Archive of Our Own

10:16 A.M.

Bob was not a jealous person.

At all.

Not even a little bit.

Between the day he left his parents’ house and the day he entered that lab in Malaysia, Bob had been with more men than he could count. He wasn’t proud of it (ashamed, really) but it was true. All those men and he’d never really cared when he saw them with other people. He’d been cheated on at least half a dozen times and even then, he didn’t get jealous. Even then, he never felt possessive or even unnerved. If anything, he sometimes felt relieved that he was no longer his shitty boyfriend’s object of affection.

So, when Bob opened the door to the bouquet of flowers, he didn’t quite understand the tightness in his chest. He couldn’t make sense of how his throat went dry, why his heart started racing like he was holding a bomb rather than a gift. The problem wasn’t with the beautiful red roses, though. It was with the ribbon tied around them; with the shiny golden tag hanging off it, engraved with the words, “For John Walker. Love, your secret admirer.”

Love.

Love.

Who the fuck was sending John flowers with the word ‘love’ on them? Who the fuck was sending John flowers period? Bob flipped the tag over and rummaged through the flowers, searching for any evidence as to the identity of the secret admirer. Nothing. Just the name of the flower shop and the stupid golden tag. Bob glared at the flowers as he turned around, eyes quickly finding the nearest trash can. He was seconds from throwing them in when the elevator suddenly chimed and Ava stepped out of it. She furrowed her brow and smirked.

“You have a valentine, Bob?” Somehow, Bob had almost forgotten that it was Valentine’s Day until she said it. Bob shook his head and shoved his frizzy curls out of his face with one hand. “Who are those for, then?”

“Walker,” said Bob, before he choked on his own spit. “I mean, it— it’s not— I didn’t buy them for him. They just came. The tag says they’re from a secret admirer? I don’t really know who that could be.”

“Interesting. Let me see.” He shoved the flowers into her arms a little harder than he intended to. A small wave of satisfaction ran through him when a few of the petals fell on the floor. What was wrong with him? “That’s strange. Nothing identifiable. You don’t think he has a stalker, do you?”

“No. Who would— Who would be obsessed with Walker like that?”

Ava opened her mouth to respond, one brow raised, but the lobby doors chimed again before she could. The second delivery person looked just as uninterested as the first. He wheeled a hand truck up to the front desk and waved when Ava approached him. Bob lingered slightly behind, stumbling backward when Ava pushed the flowers back into his arms. He glared at them so hard it actually surprised him Sentry didn’t burn them somehow.

“Someone order a variety case of luxury champagne?” asked the man with a smile that was absolutely fake. Bob and Ava both shook their heads. It was an unofficial rule that there was no alcohol allowed in the tower. “It’s for a John F. Walker? From… huh. It just says, ‘your biggest fan.’”

Bob scoffed and rolled his eyes. “His biggest fan who doesn’t know that he’s sober?”

“I’m just the delivery guy, man. You want me to tell them you refused the delivery?”

“No, we’ll take it.”

If Ava asked, he accepted it because he didn’t want the poor delivery guy to have to wheel the crate back out and deal with the hassle of an undelivered item. In reality, he was pretty sure one or two or four mimosas were his best shot at numbing the burning in his heart.

11:33 A.M.

“Sorry, I don’t get it, you’re saying all these gifts are for me?”

The fact that John seemed more confused than anything else relieved Bob in a way he couldn’t explain without thinking too deeply about what he’d always convinced himself was a solely physical crush. How could it be anything more, anyway? Bob’s attraction to John had started way back in the vault and that certainly had nothing to do with his personality. Bob just had a thing for blonds and beards and guys who weren’t afraid to push him around (the last one had gotten him into more trouble than he’d ever admit).

“Yes,” said Yelena exasperatedly. She pinched the bridge of her nose and reached for her mocktail. Because of course she had to walk in right as Bob was making his mimosas and he had to lie and say he was making mocktails. (In his defense, he did make mocktails. He just subtly split the pitcher in half under the guise of making more for everyone and added champagne to his half. A couple mimosas didn’t count as a relapse, he decided.) “But do not ask us why. None of us understand why anyone would send you anything for Valentine’s Day. Unless maybe it is all from your ex-wife?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Sarcasm oozed from his words as he rolled his eyes. “So, someone sent me flowers, several baskets of breakfast pastries, and a crate of champagne? Do they not know I’m sober?”

“That’s what I said,” Bob exclaimed, only to instantly shrink back in his seat. He swallowed a large gulp of his mimosa, cheeks flushing pink. He was way too excited to have shared such an obvious thought with John. “I mean, that’s— they said it was from your biggest fan and I was like, what kind of big fan doesn’t know you’re sober?”

