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Bob doesn’t exactly arrive at the Watchtower with a suitcase filled with clothes. Like the others, he’d arrived with the clothes on his back and little else, but unlike the others, he hadn’t had a set of belongings stashed away, clothes meant for after the mission. The others get their clothes delivered and start setting up their rooms, and Bob just… doesn’t.
It doesn’t take long for the others to notice, of course. Yelena and Ava spend an afternoon pouring over decorating websites trying to find items for Bob’s room, and he lets them order whatever they want. It seems to make them happy, so he just goes along with it. The truth is, he hasn’t had a room of his own, well, ever, and decorating isn’t high on his priority list. He’s still surprised the room assigned to him had come with clean sheets.
Bucky and Alexei stock him up with essentials after a Costco trip gone awry. Alexei had somehow returned to the Watchtower with a lifetime supply of toilet paper, shaving cream, and toothpaste in every flavor imaginable. Bucky had been more sensible, finding sets of socks and underwear for him. He’s still not left the Watchtower since… since the Incident, and he’s grateful for the guys for helping him out. It’s not like he needs clean underclothes – he’s certainly survived in worse – but there’s something restorative about changing into new underwear for a new day.
John offers to take him shopping for some new clothes, but Bob declines. They’ve already spent far too much money on him, and besides, he’s got the essentials: A few pairs of pants, a sweater or two, and a few t-shirts. He doesn’t need much, and seeing how he rarely goes outside, he can justify not changing clothes as often as the others.
He knows John would take him out in a heartbeat and buy out an entire department store for him if he’d asked. Hell, he’d probably do it even if Bob had vaguely hinted that he preferred JC Penney’s over Sears, but he doesn’t want John to go to the trouble. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to go out and it’s such a hassle to buy clothes online. Maybe it’s because he’s overwhelmed by more choices than he’s had in his entire life. Or maybe it’s because not-that-deep down he doesn’t really believe that he deserves new clothes.
That he deserves a new life.
But he doesn’t tell John any of this. He just nestles next to him on the couch and picks at a loose thread in his sweater, fiddling with the string until it starts to unravel one of the cuffs. Damn. He’ll have to sew that up in the morning.
*
They’re stretched out on the couch one evening watching yet another one of John’s incredibly boring sports recap segments. John’s leaning back, arms stretched across the back of the sofa. Bob starts the evening playing on his Switch a cushion away, but as the night goes on, he finds himself scooting closer and closer to John.
It’s freezing in the Watchtower, or at least that’s how it feels to him. He’d grown up in Florida where it had always been hotter than hell, even on the tepid days. He’d spent his lucid time in Southeast Asia watching the Western tourists sweat through their attempt at stylish travel wear while he’d been well adjusted to the heat. Humidity? No problem. Anything below 75 degrees? No thanks.
But John seems to radiate heat, and Bob keeps scooching closer to absorb his warmth. He’s practically curled into a ball, trying to conserve as much heat as possible. He could go find a blanket or take a hot shower or scrounge up a pair of those socks, but all of those tasks seem far too daunting for right now. So instead, he opts to inch closer and closer to John in an attempt to get warm.
A commercial comes on, and John blinks like he’s just waking up. He reaches his arms back into a stretch and accidentally whacks Bob on the back of the head as he brings his arms back down.
“Shit, Bobby, I’m sorry!” he says, his hand smoothing the back of Bob’s head in apology.
“It’s okay,” Bob says. He tries to keep himself from shivering, but the shiver breaks through anyways.
It doesn’t escape John’s eyes. He reaches for one of Bob’s hands and exclaims, “Dude, your hands are freezing cold.”
“Yeah,” Bob replies. He watches as John takes his hand in between both of his warm ones, rubbing over his skin to warm him up. He sets his Switch in his lap and lets John take his other hand in his hands as well. John blows on them gently and massages each hand delicately. His touch is soft and warm, and Bob feels some of the chill start to abate.
