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"And that directly overhead is the Great Square of Pegasus," John traces out the stars marking the points with his finger as Ava follows along like it's the first time she's bothered to look up into the sky at all. Locked away for so many years with nothing but the buzzing glass walls to stare at, perhaps it's true enough. She hums contentedly into her thermos of hot chocolate– spiked with a bit too much bourbon, because Ava had gotten carried away with the bottle and didn't want to back down to the challenge she accidentally created.
"You learn all that in the Army too?" she teases lightly, her breath escaping into the chilly night air. So much about him traced back to his military training, the same way so many of her repetitive excuses are rooted in her sheltered upbringing. Habits far too ingrained into them both that it's difficult to identify where their own nature begins and what they're the product of. But when they're together, there's no manual or familiar procedure for Ava to follow at all. It's the closest to self that she's felt in a long time, to just be a woman rather than a spy or wanted criminal or Avenger, which leads to a stirring of self-conscious to be observed. Like a quantum particle that resists being defined, she bounces between states: sarcastic when he tries to be sincere, evasive when he notices her slip too closely to affection, flirtatious when she's pushed too many buttons and he's gotten riled up.
"No, worse. Boy Scouts," John admits, his cloudy puffs of amusement chasing hers. She's already since stolen his scarf and 'why's it so itchy' hat, since she hadn't fully grasped the extent of his warning to bundle up for the date. Being from San Francisco, where Novembers barely dipped below 60, nothing had prepared Ava for a New York winter, and it hasn't even fully begun yet. But with the way she's curled up on her side against John, his arm wrapped around her to provide additional warmth, he's not going to complain about being right.
"You truly aren't full of any surprises at all," Ava remarks, her lips pressed against the mouth of the thermos to prevent her teeth from chattering. The balm she's applied several layers of to keep them from getting too chapped leaves a faint tint of rosy pink against the rim, leaving John curious if it's flavored too.
"Careful, drink too much of that at once and I'm going to be hauling you back to the Tower over my shoulder," John teases right back, hand slipping casually into her puffy coat's pocket to take shelter from the chill.
He feels the handle of a tucked away knife against his fingertips, probably one that Bucky had gifted her for her birthday, and doesn't mention it. He's got several of his own strapped to him. Even out of uniform, neither of them like being caught unaware.
"And when the AVTF stops you for breaking curfew, you can claim you caught the most dangerous masked vigilante of all, hm?" That's why they're currently laying atop the roof of a gazebo in Central Park, out long past anyone is supposed to legally be. It allows a better vantage point of any of the corrupt officers that might be on patrol looking for opportunity to violently enforce such restrictions the mayor has placed upon the city.
Clearly they both have very little respect for such laws to sneak around them, like two teenagers crawling out of their bedroom windows in the middle of the night without their parents knowing. Despite her extensive history of criminal activity, he gets the sense that Ava never truly had a rebellious phase, not for the thrill of it. Although being caught breaking curfew might be more of a PR crisis circus than either wants to endure. He imagines Ava beside him making painfully insincere public statements about being arrested for watching the stars, going on to complain how they were barely visible with all the light pollution and maybe the mayor should be more focused on that atrocity instead.
John laughs at the absurdity, and tucks her head securely underneath his chin, his scratchy beard catching against scratchy yarn a strange sensation that makes him realize maybe he does need a new hat after all. It's nice, no longer having to come up with deniable justifications for contact every time he catches his fingers itching to reach for hers. It's nice that she no longer flinches away the moment she becomes too aware of it, as if openly enjoying the touch was some sort of admission of something more. Now the something more is out there to be tentatively explored, with his fingers winding in a loose strand of her hair, her foot quietly asserting dominance over his.
He wonders at what point she kicked off her boots. Probably around when he took off his glove.
"Some of these constellations are different, than the ones I grew up with," Ava comments idly, as if trying to distract him from the fact she's topping off both their thermoses with the remainder of the bourbon. "Like the little dipper there," she finds the brightest star and gestures to it with the mouth of the now empty bottle, "isn't visible from the Southern hemisphere."
"Because it contains the North Star," John agrees, careful not to sound like he's correcting her. Or mansplaining, as Bob once snapped at him to stop doing during a briefing when he had too confidently spoken over Yelena. It wasn't the first time he's heard the term, certainly not the first he's heard it applied to himself. He recognizes that Ava is brilliant in a lot of ways that aren't immediately obvious to most, how she often prefers to fade into the background and listen and absorb every little detail. Until somebody says something so unforgivably incorrect that she can't help herself from interrupting. Which makes him even more eager to share, little prompts to keep her going, hoping to spark a tangent.
