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Yelena is talking, and Bob can’t focus.
He’s sitting in his corner, just like always. Facing out toward the sun rising over the city, trying to listen to Yelena’s explanation of what she found in whatever lab they’ve just returned from raiding. It’s probably important – no, it’s almost definitely important, because Yelena has her serious face on. The one that says the mission took an unexpected turn somewhere in there. And Bob – just because he isn’t technically on the fighting-bad-guys part of the team doesn’t mean it isn’t important for him to know this stuff, too.
But he just – can’t.
Instead, he sits with his legs tucked up against his chest, chin resting on the top of one knee, hands playing with loose strands of his hair that hang uncombed in his face. And it’s – his hair is so greasy. Slimy and disgusting, like he hasn’t showered in four days.
He hasn’t, actually.
It’s just – the tower is too big and empty and lonely when it’s just him. It feels cavernous, like Bob could scream and scream and scream and no one would ever hear him. Sometimes he stares down at the ground, at the people too far away to even look like ants, too distant to entertain even a daydream of not being alone up here in the clouds.
Loneliness isn’t good for him, clearly.
Every bit of him feels grimy, actually, now that he’s thinking about it. He can smell himself, goddamn it, the ripe and unwashed slob that he is, and it’s – he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t focus on whatever science-y thing Yelena is talking about right now, and he can’t –
It’s like a – like a vortex inside him, sucking everything deep down, leaving nothing but the cold certainty of his own unworthiness. Cold, as if a chunk of ice has taken up residence in his heart, leeching all the warmth from his limbs.
He doesn’t belong on this team, he always makes everything worse, he –
A warm body plops gracelessly onto the couch beside him and Bob is startled enough to lift his head and look at the intruder.
It’s not who he expects.
Of all the people likely to interrupt him in the middle of a spiral – and, no, being aware that he’s spiraling does absolutely nothing to help him get his shit together – John Walker is the least likely candidate out of their little group. Yelena, that’s who he expected. Or maybe Bucky, who seems to have taken an interest in Bob, as if he’s adopted Bob as a little brother. Hell, even Ava joins him on the couch sometimes, both of them quietly staring out the window and contemplating their mutual troubles. And Alexei – well. He tries, of course.
It’s not a bad thing that it’s John, though. The guy has really mellowed out over the last month or so. He’s still kind of an asshole, of course, and that’s not likely to change any time soon. But it’s more… endearing now? If that makes sense? Bob’s not sure that it does, but he also knows that John has taken to leaving offerings of food where Bob might find them, whenever he thinks it won’t be noticed.
Bob notices, though.
“You eat while we were gone?” John asks, soft enough not to be heard by the others who’ve gathered around the large screen on the other side of the room.
Bob just nods. Of course he’s eaten; what a ridiculous question. He ate… the day before? Maybe? He’s reasonably sure he made himself a sandwich at some point. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, he left the knife on the counter because he’s a disgusting slob of a human being who can’t even pick up after himself. Shit, what is he even good for, if he can’t even do basic chores for the group while they’re out there kicking asses and saving the world? He’s just a shitty roommate, taking up space and offering nothing in return, and he –
“Alright, that’s enough,” John says. “Come on, up.”
His voice is a contradiction – somehow both gentle and firm at the same time. Soft, like you’d coax a spooked animal, but with enough steel in it to dissuade an argument.
“Huh?” Bob asks, because he’s lost the thread of the conversation. Was there a conversation? He manages to make eye contact for a fleeting moment – just long enough to see that worried pinch between John’s eyebrows. Bob always makes people make that look, even when he’s not trying to. He hates that face, the one that says he’s fucked something up again, because he doesn’t even know what he’s done to be a disappointment right now but he’s still sure that he is one, and he –
Shit, it’s bad today. He’s aware of that even as his attention slides away from it once more, toward less dangerous topics. Like, why is John sitting next to him? Did Bob miss something important? Is he supposed to be listening to Yelena right now? Because she’s gesturing wildly at something on the monitor, and arguing with Bucky in what sounds like Russian to Bob, and he can’t –
John hooks his arm under Bob’s and unceremoniously drags him upright.
Bob isn’t expecting it, and he lets out an undignified squawking noise that has the unfortunate side effect of making every head in the room turn in his direction.
“Bob?” Yelena asks from across the room.
“S’fine!” Bob manages to squawk, voice slightly higher than normal. John’s got a firm super-soldier grip on Bob’s elbow, and it’s preventing him from slinking back down onto the couch. And it’s – maybe it’s a good thing, because his knees feel wobbly and he can’t remember the last time he moved from that spot. Was it that morning? Or – is it morning right now? Bob can’t remember if he’s staring at a sunrise or a sunset, let alone which direction the building is facing.