John lets go of his hands and eyes him with concern. Bob falters under his gaze, but John doesn’t tell him to go get a blanket. Instead, he leans back and pulls his sweatshirt up and over his head. “Here,” he says. “Put this on.”
“Are you sure?” Bob asks, holding the sweatshirt in his lap.
“Yeah,” John replies. “I’m getting too hot anyways.”
Bob pulls the sweatshirt over his head and threads his arms through the sleeves. It drapes over him, not surprising since John is so much bigger than he is. The fabric is still warm from John’s body heat, and when he pulls the neck up to his nose, he breathes in a hint of cologne, a tinge of sweat, and something uniquely John. “Thanks,” he says.
John gives him a smile and a chuckle, but there’s no malice in the laugh. “Looks good on you,” he says. “Warmer?”
“Yeah,” Bob replies. He hikes the sleeves up to free his fingers to grab his Switch. He lets the sleeves drop back down so only the tips of his fingers are visible and turns the game back on.
He realizes that in this whole endeavor, he’d moved even closer to John who, seemingly without thinking, pulls Bob in close against him. Bob feels the heat radiate off John’s chest and finally starts to feel the shivers in his chest start to abate.
*
John doesn’t ask for his sweatshirt back. Bob had gone to sleep all wrapped up in it and then wears it around the Watchtower the next day. He gets a few odd looks from the others, but only Alexei comments on it.
“Bob, I didn’t know you played footba—” Alexei says, his sentence cut short by an elbow to the ribs from John.
Bob just shrugs and pulls his sleeves up so they don’t drag into his breakfast.
The fabric still smells like John when Bob settles himself into an armchair overlooking the city. There’s something about it that makes Bob feel safer than he’d care to admit. He’s sure he looks a little crazy sniffing at the fabric of a sweatshirt that’s not even is, but it’s better than trying to snort coke off some guy’s cargo pants back in Bangkok. Or had it been Kuala Lumpur? He shakes his head. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t want to remember.
He wears John’s sweatshirt until he accidentally sets his arm in some tomato sauce and has to throw it into the wash. Normally, he wouldn’t be so fastidious, but this belongs to John, and he doesn’t want to ruin it. He nervously sits in the laundromat in the basement waiting for the cycle to finish so he can check whether or not the supposed “Magic Stain Remover” had done its job.
The stain is still there when he pulls the sweatshirt out of the wash. He tries running it through another cycle, but it seems that the damage is done. The arm of John’s sweatshirt has an ugly off-color blotch unmistakably splattered across the sleeve.
Bob miserably slinks down against the machine and presses his face against the sleeve to block his tears. He doesn’t deserve to cry over this. John had been kind to him, had given him something, and what had Bob done? He’d ruined it.
Just like he always ruins things.
*
It takes the better half of a day for him to muster up the courage to even stand up from the laundry room floor let alone trek back upstairs to admit to John what he’s done. When he finally makes it upstairs, the floor is dark. Everyone else is tucked into their quarters, leaving Bob all alone. It’s better, he supposes. He around in the kitchen drawers for some scratch paper and curses at not being able to find any. He pulls out a paper napkin and a Sharpie and scribbles onto it. He folds the sweatshirt the best he can and sets it in front of John’s door, the note on top.
When John stumbles out of his room in the morning, he nearly trips over the little pile of fabric with a nearly indecipherable note sitting on top.
I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry.
*
Bob stays in his room for the rest of the week. He doesn’t want to face John or anybody, no matter how often they gently knock on his door and try to lure him out. He’s got enough food to last him weeks, at least the old him could survive for weeks. The new Bob quickly learns that the same Sentry Project that simultaneously turned him into a god amongst men and the world’s greatest nightmare also robbed him of his ability to subsist on one protein bar a day. He eats through his stash in forty-eight hours and only then does he venture out.