"You know, I am an expert. It's in my name. Mum used to call me Twinkle Twinkle, little Starr." She pauses to drown her sorrows at the scrounged up memory, and then sputters before she can properly swallow. Little cocoa droplets frost over mid-air, and John uses the edge of his fleece scarf that she's co-opted to wipe at the edge of her mouth. "Oh, don't look so smug," Ava's cheeks are flushed from the chill, but it does enhance how adorably embarrassed she looks. "Fine, maybe I did add too much."
"Thought you said you could hold your liquor." John avoids making it a full taunt, because he doesn't want to be responsible for her overdoing it just out of spite. There's no way even her stubbornness could compete with his tolerance, enhanced or otherwise. He can tell by the way she lazily blinks back at him that she's already a bit tipsy.
He's relieved she's not one of those violent drunks, or the weepy kind. Although he was prepared to handle either.
"Didn't expect it to burn so much," Ava sticks out her tongue, scraping it over with her teeth as if trying to chase the taste from her mouth. John helpfully offers his own mouth to the mix, and she gives a slight 'mmph' of surprise as their lips collide. He confirms the chapstick as peppermint.
The heat shared between them makes it easy to forget that it's dipped below freezing, until Ava flutters away briefly and John's mouthing ineffectively at the molecules of air she's left behind. His protest is swallowed up by her tongue down his throat, as she's realigned her position to straddle his waist like she's claiming victory over him during a sparring match. Unlike during training, he doesn't have to pretend it doesn't stir something deep in his gut when she presses down against him.
John's considering flipping her, hands planted firmly on her hips, when there's a shatter of glass. They both freeze, Ava's biting down hard against John's lower lip. He muffles a moan, reluctant to pull back from the scrape of teeth.
It's the empty bourbon bottle, the remains of it glistening again concrete below as they peer over the edge of the gazebo. "They're going to get us on littering charges too," Ava deadpans, after the rush of adrenaline wears off.
But as they remain quiet and alert for another minute or two, there's no sign that they've drawn any attention. John leans back, taking a long swig from his cocoa, and chuckles. "You know, I was reluctant to get back into the dating scene at my age."
"You're hardly that much older than I am," Ava protests. "So don't say it like that. You're going to make me feel like an old shriveled up maid."
John pauses, straightening out the blanket they had laid out to make the roof a bit more comfortable. Ava shuffles slightly to free the crumpled up corner she's sitting upon. "Fine, not my age. Just the… getting back into the market after divorce, all those weird apps and swiping. Having a kid I don't even have custody over."
"Not to mention the-"
John waves dismissively. "Yes, being the failed Captain America that went viral for decapitating a terrorist and spiraling into depression. Not exactly the type of thing women are looking for in a relationship."
"I hear there's plenty writing love letters to convicted murderers in prison," Ava points out, far too cheerfully. She's clearly not one to be daunted by a little blood on either of their hands, given the circumstances they met under.
"That's not as reassuring as you're trying to make it sound." John wrinkles his nose, and Ava pokes it right back into place. "But I haven't dated since high school, and back then it was just going out to movies and making out beneath the bleachers after the football game and mowing lawns to earn enough cash to afford dinner at the nicest Italian place, which really wasn't all that nice but they had unlimited breadsticks."
"Romantic," Ava muses at his nostalgia, another reminder of all the sorts of things she missed out on. "But I really don't want to hear that much about the things you did with Olivia, actually," she blurts out. "Sorry, the alcohol said that bit for me." She wiggles her thermos back and forth, but given it's opaque, John can only guess that she's trying to demonstrate how little there is left. Which he responds to downing more of his own, to catch back up. And give himself more time to think over his response.
"You're right. I'm not trying to make this about Olivia, or the divorce. Yelena warned me I wasn't allowed to use you for a sloppy rebound, or she'd feed my kidneys to the overgrown hamster."
"Guinea pig," Ava corrects, though she appreciates Yelena's interference. "And that's not what this is? Is it?" She sounds uncertain, nervous at the possibility that her first go at love is nothing more than a placeholder. Just something to help him get over somebody else. "Sloppy?"
"Not at all, Twinkle Starr," he earns a playful shove of her shoulder against his for that. "I do want this, with you. I am ready to move on. Just that it's a little strange for me too. I spent all this time worrying about where to even take you, if you'd even like it. If this was too simple, or if stargazing was too corny, or if you'd spend the entire time complaining about being cold and bored."