“I got this,” John says like he knows what he’s talking about. That’s good, though, because Bob definitely doesn’t know what he’s talking about, so he’s glad one of them does.
Yelena just nods, like she also knows what they’re talking about, and Bob is starting to feel a little put out by the fact that everyone seems to know what’s going on except for him. He opens his mouth to say something about it, but then John moves, and Bob’s entire world narrows down to trying to keep his feet under him as John walks him across the room and into the hallway.
“I can walk,” Bob grumbles as they pass through the doorway. It’s – well, it’s just for show, really. Because he’s not entirely sure that he’d be able to stand on his own if John let go of him right now. It’s just that his knees feel creaky, like a hinge that’s crusted over with rust and can’t open all the way anymore. He remembers suddenly, vividly, a picture he once saw on the internet of a newborn baby giraffe trying to stand on its spindly legs for the first time. That’s him right now.
John, thankfully, doesn’t dignify that with a response.
The hallway is blessedly silent of any Russian arguing or gesticulating assassins. Bob’s door is the last at the end of the hallway – the rest of the floors haven’t been completely refurbished yet, so they’re all staying on the main floor, even though each of the original Avengers had their own entire floor to themselves. But there’s room enough up here for them to each have their own space, and no one seems particularly hurried to move things around.
Bob’s room is bigger than anywhere he’s ever lived before. It doesn’t feel real, sometimes, like he’s walked into another dimension. That’s a thing superheroes can do these days, right? There have been rumors about Doctor Strange, and he –
He’s getting sidetracked again.
He expects John to steer him all the way down the hallway to Bob’s own room. To that mostly empty space he hasn’t tried to decorate yet, because nothing about this new life feels permanent. Maybe that’s what’s messing with Bob’s head, or maybe it’s the emptiness, the void –
No.
He’s not the Void. Not anymore.
“Hey, good job,” John murmurs, voice pitched soft in a way Bob’s never heard before. “The lights only flickered for a second before you reigned it in.”
Bob just swallows. Is he – should he feel proud that he only lost control for a few seconds? When he should never have lost control at all?
John opens the second door on the left. Bob’s never been in his room before, never had a reason to, and he’s not sure what he expected. But it’s – surprisingly comfortable, and clearly much more lived-in than Bob’s room. The walls and ceiling are painted a deep charcoal color that sort of makes the room feel smaller – but in a cozy way, not a claustrophobic way. The furniture is simple, not ostentatious: there’s a soft-looking armchair in a corner, next to a mostly empty bookshelf and a tall lamp; the bed is large, larger than Bob’s, and layered with several thick blankets; and there’s a massive rug that takes up most of the floor space. A good rug, too, the kind your feet sink into, plush and soft enough to lie on.
It’s clear he’s taken some time – and some of Valentina’s money – to decorate it to his own tastes, even though they haven’t been here that long.
“Oh, this is nice,” Bob says as he stares around the room. “I like your rug.”
“Uh. Thanks?” John raises an eyebrow, but then shakes his head like he’s stopping himself from getting distracted. “Alright, sit.”
Bob sits as directed, on the edge of the bed. John sits next to him – not close enough to be touching, with just enough of a gap between them to be a reasonable distance between friends. It’s – Bob knows this is normal, knows that people don’t just – but it wasn’t until John let go of him that he realized how warm John was, and how cold Bob feels. He just wants to – to lean forward, to –
No. Head out of the clouds, Bob.
“What’s up?” he asks, as if there’s absolutely nothing wrong. He even manages a smile, he thinks. Look at him, he’s trying so hard, no need to worry.
“You wanna tell me what’s got you in your head today?” John asks.
That’s not – that’s the wrong question, it’s always the wrong question. Bob would love to tell John in excruciating detail exactly what’s wrong with him – because maybe then he could finally understand it for himself. Maybe if he could put it into words, explain it to someone else, he could – but he can’t. He doesn’t understand it – himself – and he never has. No amount of wanting to talk is going to change that.
There’s just – it’s like a heaviness in his brain. Like a headache but also not. A pressure that threatens to drive him to his knees if he thinks about it too hard, if he acknowledges its existence. Some days he can push it back, pull himself out. And some days it feels like being smothered with a weighted blanket so thick and heavy that he can never find his way out from underneath it. He’s spent his whole life trying to manage it and coming up short.
So Bob shakes his head. How else is he supposed to respond to that question? Yes, I want to tell you, but I have absolutely no idea why my brain decided to jump off the edge of a cliff today probably isn’t the answer John is looking for.