He tries to time it so that no one else will be awake. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and he intends to scurry out to the kitchen to restock his rations before disappearing back into his quarters for the rest of the foreseeable future.
But instead, he finds the sweatshirt that he’d ruined neatly folded in front of his door. He crumples, believing that John returned the ruined garment in an attempt to mock him, and he pulls the garment up. But to his surprise, the stain is completely gone. Both sleeves are free from the tomato sauce carnage, and there’s a note pinned to the collar.
Just needed some elbow grease and baking soda :)
Bob immediately pulls the sweatshirt over his head and breathes in deeply. He smells detergent, but more than that, he smells what must be John’s cologne as if he’d spritzed it over the sweatshirt before giving it back. Bob feels tears prick at his eyes and wipes them with his sleeve.
He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve John.
*
He gathers enough strength to emerge from the darkness the next night, and he finds John dozing on the couch. His head is bent at an awkward angle, and Bob wonders if the serum counteracts any aches from a terrible night’s sleep. He doesn’t know, so he decides to gently shake John awake so he can sleep properly in his bed instead of awkwardly on the couch.
Bob rests his hand lightly on John’s shoulder, and John snorts awake, blinking quickly. Bob feels him tense under his touch then relax when he finally comes to.
“Hey, Bobby,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ve missed you.”
Bob stares at him, trying to find the words to reply. He wants to say I missed you too, wants to say I’m sorry, wants to say How did you get the stain out? But instead, all his brain can put together is:
“Why did you give this back?”
John shrugs. He reaches out and tugs at the sleeve, playing with the frayed edges on the cuff. “Figured you liked wearing it,” he says. “Besides, you need a good sweatshirt. Those sweaters you wear can’t be warm enough for you.”
“But…” he says. “But I ruined it?”
John just shakes his head with a chuckle. “You didn’t ruin it,” he says. “I’ve spilled on this old thing more times than I can count. That’s why my mama made me do my own laundry when I was a kid.” He pulls Bob’s arm, the one with the now vanished stain. “Those stain sticks don’t work. I had to get after this one with the good stuff.” He lets Bob’s arm drop. “I can teach you.”
It’s almost too much for Bob. No yelling, no punishment, no pain, just that soft grin and the promise of time together. He just stares at John, those big blue eyes blinking slowly.
“And hey, if you ever need to borrow any more clothes… I’ve got plenty you can wear. I’d forgotten that I’d stashed literally all of my shit in the storage unit they delivered so I’ve got clothes coming out of my ears.”
“Thanks,” Bob says.
There’s a beat, and John just nods. He taps Bob’s leg and stands up. “Come on, Bobby. Let’s go to bed.”
*
When Bob wakes the next morning, there’s a neat stack of clothes outside of his door. Mostly shirts and sweatshirts, but there are some shorts and pants that must have belonged to a much younger and thinner John. Bob hangs them all in his closet but does his best to thoroughly wear each article out before moving onto the next one. It’s like John’s scent is woven into each piece of fabric, and there’s something calming about each deep inhale of John’s pine and amber cologne.
He wants to return each piece after the scent wears off, wants to give them back to John to wear and muss up until they smell like warmth and care and him, wants to believe that he’s worthy of all of that, but instead, he dutifully takes everything down to the laundromat to wash.
He accumulates more and more clothes, presumably all from John though he sees fresh packages of undergarments thrown in every so often, until he finally has a decent enough wardrobe. There’s pants and shirts and sweaters and socks and even a jacket. It’s kind of the others, it’s kind of John, but he doesn’t know what to do with all of this… kindness. He convinces himself that John’s just getting rid of his extra clothes because Bob is a convenient dumping ground for his castoffs. Surely that’s the most logical explanation.
He doesn’t realize that all of John’s coziest sweatshirts wind up in front of Bob’s door, the ones that have been washed so many times that not a coarse fiber remains. Each sweatshirt is filled with so much love and care from years of wears and memories that John isn’t just giving Bob a bit of his wardrobe.