“Maybe they thought it doesn’t matter since I can’t get drunk anymore? Or maybe they just aren’t actually my biggest fan. Though, that much would’ve been obvious regardless of which gift they chose.”

And then his gaze drifted over to Bob, piercing blue eyes staring straight into his soul. Did John know about his crush? No. There was no way. He’d kept it secret from everyone. Maybe John was just judging him. He was still in his pajamas, after all—an oversized white t-shirt, his favorite blue robe, and sweatpants he hadn’t actually slept in. His hair wasn’t even combed, tangled curls springing out around his forehead and ears. Bob downed the rest of his mimosa and pulled his robe shut, at the very least hiding where the shirt stuck embarrassingly to his tits. Even if John were attracted to men, he’d never be attracted to Bob after seeing him like that.

“I think it’s nice you got something for Valentine’s Day.” The grin on Ava’s lips gave away her punchline before she even had the chance to say it. “It must be the first time.”

“Olivia got me gifts, thank you very much,” John snapped. Bob poured himself a third—fourth?—mimosa as John tore open one of the pastry baskets and bit into a banana nut muffin. Sentry definitely increased Bob’s limits but it didn’t prevent intoxication entirely; he knew he was getting tipsy when he found himself imagining what it’d be like to be that muffin. “And she actually knew what to get me. She wouldn’t buy me champagne when she knows I’m an alcoholic. She also wouldn’t buy me scones when she knows I hate them.”

“What kind of a monster hates scones?”

“I hate scones,” said Bob, and yeah, he was definitely tipsy. He’d never even had a scone.

“Thank you, Bobby.” John’s dismissive hand wave indicated he was definitely joking but Bob lit up at the sentiment anyway. “At least someone here has taste.”

The irony of the comment was not lost on Bob. He bit his thumbnail and nodded, trying his best not to show too much emotion on his face. Especially not before he understood what emotions he was even feeling. Something irrational, that was for sure. No one who could think clearly would imagine throwing all of John’s nice gifts into a fucking fire.

“Whatever, more scones for me,” Ava said, already reaching for the basket in question. She made a face when she lifted it, her eyes landing on another gift that the basket had previously obscured. “What is that?”

That was a pink envelope, torn open and folded shut again. It had no return address or stamp, John’s name the only thing adorning it. Taped to it was a luxury dark chocolate pecan bar and a bright white gardenia flower. John stared at it for a few seconds and shrugged indifferently and Bob’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Apparently it was left at the front desk for me. Guess one of my crazy admirers is local.”

Bob set his champagne flute on the table so hard that everyone turned to stare at him. He muttered an apology, made an excuse about it being an accident, then turned and speed walked over to the elevator. He smashed the button with his thumb and stepped inside the moment it opened, his face flushed bright pink.

He rubbed his hands under his teary eyes and then covered them completely, swallowing the sudden sob that tried to climb out of his throat. It was fine. John was right. Crazy was the best word to describe it.

Crazy.

All he’d ever be was fucking crazy.

1:40 P.M.

Two hours into his day, half drunk and nearly shaking with emotion, Bob finally decided that it was time to take a shower. A cold shower. A shower that would make him forget all about how hot John was and how inexplicably upset all the shit with the valentines made him. And, to a degree, it actually worked. Bob was so fucking cold that when he got out of the shower, he was too busy thinking about his slippers and fuzzy robe to care that John had received valentines from so many strangers who still somehow had a better chance at getting with John than Bob did.

But then he wandered toward the snack bar in search of more mimosas coffee, and Bob found yet another unsettling sight. A giant heart-shaped box of chocolates—as in, it took up half of the fucking counter—with John’s name plastered on the top of it. John sat on one side of the box, Yelena on the other as they each bit into nearly identical chocolates. They were taste testing them. The chocolates were probably poisoned by some crazy stalker, and they were taste testing them.

“Bob!” Of course, it was Yelena who cheered his name and waved him over. John didn’t care if Bob was there. John wasn’t interested in him at all, especially after getting so much attention from so many other people. “Come sit. We are tasting all these weird chocolates someone sent for Walker.”

“Is there a name on this one?” asked Bob, reaching for the attached card the second he sat on the stool beside Yelena.

“Mmhm. Same as the breakfast baskets.” There had been names on the breakfast baskets? Bob had been too busy glaring at them to bother looking closer. “Random girls from all over the country. We looked them up and their social media has Walker all over it. They are shooting their shots with the most generic Valentine’s Day presents the world has ever known.”

“But why Walker? Why has Walker gotten all this shit and nobody else has gotten anything?”

“Aw, are you jealous, Bob?” Yelena ruffled a hand through Bob’s hair playfully and he flinched. If anyone did realize he had a crush on John, it would definitely be Yelena. His sigh of relief was heavy when she added, “It is still early. Maybe someone will send something for you later.”