“Alright.” John puffs out a breath. There’s tension lining his body, and he – it’s like he’s annoyed.
They’re always annoyed. Bob makes everything worse, it doesn’t matter what he does, he’s –
He wraps his arms around himself and leans forward, shoulders trembling with the weight that settles on them. Sometimes it just hits him out of the blue, staggers him with the weight of his own feelings, like a shroud’s just been pulled over him. Stomach churning, limbs shaking, breath gasping, he curls in on himself as if that will protect him from the worst of it.
Though, he learned long ago that it doesn’t.
“John,” he manages to croak. But that’s – there aren’t any other words. It took all his effort to get just that one single word out. He’s spiraling, down and down and down, and he can’t breathe, he can’t – he should apologize for being such a burden, right? Right? Or would that make things worse, make him –
“Okay, new plan,” John says, somewhere in the distance, far away from wherever Bob’s mind is floating. It comes to him garbled, like someone stuffed so much cotton in his ears that he only picks up bits and pieces of the world around him. He squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that want to fall but just aren’t coming, against the world that presses in on all sides of him, against –
There’s another hand on his elbow. Gentle and firm, that aching contradiction at the heart of John Walker, of the –
And then Bob’s on his feet again. He’s not conscious of that in-between step, of the standing, but now he’s on his feet and John is walking him toward the attached en suite.
“When I was like this,” John is saying, and Bob struggles to listen, “I let… important things go. Things that I needed to do to make myself feel better.”
I can relate, Bob wants to say, if only he could find his voice. Because he’s still overly aware of the griminess of his body, of the coating of dried panic-sweat he’s covered in, of the grease in his hair, of the stains on his sweatshirt.
“This is probably going to be weird. And maybe I’m overstepping. But I – I think it will help.”
Bob genuinely has no idea what he’s talking about. They’re standing in the bathroom now, and he’s left to lean against the sink while John goes to turn on the shower, and it’s –
Oh.
“What are you –” Bob starts to say.
But then John is right there, right up close, close enough to touch, and he’s – he’s taking Bob’s sweatshirt off.
“I don’t –” He doesn’t understand, but he knows he should. Right now, though, it feels like his thoughts are swimming through molasses. Like everything has sped up around him and he’s still stuck in slow-motion. But it’s – he doesn’t resist. Honestly, he’s not sure he has any resistance left in him. Bob’s worn this sweatshirt for… maybe three days in a row, he can’t remember, and it’s almost a relief to let someone pull it off of him, even if it does make him shiver when the air hits his bare skin. But then John squats down and tugs at his sweatpants, and he –
“What,” he croaks, less a question than a plea.
“Just –” John breathes out another huff of air. “I’m not going to – do anything,” he mutters. “Just – listen. A shower will feel good, alright? I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’ll feel better after.”
Somewhere very deep down inside of himself, Bob knows that he’s right. Knows that he really will feel better if he takes care of his hygiene and feeds himself and maybe goes for a run on the treadmill. But like this – he doesn’t deserve to feel better, doesn’t deserve to take care of himself, not when he makes everything worse, when he –
“Come on. Easy does it.”
Somehow, John coaxes him into the shower. Bob really isn’t sure how it happens. One moment he’s leaning against the sink, staring down as John helps him step out of his sweatpants, and the next he’s standing under the spray. It’s – he’s still got his boxers on, thankfully preserving his modesty, but he hardly notices the damp fabric clinging to him because –
“Oh,” he breathes. Softly, emphatically, reverently.
“Yeah, there you go,” John encourages from the other side of the curtain.
Oh, that feels so good. The water pressure in the tower is insane, better than anything Bob’s ever felt before, and it pounds at his aching muscles like a masseuse. The steam and the heat melt the tension from his limbs, unfreeze the chunk of ice that’s taken up residence in his heart, and suddenly it’s – it’s too much. Like coming back to life after being frozen to death. Like his nerves are only just waking up for the first time in days. He puts a hand against the tile to steady himself, knees shaky once more, and tries to take a deep breath.
“You okay, buddy?”
“Fine,” Bob rasps automatically. But he’s – he’s not fine. The goddamn clarity is back. The fog is lifting and now there’s nothing stopping him from remembering how goddamn pathetic he is. He remembers himself wandering aimless and foggy around the tower for days, drifting in and out of that dark space he likes to pretend doesn’t exist, all because his teammates – his friends – left to go on a legitimately important mission that’s their entire reason for living here. It’s – he’s ridiculous, he’s pathetic, he –
The shower curtain rustles. And then Bob nearly falls over in shock because John – stripped down to his boxers like Bob – gets in the shower with him.
