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He'd noticed her absence during the briefing.
Usually, Ghost Lady occupied the seat between Yelena and Bucky, and directly opposite John's. But when he came into the room that morning, that chair was empty. He'd figured she was just running late - which was pretty unprofessional in his honest opinion. But then Bucky started the briefing without her, and no one commented on it.
So, he kept his mouth shut as well.
Maybe she'd been sent to a different mission than this one? Maybe she was off doing her own shit elsewhere. Either way, the others didn’t seem to care, so he convinced himself he shouldn’t either.
After all, their current missions don't exactly demand they all go at once.
Soon enough, his own thoughts were full of the details of the ops he'd be running with Alexei, Yelena, and Bucky. It's the usual shit: stop a weapons exchange from happening, deal with billionaires carelessly trading innocent lives for money, and definitely not let himself and the others get maimed or killed in the process.
One would think being an "Avenger" would be different from his life in the military, but no. It's another battlefield, just with new faces.
The mission ended well enough - or as well as it could, given his current set of teammates. He and Bucky had a few disagreements in the field, though that was pretty much expected by now. Yelena tended to drift off by herself at some points. And Alexei? Need a crash course in subtlety, stat. He didn't need to announce his or their presence every time he charges, Jesus Christ.
Still. They came back to the Tower whole and alive, and for that, John was grateful.
He was also fucking hungry.
So he found himself in the kitchen at one in the morning, grilling a few slices of chicken breast for himself on the indoor grill he'd dug up from the cabinets. Normally, he'd be okay slurping a protein shake, but a) he couldn't sleep, b) the Tower's kitchen has just been restocked, c) no one was around, and d) he was in the mood to make something delicious. Nothing fancy though - just a simple grilled chicken sandwich, but piled high with all the good stuff.
Now he has most of what he needed: slices of sourdough at the toaster, freshly washed and cut veggies waiting at the counter, and his honey-lemon cream cheese just begging to be slathered on something.
John's currently waiting for the meat to cook when his hearing picks it up: the soft padding of footsteps behind him.
He turns - and sees their resident Ghost Lady looking like absolute shit.
She's wearing an oversized grey hoodie and leggings, and her long hair wasn't in her usual messy bun, but left scattered around her thin face. But even the dim lighting of the kitchen can't hide the faint pallor beneath her skin, or the dark shadows under her eyes, or the way she moved - like every limb was heavier than it ought to be.
Ava spots him a nanosecond later, which tells him her senses were duller than usual, too.
"What are you doing?" she asks, but in a way that made him feel like he was the one intruding.
John inclines his head towards the indoor grill and replies, "Recon. This chicken's wanted for various war crimes. I'm supposed to apprehend it."
Silence.
And then she scoffs at his nonsense and heads toward the fridge.
John turns back to cooking.
Really, he has no business asking or even knowing what the hell's wrong with her. Sure, he's heard about her condition - quantum disequilibrium - but the specifics of it were medical jargon to him. And not like Ghost Lady was forthcoming with any information about it - or herself, at any rate, so.
Still, he can't help but notice that she looked frailer than usual - especially outside that black suit of hers. The image she presents now? Kinda disconcerting, to say the least. Kinda... concerning.
Despite himself, he glances at her and asks, "Hey. Are you--"
"I'm fine."
Okay, then.
John watches her take out a container and a tub of mayonnaise from the fridge, deposits both on the middle kitchen counter, then rummages in the cabinets for some sandwich bread.
He keeps watching as she slathers an absurd heap of mayonnaise onto the bread, pops open the container - which was packed with boiled chicken strips - layers them over the mayo, and caps it with the other slice.
And John knew he should keep his mouth shut, but then he blurts out, "Wait. That's it?"
She glances at him, brows furrowed. "What's it?"
"I mean--" He points at her abomination of a sandwich and adds, "--that's what you're going to eat?"
Ava looks at the bread in her hands and asks, "What's wrong with it?"
"Uh, it's bland?" he replies, moving closer to the counter now. "It's tasteless? It's fucking boiled chicken and mayo, Ghost Lady. You didn't add any seasoning either! What do you think it's gonna taste like?"
She glares at him. "I was thinking it's going to taste like dinner, Walker," she replies testily, pulling the sandwich closer to her as if he's going to snatch it any second now. "All right? I haven't exactly eaten all day, so forgive me if--"
"It's one in the fucking morning," he says, crossing his arms. "What do you mean you haven't eaten all day?"
Ava starts picking at the corners of the sad excuse of a sandwich in her hands. "They don't allow food at the medbay, so," she says carefully. "And I wasn't... exactly hungry before this."