Disgusted by the mere thought of it, Bob made a face but nodded. It was better for her to think he wanted the attention of strangers (his absolute nightmare) rather than that he wanted the attention of John. And, when he looked up, he realized he already had that attention; just not in the way that he wanted it.

John was staring at him, eyes slightly narrowed, his mouth barely hanging open that way it did when he was deep in thought. Maybe he was silently judging Bob for allegedly wanting fangirls. Maybe he was silently bragging that he had received almost a dozen gifts before noon.

Bob pulled his hand over his sleeve and reached for a chocolate. He made a loud comment about how he wanted to try the dark chocolate caramel and then discreetly slipped a liqueur-filled one in his palm as well. More mimosas were off the table, so he needed something to reinvigorate his buzz.

“This is actually pretty good chocolate,” said John, popping another milk chocolate hazelnut truffle between his teeth. “Honestly, I still feel like this is some kind of prank, but I’m getting so much free shit that I don’t even really care.”

So much free shit. So many good presents. All the best Valentine’s presents in the whole world. Bob popped the liqueur-filled chocolate in his mouth and crushed the other in his hand. He’d never met the woman who sent John the chocolates and yet he found himself hoping she’d have the worst Valentine’s Day of her life. Or at least that she’d have one as shitty as Bob’s. It was shocking that he managed to top his worst every fucking year.

(And the first Valentine’s Day he remembered was a high-ass bar to start with. He was in first grade and his class created and exchanged valentines and he made the mistake of bringing one home with a special boy’s name on it. His dad tore the pretty construction paper heart into shreds and then beat him until he couldn’t see through his own tears and blood; until it was drilled into him that he could never, ever be with a boy or his dad would do far worse.)

“Hey, you all right?” Bob looked up and nodded when John tapped his hand, a tiny electric shock pulsing in his place. “Was the chocolate not good?”

“No, it— it was good.” Because he had the kind with alcohol in it. The kind that Yelena and John were deliberately eating around. “I’m just— I don’t know. I—”

Wanted John to himself. Wanted Valentine’s Day to be at least mediocre for once rather than traumatizing or forgotten or completely heartbreaking. Bob didn’t expect Valentine’s Day to be romantic, but he didn’t expect it to be the complete opposite either. He didn’t expect John to get any other valentines, and he didn’t expect to feel so fucking crushed when he did.

“Oh, you know what? Here.” John spun the box of chocolates around so that the right top of the heart was facing Bob. Most of the box was completely mixed up, the chocolates placed in random positions. That side was filled with identical chocolate domes. “I picked these out for you.”

“The—?” His heart skipped a beat when he glanced at the chocolate guide beside Yelena and understood what he was looking at. Orange. John had gone through the giant box and set aside every single milk chocolate orange truffle just for Bob. Because he knew that Bob loved citrus. Because he knew that oranges were Bob’s favorite. How the fuck was Bob not supposed to have feelings for him? He sniffed, a touched smile on his face as he reached for a truffle. “Thank you.”

Before John could say or do anything in response, the elevator chimed. Within seconds, Alexei and Bucky strode up the small flight of stairs to the snack bar, both their arms filled with packages and stacks upon stacks of letters. Bob saw John’s name printed on one of them and instantly felt sick.

How shameful of him to think he could mean something to John when he had so many eligible bachelorettes delivered right to his door.

3:01 P.M.

The hour they spent unpacking John’s fan mail was miserable.

All Bob wanted was to leave. He wanted to scream and set the letters on fire and throw the stupid gourmet lunch platter out the window. But everyone else was having a good time so he had to grit his teeth and pretend to have a good time too. He was used to it. After years with his father and years with fucked-up boyfriends, he learned that the best way to get out of an uncomfortable situation was to stay quiet and let it pass.

For the most part, the team just took turns reading unhinged letters aloud. But every so often they’d open another package and argue over the contents. There were small stuffed animals, more candy, even a fucking engagement ring. Bob stuffed another wintergreen Zyn into his upper lip, trying to recapture the relief from the mimosas that had long since worn off thanks to stupid Sentry.

“Listen to this one,” Ava started, already laughing again. She cleared her throat and held up the letter in front of her face. “To my dearest future husband, I hope that this valentine finds you very well…”

Bob zoned out as she went on. All the valentines were so flowery, so elegant. They came on very strong and read a little bit stalkerish, yes, but the women—and few men—who sent them knew how to write. They knew how to put words on the page that captured one’s attention and maybe even intrigued them. Though there were some that he deemed ‘crazy,’ John was probably interested in half the women already.

“I found another anti-vaxxer asking to bear John’s children,” said Bucky. He tossed it into the pile of definite nos. At least, that was what Bob deemed it. The others had just been calling it ‘the block list.’ “Imagine wanting to have kids with this guy.”