"I am cold," Ava agrees and uses the excuse to cuddle closer, "but not at all bored. I guess I didn't think I was too fussy, am I?" She leans her head against John's chest, and blames that on the alcohol too. Everything feels lighter and her bones looser, and the solid weight of him there anchors her to the singularity of the moment. The thump of his chest resonates through her own, each beat forcing her to reconsider the lie that her heart was better off alone.
"You wouldn't have wanted to go to the movies," John explains.
He's right. "There's nothing I want to see playing. And they don't have screen captions," Ava complains, because she always does whenever they watch something in the Watchtower and somebody forgets to turn them on.
"And there's noisy unattended teenagers that kick at your seat," John adds his own particular annoyance. "After the Blip, it's like everyone forgot how to behave in public."
"Or are on their bloody phones instead of paying attention." She pinches John's side just lightly in accusation, her hand having found its way under the layers of his coat and his sweater and even the thermal shirt beneath. He shivers, though it's not the cold.
"Hey, only when the show is boring," John defends. "And you wouldn't want to go to an expensive restaurant."
"Can't pronounce half the nonsense on those menus, and the prices are ridiculous," Ava huffs. She always hates the fancy events that Valentina makes them attend for the entertainment of her wealthy friends. John's been audience to her 'hoity-toity' rants enough to know that she finds spending that much on food should be a criminal offense.
"You also wouldn't want to dress up," John continues, and none of it is spoken as criticism of Ava at all. He wants her to know that her preferences were kept in mind, that he pays attention. "And frankly, I don't want to either."
"Not around that many people," Ava whispers.
"Hm?" John finds himself distracted in Ava's hair, the soft scent of the oil she's run through it to battle the seasonal dryness. He likes when she wears it down, mostly because it's when Ava herself is more relaxed and comfortable to do so.
"I mean… it's not the dressing up part I dislike so much," Ava begins uncertainly, as if she's never fully articulated these thoughts aloud before. "The dresses are… they can be nice. I like looking nice. The flowy fabrics, the ruffles, the sparkles. All of it feels silly, being pretty isn't anything that ever mattered too much. Wasn't a consideration in my survival. But when I look in the mirror… it's a little exciting, isn't it?" She glances up at him, shyly, as if looking for reassurance that wanting to be attractive isn't something shameful. "But I don't like being out on display, being gawked at. Feeling vulnerable, without my suit. Surrounded by people, all the pictures and the articles picking us apart. Makes it feel less special."
John traces along her jawline with his thumb while listening to her drunken ramble. He gets it, gets sick of being paraded around too. Having their lives feel like a commodity as they try to play the role that Valentina dumped them into to save herself. It always struck him as some small wonder that Ava hadn't slipped back into obscurity the second everyone else's backs were turned to escape it all.
But that doesn't feel like the important part here, not the part worth responding to. "You're beautiful without even trying," John tells her, wishing he was better with his words to put it more poetically in a way her beauty deserved. He observes her pale eyes reflecting the glow of the moon gently back at him like a Monet, the perfect curve of her parted lips brushing against his thumb as it strays over her chin. And all he can come up with is beautiful. Still, she soaks it up because nobody's bothered to tell her such before. "We can find an occasion of our own to dress up, without all the fuss."
"Just us?"
"Just us," John confirms, and steals another taste of the peppermint from her eager lips. Ava laughs against his, a giddy sort of sound that encourages John that he's finally doing something right. He didn't realize how much he craved that feeling.
"I don't know how the others are going to put up with us, like this," Ava remarks, with the hint that she has no intention of stopping.
"Think they're mostly going to be relieved we're finally putting up with each other."
"Oh, don't get ahead of yourself," Ava mutters low against his ear, the suddenness of movement startling him. She's ephemeral no matter how firmly he holds, and it makes John all the more aware that every touch is one that she allows for how easily she could slip away. "I'm not letting you off that easily, John the F is for Freedom Walker."
"Actually, this F is for-!"
He vanishes before she can find out, dissipating downward through the roof of the gazebo, and Ava's barely able to catch at his fleeting fingers before they're lost to a familiar static.
Gone. Her heart pounds in panic, staring at the otherwise undisturbed spot John just occupied in disbelief, because that's her trick.
The prickling of horror rises up her spine, the realization of who it must be. The imposter Ghost.
Ava phases her own head through the roof to inspect, knife clutched ready in hand and the other bracing herself so she doesn't fall straight through. There's nothing.
And then there's black.