crowd in front of the museum. John feels a bit like a kid being dropped off at school.
“Thanks Alexei,” Bob says, and tugs John towards the steps. “We’ll see you tonight!” Alexei gives them a mock salute and drives off, his tires screeching across the pavement.
“Name?” the bouncer, a tall woman in a stereotypical all-black outfit, asks.
“John Walker,” John supplies. “And my plus one. Robert Reynolds.” He slips his arm through Bob’s and pulls him into his side. “Our manager should’ve sent our details ahead of time.”
The bouncer gives them both a once-over and checks something off on her tablet. “Everything’s sorted,” she says. “Enjoy the evening, gentlemen.”
“You think that was convincing?” Bob mutters in John’s ear once they’re through the door. “She looked at me funny.”
“Relax,” John says. “This’ll be a breeze.”
“Okay,” Bob replies, not sounding reassured. “If you’re sure.”
An elegant woman in a dress that probably cost more than John’s car is upon them in an instant, handing out twin flutes of champagne. “John Walker,” she titters, “I thought that was you! Thank you so much for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” John says after an encouraging look from Bob. “The New Avengers love art. Real patrons of it.” Behind him, Bob snorts, but manages to hide his grin behind his glass before the woman notices.
“Oh, where are my manners?” the woman says, evidently just now clocking Bob standing behind John. “I’m Katherine, the head curator. And you are?”
Bob hands his glass to John, and holds out his hand. “Robert Reynolds. I’m John’s partner, and I work with the New Avengers in a… professional capacity.”
“Of course,” Katherine says, taking Bob’s hand. “I’ve seen you in the papers. What is it you do, exactly?”
Bob pauses, and John can practically see the gears turning in his head. “A bit of everything, really. I pull my weight where I can.”
It’s a bald-faced lie, but Katherine seems convinced. “Lovely,” she says. “Please enjoy the event, gentlemen. Have a wonderful evening.”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” John says under his breath once Katherine has moved on to another guest.
“I don’t get out a lot, Walker,” Bob replies. “Can you really blame me for wanting to kick back?”
John can’t really argue with that. He places Bob’s glass back in his hand, and clinks his own against it. “Cheers, then.”
Bob flashes him a small smile, and takes a sip from his glass.
There’s a flurry of movement behind Bob that catches John’s eye. It’s Katherine, the woman who greeted them as soon as they entered the gala. John watches her from across the room, her smile polished but just a tad too sharp. She moves through the crowd with practiced ease, but there’s something in the way her eyes flicker toward the grand chandelier overhead that sets off the alarm bells in John’s skull.
He shifts closer to Bob, and places his hand at the small of Bob’s back. Any onlooker would just see a couple, having a private conversation. “Something about her’s off,” he murmurs in Bob’s ear.
Bob glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed. “What, Katherine? What about her? She seems normal enough to me.”
John’s jaw tightens. “No, I mean off . Like she’s up to something.”
Bob frowns, and follows John’s gaze. The chandelier hangs meters above their heads, a twisted wreath of crystal that catches the light like it’s daring anyone to touch it. Katherine passes beneath it, pausing a tad longer than necessary, her fingers brushing the edge of a decorative red rope that keeps it anchored to the ceiling above them.
“Okay,” Bob says, nodding. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”
Word seemed to spread fast that a member of the New Avengers was at the gala. John is asked to sign napkins, take pictures, and by one very bold guest, to give them Yelena’s number. John declines on that last one, but makes a mental note to tell Yelena about it later. She’ll absolutely hate it.
The majority seem a bit baffled by Bob’s presence, but Bob plays the supportive boyfriend ( “ sidepiece,” he joked) quite well. A bit too well, actually. It sets an odd feeling curling through John’s stomach, but it’s not unpleasant. He’ll unpack it later, in the comfort of his own room.
“Popular tonight, huh?” Bob asks as the latest guest to approach John for a photo scurries back toward their friends.
“Apparently so,” John sighs, and rakes a hand through his hair. “So much for having a destroyed public image.”
“People love a bad boy,” Bob says, and John scoffs.
“Hardly. Besides, I think Bucky’s got that niche filled already.”
“Better you than me though,” Bob continues. “I dunno how you guys handle all of this attention on you.”
“We don’t,” John admits. “At least, I don’t.”
“Well, between you and me,” Bob says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I hate champagne, I couldn’t name a single artist on display in this room, and I rented this suit from a dodgy place down the block from the Tower. So I guess we’re both in over our heads tonight, yeah?”