There was a strange part of Bob that immediately thought I would have kids with him. When no, he wouldn’t. Bob didn’t want kids. That was something he’d known his whole life. He didn’t want kids. He didn’t want to be a parent. But something in him considered it for John. That was how bad his stupid crush had gotten.

“I literally have a child,” John reminded him. He rolled his eyes, unaware when Bob’s throat went dry. “You know Olivia’s a good woman. You judging her for having our son with me?”

“A little bit,” Bucky joked.

Bob ripped the letter in his hand in half. Olivia. Right. His problem wasn’t with her. He loved her the few times he’d met her. His problem was that the mention of her name reminded him that John was straight. That John only wanted women. That John was probably still pining after his ex-wife, blissfully unaware that his pathetic gay friend was pining after him.

“You find anything good yet, Bobby?” asked John out of nowhere. Maybe not out of nowhere. Bob was the only one who had yet to read a letter to the group. In his opinion, none of them were worthy of being read aloud. He shook his head quickly. “All of yours are boring?”

“They’re just repetitive.” Bob really did try to read them all. He did. But the strangers waxing poet about his John made him want to rip each paper apart with his teeth. “It’s like the panties. It stopped being funny the third or fourth time.”

‘The panties,’ of course, referred to the used undergarments that several women had sent John. Everyone else seemed to think it was fucking hilarious—they’d created a pile for those too—but Bob couldn’t even fake a laugh. If John wanted to see used panties, he could look at Bob’s. He was sitting right there. (And he didn’t actually own any panties but that was beside the point.)

“Why you are so bitter, eh?” Alexei clapped Bob on the back and he winced. Bitter. Jealous. Annoyed. Those were all words they’d used to describe him. But for some reason, everyone was convinced that it was because Bob wanted letters from fangirls too. He didn’t correct them because they didn’t need to know he wanted John. “Here, a valentine for you!”

He did a double take when Alexei handed him the letter. It wasn’t addressed to John (or even Yelena or Ava or Bucky, as a few of them had been), but him. Someone had sent Bob a valentine. According to the envelope, it was someone named Natalie Wells from Colorado. Great. A valentine from a random woman. Just what he wanted.

“What does it say?” Yelena leaned over his shoulder, fingers twitching like she had to resist the urge to take the card from his hand.

“Not much,” said Bob. It was short and sweet, unlike most of the sort-of-creepy and very thirsty letters that John had gotten. “She says that I’m handsome and I seem really kind.”

The scoff that left John’s lips in a loud puff of air made Bob’s heart drop. He looked up, eyes stinging when he saw the way John shook his head and tossed the valentine in his hand away. Okay. So, not only was John not interested in Bob, but he also actively believed that Bob was unkind and not handsome. Bob sniffed and closed the letter, then handed it off to Yelena to read. He didn’t want anything to do with it anymore.

“What was that for?” Ava slapped John’s bicep with the back of her hand and a roll of her eyes. John shrugged and reached for one of the last unopened valentines. “You got all these cards and you’re going to act like a dick because Bob got one?”

“I’m not being a dick, I just think it’s a little silly,” replied John. Silly that someone considered him handsome? Silly that someone thought he was kind? Bob twisted his hands uncomfortably in his lap. “She doesn’t even know Bob.”

“Nobody who sent you a letter knows you either,” Yelena pointed out. She closed the letter and offered it back to Bob. Her eyes widened when she looked toward him, gaze flickering between his face and the floor. “Bob, have you been ripping up all of the valentines?”

Bob glanced at the pile of ripped paper beneath his stool and shrugged. In his defense, he hadn’t torn up all of them. Just a good half or more. “I was just… I get fidgety. It’s not like we were going to save them all anyway, right?”

“I mean I would not have but maybe you should have let Walker make that decision?”

“I don’t want them,” said John. He threw the last valentine back on the counter, eyes narrowed at the card Bob held. Was he seriously jealous that Bob got one card? That didn’t even make any sense. Everyone else had got at least two. Even Alexei. “I’m done with all this.”

Bucky started to speak but John didn’t stick around to hear whatever it was he had to say. He stomped down the stairs to the elevator and disappeared inside it, leaving everyone else to wonder what exactly had gone wrong. Ava reached for the letter he’d tossed on the counter.

“Is it rude?” asked Yelena, concern twisted in her tone.

Ava shook her head. “Just a kind letter from some guy in Vermont.”

Maybe that was the problem: it was from a guy and John wasn’t into guys. He didn’t want letters from guys and if he didn’t want letters from guys, he definitely didn’t want Bob crushing on him like a middle schooler.

