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“That was officially worst mission ever,” groaned Yelena as she dragged herself into the main living quarters of the Watchtower, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Her hair stuck together with sweat and mud caked her suit, as well as the rest of her teammates, who sluggishly followed in. They moved like zombies, slow and ambling. She was about to collapse onto the nearest sofa when Ava appeared from thin air, stealing the space before she could.
“My head feels like it’s going to explode,” she muttered, clutching her aching nose, which had been struck against a metal beam earlier.
“Nooo, Ava,” Yelena whined, lazily throwing her arms up to shoo her. It didn’t work. She yielded quickly, lacking the energy to fight for the spot, and lay on the floor, forehead pressed against cool tiles. She was only there for a few moments before a warm, fleshy hand and a cold, metal one scooped beneath her armpits and began dragging her.
“Come on,” muttered Bucky as he hoisted Yelena onto the couch, cocking a brow when she sank into it like mush.
“May have been difficult for you,” Alexei said, leaning against the back of the sofa, voice loud and grating and worsening Ava’s headache, “but for Red Guardian? Easy peasy.” Somehow, he still had enough energy to get on everyone's nerves.
“I mean it… it looked… pretty bad,” Bob said abruptly from across the room, breathing out the last part in an awkward chuckle as the team took notice of his presence. He had been standing there, waiting for them to arrive, holding a tray of steaming mugs.
Part of him had wanted to join them on the mission, and part of him scolded himself for not being there, telling him that if he had been, they wouldn’t look so worse for wear. Then again, the logical part knew that, despite three months of settling into the title of hero, he wasn’t ready to be the Sentry. He wasn’t ready to face the ever-present darkness. The team never forced him to. They understood. They let him be their man-in-the-chair instead, giving him full access to cameras, building blueprints, live feed, their vitals, and their comm links, through which he often gave warnings and praise. It wasn’t exactly something they needed, but for once in his life, Bob really felt like he was helping.
“I— uh, I made you all tea. Green tea. I read somewhere that it’s… supposed to help. With pain. I put some ice packs on the table too.”
“Bob. I love you. I would give you biggest hug if I did not feel like shit,” Yelena said as she stretched her aching arms and picked up a “World’s Best Guinea Pig Mom” mug that Alexei had gifted her a few months ago. Ava first grabbed a squishy ice pack from the side table and pressed it to her forehead, then picked up a ghost-shaped mug and took tentative sips. Bucky took a plain, black mug and sat near Yelena’s feet, tilting his head back onto the sofa cushion. Alexei took a “#1 Dad” mug and plopped into a worn, stained armchair he had insisted on bringing from his house in Washington, which creaked under the force. The only mug that remained untouched was one with stars and stripes.
“Walker, are you—” Bob glanced around, only to find that John was absent. He swivelled his head and saw that he had silently walked—no, limped—over to the elevator and was waiting for the car to arrive. No greeting, no sarcastic mutters, no review of everyone’s mission performance. His eyes flitted to where John’s hand tightly gripped his side, noticing the redness on his palm and a streak of blood down the leg of his suit. Yelena noticed too.
“You good, Walker?” she called out, to which he gave a half-shrug.
“Fine.” With his back to them, they couldn’t see the grimace on his face, however, there was an audible strain in his voice.
“You’re bleeding,” Bob pointed out, glancing at the trail of small droplets on the floor. “Do you need help? I could—”
“I said I’m fine,” John said, more sharply than before, pressing the elevator button again, then once more, as if that would hurry it up. Miraculously, the elevator dinged as the car arrived and the doors opened. He was in it and gone within fifteen seconds. Bob shifted on his feet, twirling a loose strand from his sleeve, before looking at the team. They didn’t look as concerned as he felt, just settling into the now mud-smeared sofas.
“Shouldn’t we… help him? He was kind of bleeding. A lot,” he muttered, to which Yelena snorted and shook her head.
“If we have death wish, maybe.”
“We’ve tried,” said Ava, grimacing as her own voice rang around in her skull, “and every time he says he’s fine, then buggers off to the medbay. If we follow, he gets all pissed and cusses us out. I cannot deal with that right now.”
“It is like handling stray cat,” Alexei announced, likely loud enough for John’s super soldier hearing to pick up on from several floors above, “try to help, then he get all hissy, swipey with the claws…” He mimicked the sound of a cat hissing, but only for a moment before Yelena frowned and muttered Dad, stop.
“I mean, I— I haven’t tried yet.” Bob gave a weak smile as he looked from person to person, hoping to see approval gleaming in their eyes and hear the words amazing idea, Bob, from their lips. Instead, they all glanced hesitantly at one another, brows knit together.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Bucky said after drawing in sharp breath. “If he doesn’t want help, we shouldn’t force it on him.”