He’s giving Bob a piece of himself.
*
It all comes to a head one dark evening. There’s a storm brewing over the city, and thunderclouds clap in the distance. Rain patters against the windows, which is unsettling enough in a small house but downright nerve-wracking in a place with as many windows as the Watchtower. John, who had been standing out on the terrace watching the storm roll in, runs back inside when the heavens unleash a torrent of raindrops. Bob watches as he locks the door behind him and runs a hand through his wet hair.
“It’s gonna be a big one,” he says with an excited grin.
Bob offers him a grimace in return. Storms growing up easily turned into hurricanes, but storms also brought out the worst in his father. He’d learned to fear them… and him. He’d spent most storms cowering underneath the covers in his bedroom, trying his best to disappear into the fabric of time and space.
John plops down on the couch next to him. “Not a fan of storms?” he asks.
Bob shakes his head. “No,” he says simply.
“Too bad,” John says. “There’s nothing like a good gully-washer. We used to have ‘em interrupt practice, and the coach would get pissed. But the rest of us would run around in the rain, hootin’ and hollerin’ like crazies,” he says, a hint of Southern drawl slipping out.
In spite of himself, Bob feels the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. John’s accent only comes out when he’s talking about growing up, when he’s talking about being happy. Maybe it makes Bob happy to see John happy.
Maybe Bob wishes he could be that happy too.
John pulls his sweatshirt over his head and rubs the rest of the rain out of his hair. He plops it on the couch in between him and Bob and adjusts his t-shirt more comfortably over his frame. Without realizing it, Bob reaches out and pulls the garment into his lap, examining the design on the front.
“I’m gonna have to start buying sweatshirts again if you’re going to keep stealin’ them, Bobby,” John says, a joking tone in his voice.
Bob’s face burns with embarrassment, and he immediately hands the sweatshirt back to John. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey, hey,” John says quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that.” He offers the sweatshirt up as a peace offering, but Bob doesn’t reach for it. “Really,” he says. “It’s fine that you wear my clothes.” He shakes his head and rephrases, “It’s nice that you wear my clothes.”
“Really?” Bob says, giving him an incredulous look.
Now it’s John’s turn to grow sheepish. His cheeks tinge with pink, and he looks down at the sweatshirt as he replies. “Didn’t really think I’d see anyone wearing my clothes again, after… well… you know.” His voice trails off, and his shoulders drop. He takes a deep breath and continues. “Olivia would wear my jerseys, back in high school. That’s what all the guys’ girlfriends used to do. And then Lemar and I would always swap our labeled shit, joking about how people couldn’t tell us apart even though that obviously wasn’t true. Then somebody gifted us this baby football jersey that said ‘Walker’ on the back for my kid, and it was so corny but I loved it.” He takes a breath. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess… I guess there was always somebody wearing my name on their back. Made me feel like they wanted me, you know? That they were proud to wear my name.”
John drops his head and looks into his lap. His hands twist the sleeves on the sweatshirt as he fights with the demons from the past swirling around in his head.
Bob reaches out to take the sweatshirt from him. It’s been worn soft like the others and is still slightly damp from the rain. The front boasts the Custer Grove High logo, one Bob has seen many times before. He turns it over, and underneath the hood, letters are embroidered onto the back.
W-A-L-K-E-R.
It only takes a second for him to decide what to do. Bob pulls off the sweatshirt he’s wearing and replaces it with this one. He’s engulfed by the warm fabric, engulfed by that now-familiar scent of John’s cologne. His hands drown in the sleeves, and once again he tries to push them up to his forearms to let his fingers breathe.
He reaches out to take John’s hands in his. “I want to wear your name, John,” he says. “I know I’m not really deserving of it, but—”
John jolts his head up and meets his gaze, his eyes filled with a fierceness Bob hasn’t seen for a long time. “Fuck that, Bobby,” he says, his voice harsh. “There’s no one more deserving than you.”