Bob swallowed hard, pushed his stool back, and stood up. At that point, hiding in his room for the rest of Valentine’s Day felt like the safest course of action.

7:22 P.M.

“Hey, are you awake in there?” Bob groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. Yes, he was awake, but he didn’t want to be. His nap had lasted barely an hour before he woke and was again faced with the cruel, cruel reality in which he’d become a jealous monster. “Bob, come to the kitchen. Alexei got us dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” grumbled Bob. He rarely refused when Yelena requested his presence and he knew Alexei always got way too much food, but he just couldn’t drag himself up. Not when he knew ‘us’ included John too. “I’ll get something later.”

But Yelena being Yelena, she could not take no for an answer. The door creaked open seconds later and she let herself inside, footsteps gentle as she crossed the room to Bob’s bed. She sat down on the mattress beside him and put a hand on his back, rubbing soft, comforting circles into his spine.

“Are you okay?” Yelena asked. Bob nodded into his pillow but didn’t look up. “Do you want to talk about it?” Bob shook his head. “You need to eat, Bob. It is not good for your recovery to skip meals.”

Recovery. What a load of bullshit. Sentry protected Bob’s body from any harm, so what did it matter if he starved himself? What did it matter that his therapist thought he had an eating disorder? He bit back the urge to vent, knowing that Yelena only wanted to help.

“I had a lot of chocolate,” said Bob. He sniffed and Yelena moved her hand to his hair, gently pulling stray curls behind his ears. “Go eat. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. What’s wrong?”

Where could he even start? He had a stupid crush on stupid John, and it wasn’t just unrequited, it was intensely fucking rejected. John rolled his eyes at the idea that Bob was handsome, stormed out at the thought that he was kind. And the worst part was, Bob—infamous as ever for falling for complete assholes—was still crushing on him bad.

“I hate Valentine’s Day,” was all Bob settled on in the end. “I fucking hate it.”

7:59 P.M.

After a long half an hour, Yelena finally convinced Bob to drag himself out of bed. He didn’t even bother to brush his hair, messy tangles sticking up every which way. John thought he was ugly anyway, so what did it matter what he looked like? He had nobody to impress. If John was even still in there forty-five minutes after dinner was served.

To Bob’s surprise, they all were. Everyone except him and Yelena were seated at the dining table, laughing about something Bob had walked in too late to hear. Bob smiled the smallest bit at the buffet on the kitchen counter—way too much food, just as he’d expected. Still, he wasn’t all that hungry, so he settled for just a few pieces of sushi with a small side of cucumber salad and hoped it wouldn’t make him sick.

“Look who I found,” said Yelena when they sat down at the table, as if everyone hadn’t seen them walk in before. She clapped Bob on the back and even though it was gentle, he winced. “I was worried you wouldn’t save him any sushi.”

“Of course, we would,” John told her, eyes shifting over to Bob. “We know it’s his favorite. Alexei tried to snatch the last of it, but I told him to keep his hands off.”

Just like the orange chocolates. Maybe Bob had misunderstood John’s earlier response. Maybe he didn’t think Bob was ugly or had a bad personality. Why else would he go through the effort to set aside all of the chocolates for Bob; to ensure that there was still sushi for him even though there was a good chance he wouldn’t even show up to eat it? He had to care at least a little bit. At least as a friend.

“Where were you at, Bob?” asked Ava. She popped a round chocolate in her mouth, probably having finished her dinner ages ago.

“I…” His voice trailed off. What was he supposed to say? He was moping around in bed for three hours?

“He went for a walk,” Yelena interrupted. She was his savior. Always. It didn’t matter the situation, she always had his back. He gave her hand a squeeze under the table, a silent way of saying thank you. “I caught him when he was coming back into the building.”

“You walk anywhere interesting?” There was an odd twinge to John’s tone, but Bob couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“No, I just went to get…” Bob hesitated, trying to think of a good excuse. He absently pinched two fingers into his upper lip to pull out his Zyn and inhaled as he set it into a napkin. “Zyns. I was getting more Zyns.”

“Mm. You ever gonna quit those?”

“Probably not. Do they bother you?”

John shook his head. “I just worry about you.”

“I’m— I’m fine.” He knew the risks of using nicotine and using nicotine with his medications but again, he trusted Sentry to protect him. What he didn’t know was that John cared about the risks. That John worried about him. Bob swallowed hard. “But thanks.”

“Of course.”

“So, we were talking about our best Valentine’s Days,” started Ava, glancing around the table. “Mine was as a kid with Bill; Alexei’s was a day with Melina; Bucky’s was with Steve as children; Walker’s was with Olivia in college. You have anything to add?”

“This is first time I have ever really thought about it,” Yelena said. “Except maybe the same Valentine’s Day as Alexei’s. I remember he got us chocolate and stuffed bears. It was nice.”

