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People and buildings blur by, hazy and unrecognizable, as the car moves steadily through traffic. After about 5 therapy sessions, the commute is familiar enough that Bob knows it like the back of his hand (or, at least, until his memory decides to fuck him over. Eventually.).
Driving Bob from Manhattan to Baltimore, where Christina Raynor’s office is located, takes Bucky about three to four hours weekly, depending on the traffic. It’s almost impressive; how a wave guilt never fails to swallow up Bob for every second of the weekly drive.
A well-adjusted, capable twenty-eight year old adult wouldn’t need to be driven to and fro such a regular, everyday destination. Bob supposes he’s neither well-adjusted nor capable. He certainly wouldn’t trust himself with a car, thinks Bob, huffing softly. His breath blooms then fades on the window like a thought he can’t hold onto.
Bob tries not to feel relieved as his reflection disappears temporarily behind the fog. For a second, he almost manages it.
The ‘New Avengers’ aren’t exactly short on cars or money (a fact the others are only so happy to exploit as a middle finger to Valentina. It’s admittedly immature. But also, fuck her) so Bucky accompanying him on this weekly journey must be less about any potential property damage, and more about Bob being one bad day away from featuring in some ‘Top 10 Villains Faced by The Avengers (Old & New)’ WatchMojo video.
(One already exists, by the way; He’s checked and apparently ‘The Void’ places at number 5. Which, meh. But seeing how Bob still doesn’t remember how exactly the team managed to stop him, it can’t be fair of him to judge the integrity of the ranking.)
All in all, Bob doesn’t care much for the ride. Luckily, or not, his exhausted state on their way back to the Watchtower exempts him from any social expectation to engage in conversation.
Not that being in Bucky’s company required much talking, anyways.
Three months is far from enough to wholly figure out someone’s personality, especially if that someone is an infamous P.O.W turned assassin turned Congressman Bob would’ve learned about in history class had he not dropped out like a fuck-up. As such, the younger man can’t say for sure if Bucky is naturally grumpy, or if the Thunderbolts bring out that quality in the man.
There’s the matter of the disagreement with Captain America over the Avengers name, as well. And dealing directly with Valentina on the daily is probably not helping things. God knows he’d be grumpy too if he was forced to mingle with her.
(Stop bullshitting yourself. Half a day with her and a city-wide disaster broke out. Even funnier, you don’t even remember the exact cause.)
From what he’s been told, because a sleepy Yelena is a talkative Yelena, the blonde ex-spy is quick to lose her temper around Val, Ava can’t be bothered, Walker’s fingers start inching suspiciously closer to his hostler when the woman so much as breathes in his vicinity, and Alexei wouldn’t even need the gun.
So, that leaves Bucky Barnes as the most reasonable option. This, according to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, says a lot about the team, as Mel reported to Yelena. Judging by the sheepish look that took hold of the secretary’s face after, it must’ve been a slip of the tongue.
Bob just happened to be in the living room to catch that. He was hidden by the back of the enormous couch, too engrossed in a book that he’d completely missed Mel arriving. Eavesdropping is rude, so he has to leave. Except Mel flinched so badly when Bob stood up, ready to scuttle away, and almost dropped her tablet in the process.
The assistant quickly averted her gaze. She seemed almost guilty, which would be ridiculous.
Mel ended up leaving first.
Uh. Anyways, Bucky is owed his grumpiness regardless of its origin, and not speaking suits Bob just fine. He prepares to melt into the passenger seat for the next couple of hours.
“...ight? Bob?”
Bob doesn’t jump. He’s … mildly startled. Figures, the first time he’d ponder his appreciation for Bucky’s quiet nature is when the universe decides a conversation must take place.
“Uh, yeah?”
“I asked if things with Raynor were alright.”
Bob takes a second to think about it. The therapy is good. It’s… therapy. You go in, sit down, talk and (hopefully) not be judged for stammering. He reports exactly that, minus the part about stammering.