“Yeah, is horrible idea, Bob. Sorry.”
“Even if you’re his favourite, he’ll still bitch at you.”
“I’m his favourite?” Bob’s back straightened and his eyes shot up to stare at Ava, who shrugged as if she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell that apparently everyone but Bob knew.
“Obviously,” Yelena said, rolling her eyes. “Is very big problem. Notice how he is always giving you biggest portions for dinner? And he is always offering you his entire wardrobe to wear, but if I want to borrow a hoodie? Suddenly is the end of the world!”
“He’s nice to you, Bob. Like, actually nice. It’s unnerving,” Ava said with a shudder to cement her point. Quietly, Bob hummed as he stared contemplatively at the floor. All he was gathering from this conversation was that he definitely should go help John and was the best candidate to do so.
“But like Ava said,” Yelena interjected, as if she had read his thoughts, “it will not spare you from his bitchiness.”
“I should still try,” Bob mumbled, more so to himself as he slowly shuffled back toward the elevator, smearing red streaks across the floor when he accidentally dragged his slippers along the trail John had left. With a couple of muttered “oops,” he reached the door and pressed the button. “I mean, y’know… I am his favourite. Maybe he’ll be more… receptive… or something.”
His confidence faltered when he saw their expressions, especially Yelena’s, which was etched in concern and displeasure. With a heavy sigh, she threw an arm up in defeat and lolled her head back onto the sofa’s armrest, too exhausted to argue further.
“It is your funeral, Bob.” Her warning didn’t settle until he was in the elevator car, going up to the 87th floor. The uneasiness nestled in his chest as he stood there, shifting from one leg to the other as the giddiness of being John’s favourite ebbed away and reality flooded in.
What was he doing? This was going to end with him pissing off John and promptly losing the title he just found out he had. He wasn’t going to help. When had he ever actually helped anyone? He was going to make this all so much worse. Why did he think he could do this? The last medical-related thing he had ever done was get strapped to a table in Kuala Lumpur and pumped full of experimental drugs. That wasn’t going to help him help John. The most he knew was stuff he had observed during his times at the hospital as a kid, or the countless medical dramas playing numbly in the background of a house that wasn’t his, or the times he would curl up in the attic, tending his own wounds after his father had—
The elevator dinged as its door opened to the 87th floor. Bob considered going back to the team or going to his room and pretending like he never had the bad idea to come here. His body willed him forward, but his mind willed him to stay, which kept him at an awkward impasse in the middle of the elevator door that kept beeping as it tried to close. He looked at the blood trail that continued on this floor, trailing off through various hanging tarps and half-constructed walls, to where he was pretty sure he could hear faint, pained groans. He said he should try. He would keep his word.
Bob followed the droplets across the barren concrete floor, pushing his way through translucent plastic. It was a pathetic medbay, if one could even call it that. Valentina had prioritized rebuilding the destroyed exterior and any floors that would be facing the public the past few months, since image was apparently more important than her superhero's health. It was the bare minimum crowded together in this giant space, with sickening fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The walls that weren’t half-constructed had been painted a stale white, and part of it reminded Bob of a hospital, albeit a desolate one. The trail came to a stop in front of a plastic tarp, which he slowly brushed back and poked his head through.
Sitting on the edge of a surgical table was a rough-looking John, whose suit was peeled down his waist, leaving him in a black compression shirt. The rest of him was drenched in mud, save for where his helmet had previously been on his face. Now, it lay on the floor beside his curved shield, which leaned against the table’s base. One of his hands clutched a wad of bloody gauze against his side, while the other leaned on the hard table pad to keep himself from leaning back too far.
“I told you I was fine, Bob,” he said through gritted teeth, giving a half-assed glance over his shoulder. Bob shrank slightly under his gaze, since he didn’t look the least bit happy, and pushed aside the plastic tarp to saunter closer.
“I know.” With slow steps, he walked around to stand in front of John, whose brows seemed furrowed into a permanent glare. “But I wanted to help you. With your injury.”
“S’just a cut. I’ve had worse,” John muttered, though downplaying it didn’t seem to deter Bob. He just stared like a wide-eyed dog instead, expectant and waiting for instructions, whether that be to help or to leave. “I don’t need help. Got it handled.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I could— I could get you some… Tylenol? Or— I guess Advil might be better…” he trailed off, quieting when John wheezed a scoff that turned into an abrupt groan. He lurched forward and grunted, tightening the grip at his side as he let out a sharp, pained breath. Bob’s hands reached out and hovered in the air, poised to catch him.
“M’fine, m’fine,” he said with a shake of his head, eyes squeezed shut. “Drugs don’t work, no use in taking ‘em.”