The team all nodded and then looked at Bob expectantly. He wet his lips, two dozen awful Valentine’s Days running through his head. Getting beat. Being broken up with. Facing rejection and homophobia. There was no “best” Valentine’s Day, just a few that sucked a little less than the rest.

“There was one Valentine’s Day when I was maybe eight or nine that was…” He couldn’t say ‘good.’ It wasn’t ‘good.’ But it started out that way. “My mom took me home from school early and we had a Valentine’s Day just the two of us. It ended with her delusions spiraling and then my dad beating both of us when he came home from work but the start of it was good. We had chocolate and stuff.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Yelena, one hand on Bob’s forearm.

He shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“You never had a good Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend?” asked John, eyes wide and curious and genuinely hurt. It hurt him that Bob didn’t have good memories. It hurt him when Bob hurt. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. “Not one?” Bob shook his head. “You deserve better than that.”

“I don’t think I do.”

If he deserved better, he wouldn’t have spent thirty-two years in hell. He wouldn’t have spent thirty-one Valentine’s Days suffering and one seething like a jealous beast because his unrequited heterosexual crush had admirers. The only thing that made sense was that Bob didn’t deserve happiness. He didn’t deserve valentines, he didn’t deserve a good boyfriend, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve John.

“You do,” said John, and fuck, Bob was tearing up. “You’re a good person, Bobby. You deserve good things.”

“I…” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did John suddenly have to be so nice? Why couldn’t he just keep being an asshole until Bob’s crush finally went away? Bob took a deep breath. He needed to change the subject before he spiraled. “Who got those flowers?”

Bright red roses in a beautiful, engraved glass vase in the center of the table. They were a little bit tacky but definitely expensive. Everyone knew that John was a lover of flowers so it wouldn’t have been surprising if he got them for the team. Or maybe Alexei picked them up while he was getting dinner? He went above and beyond on the meal; the flowers would have been the cherry on top.

“Those would be John’s—hopefully—last gift of the day,” said Bucky, and Bob twisted his chopsticks so hard his sushi fell back on his plate. His jaw stiffened, fingers trembling as he stared at the suddenly disgusting bouquet. “I said to these guys before, there must have been some online thing where a bunch of people agreed to all send him shit. It’s seriously strange how much he’s gotten.”

“Or maybe everyone just loves me that much,” John joked. Or maybe he was serious. He reached for the bouquet and grabbed a small card out of the flowers. Bob hadn’t been able to see that from his angle. “Listen to this. ‘To John Walker, the love of my life, my future husband…”

Bob couldn’t stop shaking. His heart pounded in his ears, muffling half John’s speech as he stared at the vase, at the stupid expensive flowers. Who the fuck was that woman to say John was the love of her life? Who the fuck was she to call him her future husband? She didn’t even know him. Bob knew him. Bob was there for him every fucking day whether it was a good one or a bad one. She didn’t know him. He tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in his throat.

“…and the funniest part,” John continued after the end of the card, “is that I actually remember meeting this woman. She was surprisingly pretty kind. She was at—”

Everyone ducked when the vase shattered, glass exploding over and around the table as water bled into the tablecloth beneath the limp flowers. Bob clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and heart racing so hard that it hurt. He did that. He shattered the vase. It was exactly like the day that Valentina had brought him back to the tower from the vault and made him shatter the glass. Except somehow, on that day when he knew jack shit about his powers, he somehow had more control over them.

He shoved his chair back before anyone spoke, lungs burning as he struggled to breathe. Yelena called after him, but he couldn’t answer. He didn’t want to. Bob needed to get out of there. He needed to be alone. A tear dripped off his chin as he ducked into the elevator and smashed the button for his floor. The moment the doors closed, he shoved his hands over his face and let out a sob that was more angry than sad.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Why couldn’t he fall for a guy who actually liked him once in his life?

Why was he incapable of controlling himself?

Why did he have to be such a fuck-up?

Why why why why why?

4:54 A.M.

Unless someone had a bad night of sleep, John was always the first one to wake up.

Everyone learned early on that he had a routine he’d established almost twenty years before and it started with a run. Bob couldn’t understand it—he was a night owl and even with his sedatives, still rarely got up before ten—but John was usually out of bed by six in the morning and back from his run by seven. So, if someone wanted to do something when they were very, very sure that he wasn’t in the building, that was the best time to do it.

Bob slid his pencil over the page, ensuring that every detail of the drawing was perfect. A small part of him was still embarrassed days later that he’d started sketching John without thinking but how could he not? He looked so damn handsome, and the meeting was so damn long, and Bob couldn’t help but capture the moment. His chair was far enough away that no one noticed him drawing John’s profile, studying every freckle and every hair.

