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The New Avengers Tower hummed with a low-grade, anticipatory energy that felt alien to its usual state of disciplined readiness.
It was December 31st, and the sprawling complex, usually a symphony of focused silence and tactical chatter, was infected with a forced, brittle cheer.
In the common areas, strings of tasteful, white fairy lights glittered, and a holographic countdown hovered near the ceiling.
Someone had brought in platters of snacks that went largely untouched. There was talk of gathering on the main observation deck at midnight to watch the fireworks over the Manhattan skyline.
Bob heard all of this from a distance, as if through a thick pane of glass. He’d spent the day in a state of escalating, internal tremors.
He’d nodded along to the plans, offered a tight, unconvincing smile, and had felt the familiar, cold trickle of dread begin in his stomach hours ago. It wasn’t the social aspect, though that was bad enough. It was the fireworks.
The sharp, sudden crack of a launcher, the high-pitched whistle, the deafening, concussive BOOM that shook the air in your chest—it wasn’t celebration to Bob.
It was artillery.
It was the sonic signature of things exploding, of buildings collapsing, of the world tearing itself apart. It was a trigger wired directly into the primal fear centers of his brain, a fear that had nothing to do with The Sentry and everything to do with Bob, the man who’d been broken long before the golden light ever found him.
On the Fourth of July, he’d usually find a deep bunker or a soundproofed lab, white-knuckling it through the hours with industrial ear defenders clamped over his head.
But New Year’s Eve was sneakier, more pervasive. It was inescapable.
By 8 PM, the tension was a live wire under his skin.
He’d tried to stay in the common room, to be normal, but the mere mention of “the big show at midnight” had made his hands tremble.
He’d mumbled something about a headache and fled, the echo of his own stuttering excuse chasing him down the hall.
He sat now on the floor of his stark, minimalist room, his back against his bedframe.
The room was dark, save for the ambient glow of the city bleeding around the edges of his blackout shades. He had his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped around them, trying to make himself small, to contain the tremors.
He was practicing a grounding technique his therapist had suggested, naming five things he could see. Floor. Bed leg. Dataport. Shadow. My hands.
But his ears were already straining, listening for the first, distant pop of the amateur displays starting in the neighborhoods below.
---
You’d noticed Bob’s retreat. You’d watched the subtle tightening around his eyes all evening, the way his laughter at a teammate’s joke had been a half-beat too late, the way he’d flinched, just slightly, when someone clapped a hand on his shoulder.
You knew his tells.
As a fellow Thunderbolt, you were trained to observe, and as his… friend? Tentative ally?… you’d learned to read the specific weather patterns of his anxiety.
You liked the fireworks. You always had. There was a childish, hopeful part of you that loved the brilliant, fleeting flowers of light against the night.
But the thought of Bob, alone and white-knuckled in his room while the sky exploded, extinguished any excitement you might have felt.
You waited until the common room had emptied, everyone off to change or make calls before the main event.
You made two mugs of tea, the way you’d seen him make it—strong, with a spoonful of honey already stirred in. You walked the familiar path to his door. The corridor was silent. You knocked softly, three times.
No answer. But you could feel a presence on the other side, a held breath.
“Bob? It’s me,” you said, your voice low. “I brought tea.”
A long pause. Then, the almost inaudible click of the lock disengaging. The door slid open a foot. He was backlit by his bathroom light, a tall, broad silhouette that seemed to curl in on itself. He looked pale.
“H-hi,” he managed.
“Can I come in?”
He hesitated, then nodded, stepping back. You entered, the door sighing shut behind you.
The room was neat to the point of austerity. It felt less like a living space and more like a cell in a very nice monastery.
He wasn’t on the bed, but on the floor. You joined him, setting the mugs down carefully. The silence stretched, filled only by the low hum of the Tower.
“You m-missed the… the pre-game festivities,” he said, attempting a joke. It fell flat.
“They weren’t much fun without you,” you said simply. You took a sip of your tea, giving him space. “You’ve been on edge all day.”
He flinched, as if you’d shone a bright light on him. He wrapped his large hands around his mug, seeking its warmth. “I’m… I’m f-fine.”
“Bob,” you said, gentle but firm. “You’re hiding in a dark room. You’re not fine.”
The directness seemed to startle him. He looked down into his tea, his shoulders slumping.
The act of holding the mask up was exhausting him. The words came out in a shaky, reluctant whisper. “It’s… the f-fireworks.”
You waited.
He took a ragged breath. “The s-sound. It’s… it’s not… it’s not just a s-sound.” He struggled, the sentences fragmenting. “It’s the b-boom. The… the shockwave in your ch-chest. It’s… it’s triggers.”
He spat the clinical word out like a curse. “It’s l-like… before. When things… when things w-would… explode.”