“Hm. Good.” Says Bucky, which is illuminating, truly. Bob nods and goes back to leaning against the window. He smells familiarity there, which explains why the man suggested Raynor to Bob in the first place, despite turning down Valentina’s many referrals.
Bob chooses not to ask. He burdens the man enough without snooping around his business, and also, frankly, he just doesn’t feel like asking.
After that unfortunate, illusions-shattering conversation on game night, Bob sulked around the Watchtower for five days. Cucumber, his captive audience during all the murmured rants, must hate his ass by now, if he didn’t before.
On the sixth day, halfway through venting to a guinea pig (again), Bob felt childish. Pouting about a straight asshole being… an asshole, who is also straight. Hell, Walker likely meant nothing by it, and Bob is just being his usual snowflake self.
Still, Bob decided to get his petty revenge by looking up the single most convoluted recipe on the internet (Bou- Beu- Boeuf Bourguignon, was it?) and wordlessly sending it to Walker (since the man cares so much about The Sentry’s dietary habits).
Walker ended up actually making it. It was so appetizing Yelena had to snatch the ladle from Alexei’s iron grip as he reached for a third serving, muttering something about supersoldier stomachs and a string of Russian words Bob is glad he didn’t understand.
In a stupor, Bob spent the whole dinner surreptitiously stealing glances at Walker. He had no idea Walker’s competitiveness went so far.
Granted, Bob ended that night hunched over the bathroom sink, as is the case every night he dares consume more than one meal's worth in a single sitting. But hey, it was tasty as hell.
Now, Bob might’ve overcome that particular situation through petty (botched) revenge, but his resolution persists; Bob must overcome his fleeting infatuation with the super soldier.
While Bob’s never been the brightest tool in the shed, emotionally or otherwise, (stupid fucking kid, or whatever his mother used to mutter under her breath. His father didn’t bother muttering it,) he’s at least aware his current feelings are a recipe for disaster, and seeing how his mood holds citywide stakes now, (Bipolar Disorder just had to be the official diagnosis, huh?) he has a responsibility to control it.
A few minutes go by. Bucky drives like the vehicle is an extension of himself, not unlike the metal arm. The car is steady, the drive seamless. So much so Bob doesn’t even notice they’ve stopped at a red light.
“Wanna check it out?”
Bob had just begun nodding off, so it takes him a couple of seconds to get his bearings, by which point Bucky is already parking the car and putting on a cap and sunglasses (real subtle, but he’s not the professional spy here). Bob scrambles to follow.
The reason for their detour seems to be a sharp little bookstore called ‘Just Books’, which, ha, very direct. The bell jingles as they enter, and Bob is hit with that particular smell of old paper he loves so much. Every nook and cranny in this store is filled with books. Just Books, indeed.
The place is reminiscent of the libraries and bookstores the-Bob-from-before used to linger in– on the rare occasion he was sober. Reading as fast as he could while on his feet, because he never had the money to buy. What little he had barely covered food. And the meth, of course.
Well. Bob has the money, now. Too much of it, he’d argue. Acquired in the form of a sleek looking gold credit card, along with the (brand new) phone and ID card Yelena thrust into his hands a week into their stay at the Watchtower.
We all got one, government-issued, Yelena had explained upon seeing the shell-shocked expression inhabiting Bob’s face, The least that evil woman could do after attempting to burn us alive, really.
Bob had nodded, accepting everything without complaint. He didn’t say You guys save people, so you deserve this, not me, he didn’t say What am I going to do with it?, he didn’t say I think I don’t remember how to spend money without accounting for drugs.
He said none of it, because Yelena looked relieved at his easy acquiescence of the offerings, and Bob likes seeing Yelena happy.
(Some days after that, Yelena kept pestering him about clothes; borrowing from the team could only last him so long. To appease her, he looked up a thrift store and took her there. She protested at first, then went quiet when she saw the quality of the second-hand clothes. Left the store with a haul of her own.
Bob came away with sweaters and hoodies, jeans, socks, and two pairs of shoes. All of it oversized, all of it soft, all of it used before.