Once he was sure it was ready, Bob carefully folded the paper and slid it inside of the pink envelope. It was in there alongside a card with a heart and a cartoon peach on it that read “you’ve got a peach of my heart.” Maybe it was too silly, but it reminded him of John when he saw it and something about it felt right. Inside, rather than a note or a signature, Bob signed beneath the words “happy Valentine’s Day” with only a heart. That way he could pretend it wasn’t from him if John didn’t want it.

He sealed the envelope shut and wrote John’s name on it in all lowercase. Then he reached for the dark chocolate pecan bar he’d gotten—John’s favorite—and taped it to the envelope beside John’s name. Bob finished the gift off with one single white gardenia flower. He knew nothing about flowers, but he knew that John did. According to Google, white gardenias meant “secret admiration” so he thought that would probably get his point across. Unless Google lied but then he’d just say it wasn’t him who sent it and his ass was covered.

Bob waited until fifteen minutes after he heard John leave to slip downstairs and place the gift at the front desk. No one was working that early, so no one saw him leave it. Someone would find it eventually and it would make its way to John and then…

Truthfully, Bob didn’t know what he expected to happen. He wasn’t naive enough to think John would ask him out on a date, but he hoped John would at least feel appreciated or loved. It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

10:35 P.M.

He cried for over an hour.

Bob was a person who felt things very deeply and he’d always fucking hated it. When he was happy, he was too happy. When he was sad, he wanted to fucking die. When he was jealous, it spiraled into anger that could have seriously hurt his friends. There was a reason that he wasn’t allowed to go on missions, that he chose that rule for himself. He was unstable, he was volatile, he wasn’t someone anyone should have been around in the first place.

During the two hours that Bob was trembling on his bed, the only person who checked on him was Yelena. He refused to talk to her and then he cried some more because what kind of an asshole was he? Why would he treat her that way? Why would he treat himself that way by denying himself a hug when it was the only thing he wanted? Bob shoved his hands over his eyes, his cheeks burning with the strain of catching so many tears.

“Hey, Bobby? You awake?” Bob froze at the knock on the door and the sound of John’s voice. Yes, he was awake. He shouldn’t have been because he should have taken his medications over half an hour ago, but he didn’t so he wasn’t. “Can I come in?”

The fact that he didn’t answer was apparently taken as a ‘yes.’ Or maybe John just wanted to see for himself whether Bob was actually asleep. Bob sat up when the door cracked open but rather than John’s face, it was a bear’s. A giant, cream-colored plush bear. Despite the tears still dried on his cheeks, Bob couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw it. John slid inside at the sound, the easily five-foot bear held tight in his arms.

“One of the fans sent it to me,” he explained. Bob looked down at his hands and nodded. Of course they did. “Supposedly, at least. I’m actually pretty sure this was a gag gift from Ava and/or Yelena. Can’t think of another reason why someone would write ‘back-to-back-to-back, go bears’ in the card with it.”

Oh. Well, if it was from Ava and/or Yelena, then Bob didn’t mind it at all. He nodded, pulling and twisting at the fingers in his lap. The bear was a nice distraction given he found it impossible to look John in the eye. John set the bear down beside the door as he closed it, lingering in the doorway for just a few seconds before he stepped forward. Bob’s heart skipped a beat when John sat on the mattress beside him, but he didn’t stop him or tell him to move.

“I’m sorry about the flowers,” said Bob, his words thick. He really was. It really did bother him that he could have injured his friends. “I don’t know how I did that. I don’t know why—”

“It’s all right.” John gave Bob’s bicep a reassuring squeeze, the smile on his face brief but sincere. “Nobody got hurt. We’re all still learning about your powers with you.”

Except the one thing that they’d learned that they were all very sure of was that Bob’s powers were tied to his emotions. Everyone knew that if Bob’s powers went off uncontrollably like that, it was because he was feeling something so strongly he couldn’t keep it inside. Everyone knew that Bob was upset by John’s letters. Everyone knew that Bob was so fucked up he was jealous of a piece of paper.

“Sometimes I wish I just died in Malaysia like everybody else.”

John was silent for long enough that Bob almost expected him to agree. Then he said instead, “I’ve had nightmares about that. I mean, not— not you dying but me opening that coffin thing and instead of you the way we found you, it’s just your— your corpse. They’re some of the worst nightmares I have.”

“Finding a dead body would be pretty traumatic, yeah,” Bob mumbled.

“It’s not because it’s a dead body. It’s because it’s you. I hate the fact that I could have never met you. It scares me that I might still lose you.” John reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind Bob’s ear, unbothered by how messy the curls were. He stared right at Bob’s eyes, but Bob turned away, shivering slightly when John’s finger slid down his jawline. “You know, I got this other valentine too.”