Silence.
"You mean you've been there this whole time?"
She shrugs. "Twenty points to Gryffindor," Ava says under her breath.
Well.
Shit.
The silence between them stretches, broken only by the faint hum of the fridge and their breathing.
John looks at her — really looks — and something twists in his chest. Maybe it’s the exhaustion on her face, maybe it’s the way her fingers tremble a little as she keeps picking at the corners of her pathetic sandwich. Or maybe it’s the fact that no one - including him - seemed to give a damn that she’d been gone all day, when in fact she had been sitting in a damn medbay all by herself.
He clears his throat. “That's not right."
She glances at him, clearly uncomprehending.
"I mean," he adds, "that can't be all you’re eating.”
Ava rolls her eyes. “What do you care? It's food.”
"That's not--"
John exhales through his nose, glances at his grill. The chicken's nearly done, golden, sizzling, and fucking delicious, and mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”
He tells himself it’s none of his business. He tells himself she’s capable, she’s fine, she's eating, and she definitely doesn’t need him playing chef or nurse. Which he didn't want to be, in the first place.
But the words don’t stop his hands from moving anyway.
Without prompting, he grabs a plate and his toasted sourdough, pulls the cooked pieces from the grill, and starts working. Honey-lemon cream cheese on both sides of the sourdough, spinach, cucumber, and tomatoes on the bottom slice, grilled chicken strips on those, and topped with the second slice of bread. He then takes a sharp knife and cuts the sandwich diagonally to make it easier to hold and eat.
Ava notices after a beat. “Are you making yourself a sandwich, too?”
“No. I'm upgrading your war crime of a sandwich,” he says over his shoulder. "You're welcome."
Silence.
He then brings the plate to the counter and slides it in front of her. "Eat."
She blinks at it like it's the first time she's seeing something so fucking beautiful. Then Ava looks at him and says, “But I didn’t ask you to.”
“Yeah, well," he rubs the back of his neck, "I didn’t ask to see you commit a culinary crime, either. Yet here we are.”
John then holds his hand toward her - silently asking her to give up her miserable pile of bread and meat.
And after a few seconds, she does.
He promptly throws the fucking thing away, like its very existence offended him.
And in many ways, it did.
He goes to the fridge, takes out a second batch of chicken breasts, and starts seasoning them. Might as well make another set for himself if he's also planning on eating something tonight.
And no, he isn't at all interested in knowing what Ghost Lady thought about his sandwich. He knows it's fucking delicious; he's already perfected the recipe after all.
But he glances at her over his shoulder anyway, and sees the moment she takes her first bite.
Sees the moment her eyes widen at the taste.
She chews slowly, like her brain’s still catching up to what her mouth just experienced. Then she swallows, looks at the sandwich, and then at him.
“…This is actually good,” she admits, almost like it pains her to say it.
John smirks, returning his attention to the grill. “Yeah, no shit. It’s called flavor. Revolutionary concept, I know.”
Ava mutters something under her breath - something suspiciously close to show-off - but takes another bite anyway. This time faster. Bigger.
And something in his chest eases.
Just a bit.
He fills a glass with water and sets it on the counter, too, next to the plate. “Next time you’re stuck at medbay, maybe ask someone to bring you food?”
"Who," she says, wiping the corner of her mouth with her palm. "You?"
"Hell no," he replies with a laugh. "I'm not your delivery guy."
"Didn't think so."
John returns to the grill, flipping the chicken now. He wasn't exactly planning on feeding someone else when he went to the kitchen earlier, but now that he did, he realized that he didn't hate the feeling. It was pretty... satisfying.
Especially since he and Ava rarely see eye to eye on many things.
Soon enough, she approaches the sink near his grilling station and deposits the empty plate and glass in the dishwasher beneath it. Then, as if conceding something, she says, “...Thanks, Walker. For the sandwich.”
John shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Don’t mention it. Literally, don’t. Especially to Yelena and Bob.”
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile, but close. “Would ruin your sorry excuse of a reputation, wouldn't it?”
“Exactly. Plus, they might not stop asking me to make one for them all day, every day.”
At that, she laughs. It's soft, brief, and totally catches him off guard.
And for a moment, she doesn't look like death warmed over.
"I'll think about it."
Then he watches her shuffle toward the hallway - presumably going back to her room instead of the medbay this time - until she completely disappears from his view.
Leaving John alone in the kitchen.
Well.
So that just happened.
He finishes grilling the meat and starts assembling his own food.
And wouldn't anyone know it?
It tastes fucking better than ever before.