He doesn't know how to confess that he feels guilty spending too much. He doesn't want to see Yelena’s face when she processes that. Government money or Valentina bucks, he'd rather put it toward cleaning products or team dinners, when he’s reminded of his uselessness as they return from another mission, bodies littered with scrapes and bruises.)
Bob absently registers Bucky telling him to ‘look around as you like and let’s meet up again by the counter’ as he glances every which way. The store seems empty.
Bob eyes one shelf in particular, then drifts towards it slowly, determined to pass the time till Bucky grows bored so they leave.
He feels more than he hears someone approaching him.
“First time here? I'd remember you.”
The brunet takes a moment to properly look at the newcomer. He’s handsome, blue eyes, more Walker’s brilliant blue than Bob’s murky shade, and a cheeky smile that’s just on the right side of endearing. Despite being more-or-less his height, the man seems a few years older than Bob.
He is also not the kind of guy who would have ever approached the-Bob-from-before, the one parents used to steer their kids away from.
“Does that line usually work?” Bob mutters as he resumes feigning fascination at the titles in front of him. Self-help books. Funny.
The man’s eyes gleam. “Wouldn't know. You're my first pretty potential-customer."
Bob pinches his hand so as not to smile. The man’s blatant shamelessness isn’t charming. It isn’t. Bob smiles nonetheless, (sue him, he can’t remember the last time he’d been flirted with while sober and safe.)
The man –Cameron, introduces himself despite not being asked. I'm the owner, he adds, and Bob almost rolls his eyes. Cameron takes him on a tour of the small store. He has to give it to the guy, it’s a charming little place. Plenty of care poured into it.
Something dislodges itself inside Bob’s chest when the man offhandedly mentions recently moving into New York. Cameron wasn’t a victim of the Void.
As they reach the ‘Humor’ section, Bob summons his most deadpan expression and points at a book titled 250 Pick Up Lines: Great Collection of Successful Chat Up Lines. Cameron laughs, breathy and light.
Walker never laughs at Bob’s jokes, he doesn’t even pretend to. Which is a stupid thought. Walker is a roommate (true), teammate (except Bob’s not really a part of the team) and a friend (even more doubtful). Walker and this Cameron fellow, similar eyes aside, are in no way comparable.
Bob ends up buying a few GED prep books, pointedly not flushing as he picks them out under Cameron's watchful gaze, then heads to the front where Bucky is already waiting at the counter.
Outside, and against his better judgement, Bob turns around to find Cameron waving in his direction. Bob hesitantly waves back.
Back in the safety of the passenger seat, Bob absently checks his bag. Wedged between two books is a small card with a phone number on it.
☀☽
Once, he and Yelena were hanging out in her bedroom when she asked Bob about his past relationships. He stopped petting Cucumber and started contemplating how to answer.
The topic isn’t a strange one for the duo. Yelena knows Bob is gay, Bob knows Yelena is ‘figuring it out, but it’s definitely not men. No offense Bob’. In fact, they’re arguably too close and open with each other for two friends (best friends, if you ask Bob) who’ve met each other some three and a half months ago inside a death trap.
Still, Bob doesn’t find a simple way to convey ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a relationship like that. If we weren’t both high and seeking a quick release, then I was the one high and doing it for quick cash. Quick, quick, quick. Because I never stopped to think about any of it. I couldn’t, or I might’ve never come back from it’ fast enough.
Rough hands yanking his hair so far back his scalp burns, and fingers digging into his hips sharply enough to leave marks. Such flickers are all he has.
Bob remembers answering “Never stayed somewhere long enough for something to matter” and thinking ‘It all hurt so badly I could never stay. I was afraid that if I did, the illusion that I wanted any of it would shatter’.
Yelena never brings it up again.
☀☽
He wakes disoriented from his nap. The back of his neck is throbbing again, making Bob hiss as he gingerly sits up. Two knocks on the bedroom door. That’s what woke him.
He yawns, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. On his way to the door he switches on the light, before having to step over the bookstore bag, wilting where he'd thrown it beside the bed. It looks almost sad from the rough treatment, but a post-therapy Bob is a sleepy Bob, and social interaction with a non-Thunderbolts person didn’t help.