He couldn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. You knew enough of his history—the addiction, the street fights, the self-destruction, the sheer, violent chaos of his life before the power—to understand.
Fireworks weren’t celebration; they were a traumatic echo.
“I just… I have to get through it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “J-just a few hours. I can… I can b-breathe through it.”
“You don’t have to just ‘get through it,’ Bob,” you said softly.
He looked at you, his eyes wide and lost in the gloom. “W-what else is there?”
You had an idea. It was simple, maybe stupidly so.
“I have a pair of professional-grade, noise-cancelling headphones. The kind they use on the quinjet runways. You could play music. Really, really loud. You wouldn’t hear a thing.”
He stared at you. The concept of a solution, of not having to endure, seemed foreign. “B-but… you. You l-like them. The fireworks. You s-said.”
Your heart ached at that. In the midst of his own terror, he was worried about depriving you of a pleasure.
“I like you being okay more,” you said, and the honesty of it hung between you. “We can stay right here. I’ll stay with you. We can watch a terrible movie or just talk. We don’t have to go out there.”
He was silent for a long minute, turning the idea over. The offer of company, of a shared bunker, was profoundly alluring. But the part of him that didn’t want to be a burden, that wanted to be normal, pushed back. “N-no. You… you shouldn’t be t-trapped in here b-because of me.”
“I wouldn’t be trapped. I’d be with a friend.”
He shook his head, a new thought forming. “Okay. Okay, I’ll… I’ll use the headphones. B-but… we d-don’t stay in here.”
He gestured to the oppressive, dark room. “We go to the c-common room. The big window. You can… you can still see them. The lights. J-just… I’ll have the headphones.”
It was a compromise, a brave one. He was willing to face the visual trigger to give you the view. “Are you sure?”
He nodded, a decisive little movement. “Y-yeah. B-but… can we… can we just not t-talk about the c-countdown? Or… or midnight?”
“We can talk about anything you want,” you promised.
---
The common room was deserted, lit only by the fairy lights and the vast, breathtaking panorama of New York City glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. It was like having the best private box in the universe.
You’d raided the kitchen, bringing back a comically large pile of snacks: chips, pretzels, a block of cheese you’d sliced haphazardly, grapes, and a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans you knew Bob secretly loved.
You put on a movie, something old and comforting and visually busy—The Princess Bride. Bob settled at the far end of the large sectional sofa, putting a respectable cushion’s width between you. For the first half-hour, the conversation was just commentary on the film.
“Inejji… Inigio is the b-best swordsman,” Bob said during the iconic duel scene, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. “The m-manifestation is… is flawless.”
“You’re just saying that because you have a six-part fighting style too,” you teased.
He chuckled, a soft, rusty sound. “M-mine’s less about r-revenge. M-more about… not d-dying.”
As the movie played, the dam slowly broke. The shared, neutral space, the distraction of the screen, the comforting mundanity of shared snacks made it easier.
“What’s the f-first thing you remember?” you asked during a quiet moment, popping a grape into your mouth.
Bob was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn’t answer. He stared at his hands. “C-cold linoleum,” he said finally, his voice so low you had to lean in to hear.
“And the smell of… of lemony cleaner. A h-hospital. I was f-four. I don’t know why I was th-there.” He shrugged, a massive, helpless gesture. “Just… a f-feeling of being… wrong. Of being s-somewhere I shouldn’t b-be.”
You didn’t offer platitudes. You just listened.
In turn, you told him about your own anxieties, the less dramatic but ever-present ones that came with the job—the fear of letting the team down, of being the weak link.
He listened with intense focus, as if cataloging your vulnerabilities to keep them safe.
When the movie ended, you let the quiet settle. The digital clock on the wall read 11:50 PM. The first, faint pop-pop-crackle of distant fireworks echoed up from the streets below, a faint, ominous drumroll.
Bob’s body went rigid. His breathing hitched.
“Okay,” you said, keeping your voice calm. “Headphone time.” You pulled the sleek, black headphones from their case. They were substantial, meant to block out the roar of turbines. You handed them to him.
His hands were trembling as he took them. “Wh-what should I…?”
“Here,” you said, taking your phone. You pulled up a music app. “You like Radiohead, right? Kid A? We can put that on. It’s… atmospheric. It’ll drown everything else out.”
He looked at you, touched that you remembered. He nodded. You queued up the album, turned the volume to a level that would have made an audiologist wince, and handed him the phone.
He carefully fitted the headphones over his ears, the world around him vanishing into a seal of silence. He closed his eyes for a second, testing. When he opened them, he gave you a thumbs-up, the gesture looking oddly young on him.
You pointed to the window and mouthed, They’re starting.