And then it all comes crashing down. He stares at John in disbelief, trying to conjure up the words to argue. He wants to yell at him No! or You wouldn’t say that if you knew who I really was, but then he realizes that John does know. He’s seen the worst of Bob, he’s nearly drowned in the worst of the Void, and yet he’s still sitting here, holding Bob’s hands.
“I—” he begins, but then there’s a horrific crash of thunder and the entire Watchtower plunges into darkness. Bob reaches forward and pulls John into a crushing embrace, holding him tightly.
He’s not afraid of the dark.
He’s afraid of being left alone.
“I’ve got you,” John says, holding him tightly. “I’ve got you, Bobby.”
The generators kick in, and the emergency lights flicker on, casting an eerie glow across the common room. John doesn’t let go, just holds Bob close. Bob feels his fingers tracing over the letters on the back of his sweatshirt and finally starts to relax.
“I meant what I said,” John says, his voice a whisper against Bob’s ear. “There’s nobody I’d rather have wear my name than you.”
*
Bob wakes to the rustling of clothes. He cracks open his eyes to find John sorting through his closet, pulling out a t-shirt here, a sweatshirt there. Each article of clothing gets folded into a neat stack on the end of the bed. He’s in John’s room, he realizes, and then remembers John offering for him to spend the night so he wouldn’t have to suffer through the storm alone. He’s still wrapped in John’s high school sweatshirt, now dry from the rain and so unbelievably cozy.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
John turns and gives him a smile. “Hey Bobby,” he says. “Just finding some more clothes for you to steal.”
It takes a moment for Bob to offer a smile in return. “Is it really stealing if you give them to me?”
“I guess not,” John replies with a chuckle before turning back to the closet to pull out another shirt. He finishes his endeavor and pats the finished pile. “You can take these back with you,” he says.
“Thanks,” Bob says. He crawls out from under the blankets to examine the pile. Of course John has a seemingly endless supply of labeled shirts, given his extensive sport and military careers. He pulls off the sweatshirt he’s wearing and exchanges it for the one on the top of the pile. It’s an old Army sweatshirt, with WALKER embroidered on the arm. It’s less comfortable than the other one, but this one smells more like John. He pulls the collar up to his nose and takes a deep breath.
“What are you doing?” John asks.
Bob shrugs. “It smells like you.”
“Okay?” John says, his brow furrowing in confusion.
This time it’s Bob who looks at him and shrugs. “Makes me feel safe,” he says.
“Oh,” John says. He tries to turn away, but Bob catches the look on his face.
It’s something akin to a look of hope.
*
And so they fall into an easy pattern. Bob delivers his clothes, washed and somewhat folded, to John’s door, only to find them a day or so later neatly folded in a basket by his own door smelling like John.
There are the good days, the days where the sun shines and life feels manageable. Those are the days where he pulls on one of John’s old Army shirts, the olive green one with ARMY emblazoned across the front. The others tease him, but Bob doesn’t care. Besides, the girls swap clothes so often it’s like they share a closet, and he’s seen Bucky sporting a Wilson Family Seafood shirt more than once.
And then there are the bad days, the days where the storms come and the darkness feels overwhelming. The days where he doesn’t feel worthy, he doesn’t feel deserving. But in those days, all he has to do is knock on John’s door and crawl underneath the blankets with him. And John will hold him close and trace the letters on the back of his sweatshirt: W-A-L-K-E-R.
“I’ve got you, Bobby,” he whispers. “And I’m never going to let you go.”
Bob takes a deep breath and inhales pine and amber and all the warmth that John seems to radiate. They’ve both fucked things up more than either of them could have imagined, but just like the stain from John’s sweatshirt, maybe they can wash the past out and start anew. Bob knows that John is worthy of a second chance.
Maybe he is too.