Bob looked at him quizzically, silently asking for a reason.
“Cause of the serum.”
“Oh.” He nodded slowly and watched as John tried to sit a little straighter, jaw clenched and shoulders squared. Now that he thought about it, Bob had never seen John in pain. During training, he’d brush off hits that would definitely bruise the next day. If he banged into something, stubbed his toe, or cut his finger, he would just get pissed instead. If he were actually hurt, like this, he wouldn’t be seen until he had “walked it off.” It felt like something he shouldn’t be seeing, like some kind of taboo. It left an uneasy feeling in Bob’s chest, one that had him tugging on the loose strands of his sleeve, gradually unravelling it.
With a groan, John slowly slid himself off the edge of the table onto unstable feet, attempting to limp past Bob toward the counter against a finished wall. Worried, he placed his hand against John’s shoulder, stopping him in place.
“John,” he said quietly. It garnered his attention, and the two stood there, staring as a silent conversation unfolded. John’s expression shifted and softened, the defensiveness giving way to resignation as he stepped back and sat on the table once again.
“In the first aid kit.” Bob had to try to suppress his joy that John wasn’t pushing him away or yelling at him, as the team had warned. He told himself that John was likely just tired, like the others, and didn’t have the energy to argue with Bob or try and push past him. Then again, it could also be because he was his favourite. Biting back a grin, he followed his lazy gesture to the opened kit on the counter, inspecting its contents as John continued, “Should be some clean gauze. Bandages too.”
There were a few boxes and plastic bags labelled bandages, so Bob just grabbed them all and cradled them in his arms, adding some antiseptic wipes on top of the pile. He placed it on the table pad beside John, who gave an approving nod. He then removed the bloody gauze from his wound, which Bob caught sight of, and made an odd gasp at. It was a clean cut right across his side, just below his waist. Thankfully, not deep enough to have pierced any organs, but deep enough to still be bleeding.
“Not that bad,” John said, as if to reassure him. He opened the fresh gauze and packed it tightly before pressing it hard against the wound, inhaling sharply.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, Bob. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Really?” Bob looked up, and John’s expression promptly reminded him that sarcasm existed. Right.
“Need you to apply pressure while I wrap,” he said, one-handedly sifting through the pile until he found a roll of elastic bandages.
“Okay. Yeah, yeah, um… how do I…?” Bob moved his hands toward the wound, hovering and twitching them back and forth as he tried to figure out how to grasp it without hurting John. It was like an awkward dance in the air, one that John abruptly ended by grabbing Bob’s hand and bringing it to the gauze. With a sharp inhale through his nostrils, he guided Bob to push down against the wound, his next few breaths uneven. Every grunt and groan went directly into Bob’s ears, which were now mere inches from his lips.
“There. Just keep it like that.” The fabric was thin enough that he could feel John’s skin beneath his fingertips. He could feel the muscle below, taut like the rest of his strained body. His flesh burned hot just above the cut, and his pulse was throbbing rapidly, every strong beat matching Bob’s own quickening heart. He wondered when the last time John had felt this gentle a touch was. Then he wondered why he had wondered that.
Too busy stewing in his thoughts, Bob hardly noticed when John tugged up his shirt and began to wrap the bandages around his waist, occasionally nudging his fingers out of the way when he reached the gauze. He ensured the wrapping was tight before securing it, lightly nudging Bob’s hands away, who let them drop limply at his sides. He was only still for a moment before picking up one of the antiseptic wipes, opening it much to John’s confusion.
“Little late for those, Robby,” he said, as if he could even get infections in the first place.
“Oh! They’re not for— there’s no… sink on this floor, so I can’t use water to… It’s to clean the mud,” Bob said as he gestured with the wipe, which John went to grab, only for Bob to retract his hand quickly. “I can do it. I’ve got it.”
So, tenderly, Bob pressed the wipe to his cheek and began to scrub the muck away. John wasn’t very still at first, twitching on occasion when the wipe went directly over a fresh cut, so Bob raised his free hand and lightly held it against his jaw, keeping him in place. There was no resistance, in fact, he could have sworn he felt John lean towards his palm. He was silent, and his gaze never broke away from Bob’s face. The eye contact felt suffocating, and part of Bob wanted to squirm away from it, so he cleared his throat and hoped talking would lessen the scrutiny.
“Why don’t you like it? Y’know… being helped?” he saw the slight twitch of John’s eyebrows and quickly scrambled to change the wording, “I mean… why… why not let the team help you? I’m sure they would.”
John just gave a weak, sarcastic chuckle that made him wince, shrugging lazily.