“What?” John demands when he sees the look on Bob’s face. His shoulders are up by his ears, defensive, and he – “For fuck’s sake, I was in the military. You think this is the strangest situation I’ve ever ended up in?”
That –
Bob is not going to think about that. Not when there are rivulets of water running down John’s ridiculous abs. Not when the man’s boxers are that fitted and leave nothing to the imagination.
“What are you doing,” he asks instead. Only it’s less like a question and more like he’s pleading for – hell, he doesn’t even know. For something to make sense, maybe, because he’s pretty sure nothing has made sense for the last fifteen minutes.
“Just – turn around.”
Bob, at a loss for words, does what he’s told.
It turns out that what John is doing is washing him. He plucks a bottle of something citrus-y smelling off the ledge and lathers Bob up with it. Scrubs Bob’s back with quick efficiency, and then his arms, and then turns him around to get his chest. And Bob just – he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to act, or move. But it – it feels nice. Feels like being taken care of, for the first time in a very long time.
It’s not a feeling he’s used to.
Torso done, John moves onto his legs with the same efficiency. None of his touches linger the way Bob might expect someone else’s too. And Bob, well. He’s never been so relieved that his – episodes – tend to kill his libido, because this would otherwise get very awkward very quickly.
Once John rinses the soap off of him, though, he has to say something. Has to –
“I can do my hair,” he offers, softly. Because he – even now that the rest of him is clean, his hair still makes his skin crawl with how disgusting it feels.
But John just rolls his eyes. “Turn around and tilt your head back.”
“You’re bossy.” Bob turns around, though. What else is he supposed to do?
No one has ever washed his hair before. Well, in his adult life, at least. And it’s – the way John’s hands feel in his hair, the way they comb through the tangled strands so gently, the way his fingertips massage Bob’s scalp –
He wants to cry.
He is crying, actually, and that’s – he’s not sure when he started, but now it feels like there’s a pressure easing in his chest with every tear he sheds. His eyes are leaking like a goddamn faucet, but there’s a beautiful man washing his hair and he –
“That’s it,” John murmurs, hands not pausing for a moment. “Let it out.”
Something about those words – let it out – makes something spark to life in his chest. The tears fall faster, and faster, until his shoulders are shaking and his chest is heaving and he can’t breathe. And it’s – he doesn’t think. Just moves. Turns around and throws his arms around John’s shoulders, because he’s not sure he can keep standing on his own. John makes a little oof of surprise, but then he wraps his arms around Bob’s waist and hugs him tight.
The sobs wrack his body. Bob doesn’t even know why he’s crying, only that it feels like something in his chest is cracking open. He clings to the man in front of him with every pathetic bit of strength he has, and tries to keep the tide from pulling him under.
Hell, how embarrassing. Blubbering like a child while a grown man has to wash him like one. Falling to pieces when there is absolutely nothing wrong with his life. He’s pathetic, he’s disgusting, he’s – and any second now, John is going to realize that. He’s going to figure it out, and then he’ll be disgusted like he should be, and – and he’ll get tired of this. Of taking care of Bob. Just like everyone does in the end. They leave, and he’s left to pick up the pieces of whatever’s left of him, and he –
“I’ve got you,” John whispers, like he can sense what Bob is thinking. “I’m right here.”
Except.
Bob’s not alone anymore, is he? He has the team now. They’re all broken in their own ways, each one of them like a jagged open wound, but somehow they’re helping to stitch each other back up. Somehow they all walked into the Void to pull Bob out of himself. They let him show them their worst fears and most hated memories and then they still all piled on top of him to hug him, to tell him that they’re proud of him, that he’s not alone anymore, and he –
And John is still here. Arms wrapped tight around Bob’s waist, hugging him like his life depends on it. Shit, Bob’s pretty sure he’s getting shampoo all over the side of John’s face, and still the man isn’t moving. He’s just – here. Silently accepting Bob for everything that he is, broken pieces and all, as if – as if it really is okay.
For the first time since this all began, Bob starts to actually feel like he isn’t alone anymore.
He takes a deep breath. Loosens his grip on the man in front of him. The tide is ebbing now, retreating for the time being. Enough to let him stand on his own two feet again.
John just – smiles at him. Brief and hesitant, but so, so full of light. “Turn around. Let’s get you rinsed off.”
The detachable showerhead makes quick work of the shampoo. But John – he does that thing parents do for kids, that – he puts his hand across Bob’s forehead, a barrier to keep sudsy water out of his eyes. It’s stupid, really, such a small gesture, but a few more tears slip down his cheeks.
