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Everyone thought that Yelena Belova simply wasn't feminine. She wore boyish clothes—sometimes she didn't wear much clothes at all—, swore like a sailor when she got tipsy, and she was no stranger to the rougher sides of life. The ex-widow had short hair, and asserted herself without blinking an eye; she was competitive, and had absolutely no qualms about fighting Walker whenever and wherever even if that left her more bloodied than him—all in good fun, of course. It was just how she lived, and femininity rarely found a way into her life. So, of course, Bob never wondered where his clothes went after Yelena spent the night in his room, their legs tangled together taking comfort in each other's presence; and Bob never questioned why he sometimes mistook Yelena's figure for Bucky's when he was groggy from sleep—they both stood the same way.
Everyone thought that Yelena Belova simply wasn't feminine; except she was. She took her time with her eyeliner, painted her nails, and more then once had Bob caught her cross-legged in Antonia's room; rollers in her hair and her hands gingerly placed in the other's while a face mask was meticulously messaged across her cheekbones. Yelena Belova loved cooking shows, even if she couldn't cook to save her life. Naturally, Bob found her curled up in her My Melody throw blanket, flicking through the channels with her feet kicked onto Walker's lap, the latter long-since passed out with drool down his chin to confirm it.
Their little group was joined at the hip, but no one more so than Yelena and Bob. She did nearly everything with Bob—besides sharing the same stall for bathroom breaks, but that had never stopped her from dragging Bob into the restroom with her. Bob liked being included for once, even if it was just turning on the sink knob or pressing down on the soap dispenser. So, it was no great surprise to the others when they did this together, too. No eyes were batted when Bucky rapped his knuckles on Bob's bedroom door only to see Yelena curling his hair in all sorts of odd ways; and no one brought up all the times they'd gathered for "team dinner" and spotted the pair with matching nail art. They were each other's person, that was undeniable, and Bob was really starting to like this self-care stuff.
John Walker started to like it, too. Although, for a different reason. The soldier had experienced so many things in his life—it felt almost like he had lived multiple: team captain, foot soldier, husband, Captain America, father, and, now, thunderbolt—but he had rarely ever experienced a man taking such pride in his blue glitter nail polish. It wasn't that he was homophobic, or anything like that, it simply wasn't something he had been around before. Bob's overwhelming elation at being involved in anything, regardless of what it was, was definitely a hurdle that John had to overcome. Especially when it caught the attention of his senses so much.
They'd all sat down for dinner one night, when John got a whiff of something sweet and rich. It was that damn super-soldier serum messing with his nose, again, and John didn't have the restraint to hide that the smell had effected him. His head jerked to the side and it didn't go unseen the expression Yelena shared with Bob.
"Walker?" Bucky asked.
"What did you two do now?" John had snapped, the smell overwhelming.
Yelena wrinkled her nose up and didn't bother sparing him from her glare, all the while passing the ranch over to Bob. "Well, try not to sound so disgusted by it."
"That's not-" he twitches. "Don't put words in my mouth, Belova. It smells like you doused Bob in 30 bottles of perfume." John tried to explain. Apparently to everyone else, including Alexei and Bucky, it didn't in-fact smell that strong. Just John's own personal olfactory hell, then.
It got better, for a day or two, but it didn't stay like that. Contrary to popular belief, there weren't that many new-avengers-level-threats to get the team out of the Watchtower; and so, the smell found John again, and again, and again. First on the couch where it smelled like pine—that one wasn't too bad. Then in the gym, where it smelled like citrus and John had to immediately excuse himself. Once more in the quinjet hangar where it was lavender—it reminded John of his childhood, and that made him sick for a whole new reason. All the new smells were driving the man up the wall and that wasn't even something he could do. Each time John winced or twitched at the smell, Bob presence became less and less frequent. It was a blessing and curse that as the man left, so did the smell and therefore John's irritation.
He didn't dislike Bob in the slightest, quite the opposite; John had really started to warm up to the guy. So it actually hurt to see that stupidly cute smile fade each time Bob tried out a new smell. John's super-soldier serum was truly the gift that just kept on giving taking.
When Bob passed him in the hallway, scent lingering close to his body, John froze, and to his dismay Bob flinched.
"I'm sorry." Bob started with a face twisted in guilt. "I know you don't usually… I tried to find something that wasn't too strong. I- I can get rid of it with a shower." John didn't know what overcame him because for some god-forsaken reason he grabbed the side of Bob's neck and leaned in to smell his sweater. It wasn't extraordinarily weird or anything, but it was incredibly unlike him. Bob was babbling something incoherent about changing his shirt when John pulled away.
"It's not bad."
Bob swallows. "Huh?"
"This smell is fine," John says. "You're right, I don't usually like the shit Yelena puts on you, but this is good, actually. What is it?"