He took a deep breath and turned to look.
Brilliant chrysanthemums of green and gold erupted over the East River, followed by shimmering willows of silver. The boom was a physical vibration in the glass. You saw Bob flinch, his knuckles white where they gripped the couch cushion.
Another barrage. A series of rapid, concussive detonations.
He flinched again, harder this time, and in a sudden, instinctive move, his hand shot out and grabbed yours, his fingers latching on with a strength that was almost painful.
You froze, not from the pressure, but from the shock of the contact. He never initiated touch. You held your breath, your hand immobile in his vise-like grip.
Then, you saw it. The tension in his shoulders began to drain away. His white-knuckled grip on the cushion eased. He could feel the vibration, see the light show, but the terrifying, soul-shaking sound was gone.
Replaced by the haunting, electronic soundscape of Thom Yorke’s voice. The headphones were working.
He didn’t let go of your hand. In fact, his grip softened, becoming less of a panic clamp and more of a… hold.
His thumb shifted, just slightly, a subconscious stroke over your knuckle. You didn’t dare move, afraid to shatter the moment. You sat there, hand-in-hand, watching the apocalypse of beauty unfold in silence together.
The colors painted his face in shifting hues—blue, red, gold. The fear was gone from his eyes, replaced by a kind of awed, peaceful detachment. He was here, with you, and he was safe.
For twenty magnificent minutes, the sky tore itself apart in glorious silence. Then, the grand finale began to dwindle, the last sparks drifting down like dying stars. The city’s roar, a constant hum, reasserted itself.
Slowly, Bob lifted the headphones from one ear. He listened. Only the distant wail of sirens and the faint buzz of the city. The war was over.
He took them off completely, letting them rest around his neck like a technological wreath. The sudden return of real-world sound seemed loud.
He looked down, only then realizing he was still holding your hand. He didn’t snatch it away, but he loosened his hold, giving you an out. You didn’t take it. You laced your fingers through his, a deliberate, gentle affirmation.
He looked at you, his eyes huge in the reflected city light. “Th-thank you,” he whispered, the words thick with emotion. “That was… I’ve n-never… I actually s-saw them. Without the… the fear.”
“You’re welcome, Bob.”
The clock on the wall ticked over to 12:25 AM. The new year was here. The tension of the evening, the shared intimacy, the simple, profound relief hung in the air between you.
Bob swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked from your joined hands to your face and back again, a shy, nervous energy replacing the earlier terror. “I… I g-guess we should… k-kiss, huh?” he stammered, his cheeks flushing a deep red.
“B-because… y’know. New Year’s. It’s… it’s a thing people… do.”
Your heart did a funny little flip. It was the most awkward, charming proposition you’d ever heard.
“It is a thing people do,” you agreed softly, a smile tugging at your lips. “Do you… want to?”
He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Y-yeah. I r-really do.”
He was leaning in, agonizingly slow, giving you every chance to change your mind. You met him halfway.
The kiss was soft, tentative, a question and an answer all at once. His lips were slightly chapped, and he tasted faintly of chocolate and tea.
He was incredibly careful, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with a touch so feather-light it made your chest ache. It was shy, and sweet, and held a universe of pent-up yearning. When you pulled back, his eyes were closed for a second longer, as if savoring the feeling.
“Wow,” he breathed.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Wow.”
He started to pull away, the self-consciousness returning, but you squeezed his hand, keeping him anchored. “The headphones,” you said. “Keep them.”
He shook his head immediately. “I c-can’t. They’re y-yours. You… you need them.”
“I have another pair,” you lied smoothly. “And you… you should have them. For July. For any time. I want you to have them.”
He looked at the sophisticated piece of tech around his neck, then at you. His eyes glistened. This was more than a gift; it was a promise.
A promise that he didn’t have to suffer alone, that his peace mattered. He didn’t have the words. He just nodded, swallowing hard.
Exhaustion, emotional and physical, crashed over you both. The adrenaline of the evening had burned out. Without a word, you both shifted, lying down on the wide, deep sofa.
He stayed on his back, rigid for a moment, until you carefully settled against his side, your head on his shoulder, your hand still in his. He was tense for a heartbeat, then, with a long, shuddering sigh, he relaxed. His arm came up to wrap around you, his hand resting with cautious wonder on your arm.
Through the glass, the city sparkled, cleaned by the new year. The last of the smoke from the fireworks drifted across the skyline.
In the quiet, warm dark of the Tower, with the hum of the city as a lullaby and the faint scent of ozone and chocolate in the air, Bob, the most powerful and broken man you knew, held you close. And for the first time in a very, very long time—for both of you—there was not a single thing to fear.
The only sound was the synchronized, slowing rhythm of your breathing as you both drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.