Bob sniffed, biting his bottom lip to keep his chin from quivering. Was he seriously in there to show off more of his fan mail? Or worse, to ask Bob for advice about it? “Used bra this time?”

“No.” He snorted. “It is kind of a silly one, but it really stuck out to me. I wasn’t really sure why at first, but I think I get it now.”

“Have you met her too?” asked Bob, unable to stop himself.

Rather than speak, John set the valentine on Bob’s crossed knee. A pink envelope with John’s name written on it and evidence of where tape had been torn off the front. Inside were two things: a card with a stupid pun on it and a folded-up drawing of John. Bob covered his flushed cheeks with one hand as he turned away. That was what John was there for. To reject him.

John gave Bob a few seconds to breathe before he moved again. That time, he set something else on Bob’s knee, his hand lingering at its side. A white gardenia flower. Bob reached for it with his left hand, twisting the stem in his fingers. He was returning it because he didn’t want it. He didn’t want Bob. Nobody did.

“I’ll be honest, I’m a little rusty on flower meanings, but I think that one symbolizes purity, love, and secret admiration,” John said. Bob sniffed again. At that point, he was more embarrassed than sad. What did he think would happen when he gave John that stupid valentine? “It’s just too bad there isn’t a name or address on the envelope because I think it’s the only one I want to respond to.”

That made Bob look up. His eyes followed the line of John’s arm from Bob’s knee up to John’s face, his burning eyes trying to decipher what John was thinking, what he was trying to say.

“Maybe it’s from Bucky,” Bob joked, and John fully snorted.

“Yeah, right.” John squeezed Bob’s knee, his gaze dropping to the flower on Bob’s leg. “The thing is, Bobby, I didn’t know for most of the day who it was from. But then a little while ago, I was walking by Yelena’s room, and I saw a portrait of her that was in the exact same style as that picture of me. I asked her who did it and you know what she said?” Bob didn’t respond. Obviously, he knew. “She said it was you.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re braver than me.”

Bob gave him a look and shook his head just slightly, silently asking what he meant. John reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crinkled red envelope. There was nothing written on the outside. Inside there was just one card. A cartoon cucumber surrounded by hearts with the words “if you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.” Bob smiled just a little as he turned it open. The inside of the card had no signature, only the letters “xo” and a voucher for Bob’s favorite bookstore.

Somehow, Bob wasn’t out of tears yet. He wiped his cheek as he stared at the letter, at the thoughtfulness of its simplicity. Bob turned to look at John and immediately, John gave him a small, reassuring smile. Bob tried his best to return it, overwhelmed by too many emotions to control what was written on his face.

“I didn’t have time to get anything fresh,” John went on, “but I wanted to give you this too.” He set a dried flower in Bob’s palm, soft yellow with orange in the center. Very few people knew that John liked to press flowers. Bob felt lucky to be one of them. “Again, I’m a little rusty, but I think this one symbolizes reciprocated love.”

Reciprocated love.

John gave him a flower that symbolized reciprocated love. Surely, Bob was misunderstanding it somehow. It couldn’t possibly be as straightforward as it seemed. Bob choked on his own breath, another tear sliding down his cheek as he said quietly, “I don’t understand.”

“It’s exactly what it means,” John told him, right hand once again tucking loose curls behind Bob’s ear as he leaned in.

Their mouths met within seconds. John’s lips were a little rough, his beard a little scratchy, his breath still tasting of all the candy he’d received. Bob shifted forward, tongue tickling John’s teeth, hands grabbing at his thighs like he had to hold on to something to survive. John tugged lightly on Bob’s ear and then his hair, pulling him in deeper, encouraging his tongue to explore as much of his mouth as it wanted to. Bob didn’t take the opportunity for granted.

He had no idea how long they sat there, just kissing, just touching each other’s legs and playing with each other’s hair and feeling each other’s faces. At some point, John’s hands found Bob’s waist to turn him for a better angle and then he pulled Bob into his lap, arms wrapped around him as he held him close. Bob’s hair fell between them as he leaned down into John’s lips, palms massaging John’s beard, savoring every part of him he could reach.

When their lips finally parted, Bob moved down, kissing from John’s cheek to his jaw to his neck. There, Bob did what he was best at. He licked and sucked at John’s skin, giving attention to every freckle and every mole that he could reach. When he felt like he needed time to breathe, he pulled his mouth away but kept his face where it was at, nose and forehead nuzzling into the crook of John’s neck as he breathed in not the air but John.

“Be my valentine.” John’s words were not a question but a plead. Like he needed it more than anything.

“I gave you my card first,” Bob mumbled, arms clinging to John’s back, desperate to keep him close. “You be my valentine.”

“I’m yours,” whispered John.

“I’m yours,” echoed Bob.