"Strawberry." Bob says fast, then. "Just… yeah, just strawberry. You actually like it?" John nods along with his words, letting himself breathe Bob in again—sue him, it was nice to actually be able to stand near the guy for the first time in a week. John doesn't take his hand away from Bob's neck, suspecting that Bob might step away and take the good smell with him; instead, he just presses his thumb along the other man's throat slowly. Bob chews on the skin of his lip. "I… uh- I have strawberrylipbalmtoo." He clears his throat, distancing himself from the mumbled words.
John blinks up at him, too-entranced by the smell to process what Bob just said. "What?" He asks. John always struggled with managing two senses at once, even before the serum. If Bob wanted to talk to him he'd either have to slow down or stop smelling so damn good.
"Lip balm... strawberry," Bob says much, much, slower—cautiously, even. John knew why. His words were pressing against the very fragile whatever they had going on: the touches, the lingering looks, how Bob was always rushing into the hangar after the team's missions and worrying his lip over whatever injuries they all had—including his, strangely, even though he had told Bob time and time again that he'd heal and they didn't hurt; Bob still doted. It was incredibly endearing in a way John had never wanted to unpack until now because Bob Reynolds might've just offered to kiss him and experience or not John Walker really wanted to see what that felt like.
Maybe its rough, but John was rough. None of his time in the military ever dulled his edges, so he pushed Bob back into his room, thumb pressing into the hollow of the other man's neck the second it was able. It was dim in the room, but it didn't matter. The gift that kept on giving gave John 20/20 vision and, god was he happy about it; if only to see Bob's eyes right now, blown wide, and the edges of his mouth twitching up. Bob stepped briefly back from his hold and John watched him like a hawk; the way one of his hand shakily gathered a small stick of lip balm off the dresser while his other maneuvered him to turn around, resting the small of his back against the wood.
John stalked towards him. It could only be described as that; the slow and focused walk of a man who was eating up every small movement from another. Bob's smile twitched into place when John stopped, inches from pressing their chests together, and merely let their collective warmth entangle. Slow hands ghosted along the front of his waist, circling their way to his back until Bob clasped his hands there and gave John no other option but to lean in. Bob's breath was hot, and smelled like… well, strawberry. Everything around in the room smelled like Bob, even he did. In the realization, John's arms twitched where they'd caged the other man against the dresser.
Bob grinned. "You really like it that much?" He asked, but no answer was waited for. Bob pressed forward, rubbing his cheek all against John's beard, further spreading the smell in a way that made John honestly go kinda crazy. It wasn't like he was popping a boner over how Bob smelled, he wasn't a 15-year-old boy, but damn it if his breath didn't stutter with Bob all over him.
John breathed out against Bob's ear and committed the way Bob shivered to memory. "I really want to kiss you, right now."
Bob pulled back and it was just enough for John to see those blown-out pupils again. If John had to guess, he'd say Bob wanted to kiss him pretty badly, too.
"Okay." Bob whispered.
There wasn't any time to overthink it. The moment that last syllable left Bob's lips, John kissed into them.
It was sensory heaven. Which, after the week John had, he didn't believe was possible. Bob melted against John and languidly sprawled his arms across the man's neck, and John lapped into his mouth, massaging Bob's lower lip, breaking to breathe, and turning to his upper lip. It was slow, and perfect, and even better were the small whines Bob let out each time John's tongue swiped along the inside of his mouth. He tugged the man's bottom lip and Bob tightened his hold, pressing their bodies together like its all he hungered for. Drawn-out moans slipped between them, and when John directed Bob's jaw with a hand, the man gasped against his lips.
Everyone knew John Walker was a desperate man, but he was as desperate in anguish as he was in love, and it showed, now; pressing and sucking kisses against the soft of Bob's neck, maybe just to hear him gasp and grind against him, or maybe just to leave marks that wouldn't be anywhere but in John's mind the next day. Any sensation, be it sound, touch, or smell, only encouraged John to go lower, and slower. The hand on Bob's jaw dropped, and a finger tugged at the collar of Bob's sweater. The man shook at the touch.
"You're-" John kissed into the hollow of Bob's neck, reverent, devout, consumed. Every twitch of Bob's skin against his mouth was catalogued for later use. "Fuck- you're insane. I can't- you need to stop." He holds the nape of Bob's throat steady when he kissed across his adams apple. "Walker. Walker." John pulled back and followed Bob's movement like an animal. "We need to- Jesus, man." Bob's hands rush to cup John's jaw. "Your eyes are crazy."
John gasps. "You want to stop?"
Bob laughs. "Dude, I think I might ruin my pants if we don't. Sorry."
"It's okay." John kisses the side of his mouth, but otherwise separates himself from Bob. "Do you…" he clears his throat. John Walker was many things, forward about his feelings was not one of them. He drags a hand through his hair and takes in how beautiful Bob looked. Messy hair and flushed skin looked perfect on him.
Bob's smile turns lopsided and he rests lazily against the dresser. "You- uh…" he swallows. "I wouldn't be opposed to you crash testing my lip balm from now on. That sound alright to you?"
It sounded better than alright. Truly, it sounded heavenly. John would take being wrapped up in Bob over cheering crowds or silver stars any day "Yeah," John says. "Yeah, that sounds, alright."