“There we go,” John murmurs. He turns the water off, slides open the shower curtain. There are fluffy white towels waiting for them on the counter, and he passes one to Bob without a word.
That’s something he’s noticed about John, these last few weeks. The sudden switch between talking and not talking. There are times when he’s quick with his words – like he’s in a verbal sparring match and has to have the upper hand. But just as often he’s quiet like this, stoic and contemplative in his silences. Soft and firm, that eternal contradiction that Bob finds so fascinating.
Bob must lose track of time again, because one moment he’s toweling himself off and the next John is offering him a change of clothes.
“Get dressed,” he says unnecessarily, already dressed in his own flannel pajama pants and a loose cotton t-shirt. “I’ll be just outside.”
He really must have lost time, because they’re his own clothes. Somehow, while Bob was lost in a fog of his own thoughts, John must’ve gone down the hallway to grab some of his own clothes for him, boxers and all. It’s – far more thoughtful than Bob expects. Though, after this whole shower thing, he’s really going to have to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about John Walker.
Once dressed, he shuffles out of the bathroom. His hair still drips water, but that’s alright. The blonde is beginning to grow out, giving him awkwardly dark roots, but it doesn’t matter – Bob never leaves the tower.
“Did that… help?”
John’s sitting on the edge of the bed again, hair falling loose around his face. He looks – soft. Gentle. Utterly beautiful like this, with the soft rays of morning sunlight making his hair shine golden. Bob just – just stares for a moment, transfixed by the sight of it. Of him. Because it’s – he never gets to see John like this, relaxed and at ease. John’s the kind of guy who’s always wound tight, restless energy making him move and move and move. But now he’s still, and those brilliant blue eyes are fixed on Bob’s.
“I – yeah.” He feels a little tongue-tied, caught in John’s gaze. “Yeah, it did. It was – thanks, John.”
“You’re welcome.” A smile tugs at the corners of John’s lips. “I’m glad it helped.”
And Bob – Bob needs to keep his mouth shut. To accept the kindness for what it is and not try to poke holes in every good thing that ever happens to him. But damn it if old habits aren’t hard to kill.
“Why?” he asks before he can stop himself. Even he’s not fully sure what he means. Why this? Why me? Why help?
John shrugs. Looks at the floor. “I wish – I just –” He sighs. “I’m not good. At the talking part. But I – I tried to think of what would’ve helped me, back then.” He shrugs again. Looks more and more uncomfortable with every passing second, but he’s – he’s trying, and he – “You can talk it all through as much as you want. But sometimes it’s just – sometimes actions speak louder than words. Sometimes it’s better to just… do the thing that will make you feel better, and deal with the feelings after. Once you’re in a better place.”
There’s a surprising amount of logic behind that. Bob does feel better, even if his eyes still feel red and puffy from crying. But he’s – he’s clean, and warm, and he’s wearing clean clothes, and that – it’s such a simple thing, but it feels like it makes a world of difference. Feels like he can actually deal with his emotions now. It’s not a magic fix-it, but it helped.
“Thank you,” Bob says again. It’s wholly inadequate, but it’ll have to do.
“Don’t mention it,” John says firmly. And then, with a crooked smile that makes Bob’s stomach do a somersault, he adds, “No, seriously, don’t, because I’m pretty sure Yelena would never stop making jokes about it for the rest of our lives.”
Bob snorts despite himself. “You’re probably alright.”
John pats the space next to him on the bed. “Did you catch the game last night?”
It’s such an abrupt change of topic – so abrupt, in fact, that Bob just blinks at him for a moment while his brain tries to recalibrate to the new conversation. But, he can see it for what it is – an offer of quiet companionship, calmer than the craziness of the common area, from someone who’s doing their best to be there. From someone who probably won’t mind all that much if Bob’s thoughts drift during the conversation, if he spaces out instead of answering.
“Honestly, I don’t even know what sport you’re talking about,” Bob admits.
He takes the offered seat on the edge of the bed next to John. Lets their shoulders knock together as John launches into a rant about college football that Bob makes no attempt to understand. But he follows it enough to nod in the right places and make encouraging noises to keep John talking. It’s – he lets the sound of John’s voice lull him into a quieter, gentler state of mind. The void is receding, shriveling in the light of John’s easy acceptance and care.
It feels good. It feels like nothing Bob has ever had before, and he – well. Maybe he can let himself get used to this. Maybe, for the first time in his life, he can actually trust that he has people who care about him for who he is, not who he thinks he should be.
“You’re a good friend, John,” he whispers.
The only acknowledgement he receives is a gentle hand patting his knee. But that’s okay. After all, sometimes actions really do speak louder than words.