“Just don’t like it. Not everything needs a reason, Bob.” It came out harsher than he meant for it to be, and the wiping motions stalled for a moment. The corners of Bob’s mouth twitched downward as he moved the wad of wipes to John’s neck, scrubbing just below his beard. There was silence again, though now, John seemed to be the one searching for something to say. Either he felt bad, or he knew Bob had seen right through him.
“I need…” he started, briefly licking his dry lips as he glanced away, now refusing to make eye contact. “I gotta be someone the team can rely on. Y’know, like a… an anchor. If I’m not— if they see me like this…”
He trailed off, shrugged, and let the silence do the talking. Bob stared for a bit, nodding slowly as he digested what he heard. Already looking like he regretted saying it, John shifted uncomfortably as his eyes darted back to Bob, trying to gauge his thoughts.
“I’ve seen you like this,” Bob said as he took hold of John’s wrist, now wiping the dried blood from his rough palms, “and nothing’s changed.”
A weak, sarcastic chuckle escaped John as he shook his head, his brows raised as if Bob had said something amusing.
“You don’t have to lie to—”
“I’m not lying,” Bob said, voice steadier as he pried apart John’s fingers to clean between them. He could have sworn he noticed a flush creeping up the back of John’s neck to his face, reddening his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It was probably just related to his recent injury, Bob told himself, because John Walker was not the kind of man to blush. What would he be blushing over anyway? It was such a silly thought, he nearly laughed. John was watching their hands now, focused on how Bob gently pushed against dried, red flakes, even going so far as to scrub beneath his blood-caked nails.
“Did, um…” John started and then didn’t continue, as if his mind were elsewhere. The second Bob paused his movements, he seemed to remember. “Did— uh— they… wanna help?”
“Well…” Bob paused, grimacing awkwardly, “I mean, I read between the lines. I could tell… they were concerned.”
“So no.”
“No— they just…” Telling John that the team had compared his post-injury aggression to a stray cat and that they didn’t want to deal with his bitchiness wasn’t something Bob wanted to break to him. As much as he would never admit it, and Bob knew this, John cared what the team thought of him. He cared almost too much. “They didn’t want to… force help onto you.”
“But you did,” John said with a soft, amused exhale, and when Bob looked at him, he saw the slightest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He shrugged and tilted his head, bashfully glancing away for a moment.
“Well… yeah, I mean… You shouldn’t have to do this kinda stuff alone. Especially when you have a whole team,” he said, looking back. John’s hands were spotless now, and their palms rested against each other, but neither made the move to separate. “I made you tea, y’know. It could— it might still be hot.”
For a while, John stared at him. Now, he could very well stumble back to his bedroom and sulk in there until the serum patched up his wound. It’s what he normally did, however, it always gave way for loneliness, which led to hours of wallowing. If he took up Bob’s offer and went with him back to the team, it would be less lonely, but with it would come the risk of vulnerability. Today was vulnerable enough, letting Bob tend his wounds and clean him and hold his hands like this— wait, when had they started doing that? His face burned as he quickly slid his palms away and onto his thighs, clearing his throat with a slow nod.
“‘Kay. Alright, yeah,” he said, slowly sliding off the edge of the table. With a sharp inhale, he stumbled, and Bob’s arms quickly reached out to help him steady. For a moment, they stood like that until John began to traverse his way through the maze of plastic tarps and construction. “Y’know, I’m more of a coffee guy.”
Bob, who walked alongside him with a hand on his shoulder, turned his head and huffed softly.
“It doesn’t hurt to try something new.”
“Did you get that from Yelena?”
“Alexei, actually.” John’s hum in response was very telling, as advice from Alexei wasn’t usually wise.
“But… Yelena and Ava— they actually, uh, did give me some pretty big news earlier.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“They said I was your favourite.” John stopped walking and his head swivelled inhumanely fast to look at Bob, who had a very pleased smile.
“I don’t have favourites,” he said with a dismissive scoff, walking faster this time despite the pain shooting from his wound into his leg. Bob stayed behind, still grinning. “And if I did, it wouldn’t be you. If anything, it’d be the guinea pig.”
“It is me.”
“No, it’s— wipe that smile off your face and c’mon before I change my mind.”
Bob’s smile didn’t fade. He caught up quickly as John pressed the elevator buttons. The door opened immediately and as the two entered, they stood almost shoulder to shoulder.
“But— well, why me?”
“Every word drops you further down the list. You’re under Alexei now,” John retorted, Bob’s brows shooting up.
“So there’s a list?”
“Do you wanna drop below Val?” He seemed dead serious when he said it, which only made Bob laugh. He quieted down, though, because the last thing he wanted was to be anywhere remotely close to Valentina in any kind of list. “Thanks, by the way. For helping.”
As the elevator doors closed, Bob looked over and could have sworn that he saw the slightest of smiles on John’s face. Helping him wasn’t such a bad idea after all.