John laughs, loud and genuine. He’s about to say something else when an eerie silence sweeps over the gallery.
John turns, nerves on high alert. Katherine is standing in the center of the gallery, her hands are folded neatly in front of her.
“Oh no,” Bob mutters.
“Katherine?” John calls out, stepping forward. “Is something wrong?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes a step forward, eyes locked on John and Bob like they’re the only ones in the room.
“You don’t even remember her,” she says quietly. “Do you?”
John freezes. “I- what? What are you talking about?”
“My sister,” Katherine cries, voice growing louder and more wild with every syllable. “Anya. She was in the crowd when that... that thing tore through downtown. You could have saved her. You saved so many people, but you didn’t save my baby sister.”
John’s heart drops into his stomach. She’s talking about the Void. Bob must’ve come to the same realization, as he’s gone eerily still at John’s side.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, but Katherine cuts him off with a bitter laugh.
“Sorry doesn’t bring her back. Sorry didn’t even make the report. I had to fight for confirmation she was even there,” she says, her fingers curling in the fabric of her dress. “Buried in a line of redacted nonsense. So imagine my surprise when I see you , John Walker, U.S. Agent, whatever it is you call yourself these days, drinking champagne and playing house with your new boyfriend.”
John steps forward, but Bob puts a hand on his arm. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “I don’t think she’s done.”
“You always act like you're untouchable,” Katherine hisses. “But you're not gods. You bleed. You panic. And I’m sick of you never facing any consequences. You took something from me, and now I’m returning the favor.”
She lifts her hand. Above them, the chandelier begins to groan, its heavy frame shuddering as unseen wires strain and snap.
“No,” John breathes. Instinctively, his grip on Bob’s shoulder tightens.
The sound of cracking crystal bounces off the walls of the gallery, sending shards of glass raining down in shimmering arcs. A guttural cry rips from Katherine’s throat, and the chandelier above their heads begins to tremble violently. Across the room, a guest screams. John is moving in an instant, placing both hands flat on Bob’s chest and pushing as hard as he can.
The last thing he sees is Bob’s shocked face as he stumbles back. Then there’s a bang, a bright flash of color, and everything goes black.
Something is tapping against his face. Even through the haze, John’s mind can identify the feeling of warm fingers on his skin. Solid thighs press against his sides. Dimly, he’s aware of someone calling his name.
He forces his eyes open and there’s Bob, his face and hair streaked with dust and grime.
“Your tie’s crooked again,” John mumbles, reaching out a hand to brush against Bob’s elbow. A small touch, grounding them both back to reality.
“You’re unbelievable,” Bob breathes. He snags John’s hand and presses it to his chest. Underneath his fingers, Bob’s heart is racing. “Feel that? I’m alive, thanks to you.”
“Well,” John says, a slow, lazy smile forming on his lips, “I have to protect my boyfriend, don’t I?”
Bob swipes at his cheeks, smearing the streaks of dirt that cover his face. Besides the grime, he looks unharmed. He nudges his forehead against John’s, and a free hand rests on the base of John’s neck. His thumb brushes back and forth across John’s cheekbone.
They breathe in and out, together.
It seems inevitable, then, that Bob presses their lips together. And oh, it’s like John has picked up the shield for the first time again. John slips his fingers through Bob’s hair, now free from the confines of Yelena’s styling. His shoulder hurts, there’s broken glass digging into his glass, but he doesn’t care.
“This is really nice, Bob,” John says as Bob pulls away, “but what happened to Katherine?”
Bob’s eyes widen, and he slides off John. “Can you move?” he asks.
John nods, and with Bob’s help manages to sit up. He does a quick survey of the scene spread around him. The shattered chandelier is a few meters away from them, lying in a pool of broken glass and twisted metal. Most of the gala attendees have cleared out but a few remain, a handful recording the aftermath on their phones.
“After you were knocked out, a few guests jumped on her,” Bob says. “Dunno where they stashed her. In a closet, maybe.”
“Her sister,” John says, staring down at the rubble at his feet. “She lost her. I can’t imagine that pain.”
“We can’t save everyone,” Bob says simply. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t try.”
John peers over at him. “Are you a philosopher now or something?”
Bob shrugs, but there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nah. But someone has to keep that head of yours on straight.”
“Katherine,” John says slowly. “Could she…” He nods at the chandelier. “How’d she do that?”
Bob follows his gaze, his lips pursed. “She can’t control metal or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. Someone else manually dropped it down.”
“Shame,” John says. “That would’ve been way more exciting. We could’ve recruited her.”
Bob snorts, and slings an arm around John’s shoulders. “I don’t know if I would like living under the same roof as the woman who tried to kill my fake boyfriend.”
At the start of the evening, the word ‘fake’ was just that. A word. Now, it sets off an odd, twisting feeling in John’s gut. Huh. That’s new.
“Want to get out of here?” Bob asks. He’s still got his arm around John.
“Please,” John says. “We’ve got a lot to tell the others about.”
They find an unoccupied spot on the steps of the entrance to the museum, as the sound of police sirens grows steadily closer. The setting sun boiled off the last remaining heat from the day, and the cooler summer air feels pleasant on John’s face.
“So,” John says, “you kissed me.”
Bob chuckles, but it sounds a bit nervous. “I guess I did, yeah. Blame it on being caught up in the moment.”
“For the cover, right?” John presses, because the alternative- Bob kissing him because he wanted to- is far more terrifying; and all the more desirable.
“If that’s what you want it to be, sure,” Bob says, scratching at his chin.
John huffs. “That’s hardly an answer, Bob.”
Bob shuts his eyes for a beat. Breathes in and out. When his eyes flutter open, he turns to face John, his expression open and honest. “It didn’t feel fake,” he says, voice soft. “Not to me. Not even for a second.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Anyway. That’s my two cents. Let’s get you home. I’m worried you might be concussed.”
“I don’t get concussed,” John says. “Super soldier, remember?”
“Can we just put this all in the past?” Bob asks, running a hand through his hair. “I really don’t want things to go back to being weird between us.”
“I’d rather not,” John says, and that gets Bob’s attention.
“What?” he says, eyebrows drawn together. “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”
“I didn’t think I could have something like this again,” John continues, quieter now. “Not after everything. Not after seeing what people think I am. What I’ve done. What we’ve done.”
Bob still hasn’t said anything. It’s the quietest John has ever seen him. He stares at John, eyes wide.
“So yeah,” John finishes, feeling all of the adrenaline from the night’s events rush out of him. “I’d rather not go back to pretending.”
“Okay,” Bob says after a moment. “Then maybe it’s not just for the cover anymore.”
John’s lips twitch up. “Maybe?”
“Probably,” Bob amends. “Leaning towards definitely.”
“Well,” John says, leaning in just enough so that his shoulder presses against Bob’s, “that’s progress.”
There’s a photo of them plastered across the front page of the paper the next morning, locked in an embrace among shattered glass and twisted bits of metal. US Agent Protects the NYAMA Gala (and his man) is done up in bold, blocky letters under the photo.
“I take it you two had fun last night?” Yelena asks, holding the paper up close to her face for inspection.
“When I said take pictures this isn’t really what I imagined,” Ava adds. “This’ll still look nice on the fridge, though.”
“Best night of my life,” Bob says mildly, his elbow pressed up against John’s.
“You got a chandelier dropped on your head,” Bucky says, not even looking up from his phone.
“Not technically,” Bob says, grinning. “John pushed me out of the way.”
John shrugs. “Didn’t want to get blood on the carpet.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Bob says, and nudges his elbow again. “Yeah, I would’ve been fine. But I appreciate it nonetheless.”
“So you’re officially together now, right?” Yelena says, raising an eyebrow.
John sets his fork down. “The relationship is… logistically convenient.”
Yelena rolls her eyes. “You would phrase it like that, Walker. So you’re kissing each other strategically. ”
“Exactly,” Bob says. Then adds, “And emotionally. And frequently.”
John glares at him. Bob just shrugs, unrepentant.
Ava rests her chin on her hand. “But it is real, right?”
Bob doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. It is.”
A grin stretches across Yelena’s face. “Aww, how sweet.”
“It is, isn’t it?” John says, and presses a messy kiss to Bob’s cheek.
Yelena’s nose wrinkles. “I take it back. You two are gross.”
“Love you too Yelena,” Bob calls as she moves away from the table towards the elevator. He turns to John, his head tilted to the side. “Are you feeling okay? About everything?”
“We’ll figure it out,” John says, quiet enough that only Bob can hear. “We’ve got time.”
Bob covers John’s hand with his own, and John doesn’t feel like he needs to pull away. “Yeah. We will.”