Yelena only tries to ruffle his -already wild from sleep- hair because she knows how much it gets on Bob’s nerves. He ducks and she skips into the room cheerfully.
“I’ve been knocking for three minutes, Bob. I was this,” she pinches her fingers together, “close to calling Alexei to break down the door.”
Alexei would have been delighted. "Sorry, I was asleep." His next yawn is perfectly timed. Bob plops on the edge of the bed unceremoniously and the short blonde hums, glancing around the room before lunging for the bag in the corner.
"Ooh, Bucky did say you guys stopped at some bookstore."
If the bag seemed mournful before, it must be livid now. Bob resists a smile and sighs, letting her do her thing. Which just so happens to be violating the poor inanimate object.
“Finally!” She exclaims.
He’d already confided in Yelena his silly, halfhearted, plans to pursue a high school diploma. It was an all-nighter, a frequent occurrence when Bob’s nightmares were too vivid and Yelena’s ghosts too loud. She had made it incredibly clear how not silly she finds the plans to be.
It was all he could do to stop the woman from going out and buying the necessary books at 2 AM on a random Wednesday.
Bob’s relaxation lasts two seconds, before he tenses up like a coiled spring as a particularly small rectangular shape drops into the mattress besides the four books. Yelena’s eyes widened.
“Bob!,” she gasps, reaching for it, “What’s this you’ve been hiding from me?”
He groans in response, “Hide what from you? I’ve just woken up.”
Yelena oohs and aahs as she turns the cursed card this way and that. Bob lets himself drop into the bed, facing the ceiling. He’s read its content several times on the journey back home and doesn’t need the reminder. He’s surprised at the lack of questions on Bucky’s part, considering how much he’d fiddled with the damn thing.
‘XXX-0147, text me when you feel like it - C’
That prick didn’t put ‘if’, he put ‘when’.
“Is Mr. C cute, at least?” asks Yelena with a sly grin, and Bob glares.
"Mr. C's physical attributes are none of our business," he says, tracing the way bright particles from the ceiling light dance on the bedroom walls, "because Mr. C's card belongs in a trash bin."
Yelena frowns, “What? Why!”
“Because,” he deadpans. Yelena’s frown deepens, meaning she’s now frowning with her eyebrows and mouth. It’s adorable, but he won’t tell her that (he values his life, occasionally.)
"What do you mean, because? Don't be stupid, Bob." She waves the card in front of his face and he fantasizes about telepathically burning it, Sentry-style. Too bad he's a cosmic failure who's terrible at just about everything. He tunes back in just as Yelena finishes, "—you don't have to do anything about it now. But keep it, at least."
He snorts. A beat, then, “Do me a favour and get rid of it on your way out.”
“Bob.”
“Yelena.”
“Booob,” repeats Yelena, deliberately stretching the vowel out and looking for all the world like she’s ready to do this all day. Usually, Bob loves the particular cadence in which Yelena pronounces his name– like it’s something that truly matters.
What he doesn’t appreciate is hearing it wasted on such a non-issue.
She’s been training him. A few self-defense tips (“You have bad form, Bob. Too many random moves. The super strength could really help, but you need some precision too”). The rare, unsuccessful, go at telekinesis here or there (They don’t use a glass. Thank god,).
She’s been training him, and he’s seen her spar with the others. She potentially kicked his ass to stop the whole Void fiasco, a deal so traumatizing to the point of being blocked out entirely by his memory.
All to say, Bob in his current state, seemingly unenhanced and definitely unremarkable, is no match for her.
He lunges for the card regardless.
The scuffle lasts less than two seconds before it stops being about the card entirely. Any attempt to use height as an advantage is thwarted by Yelena's inhuman flexibility. (She swears up and down she's unenhanced, every time Bob narrows his eyes at her after she does something suspiciously enhanced. ‘Red Room gave us nothing besides lifelong trauma and cool martial maneuvers, Bob.’)
All to say, Ava phases in to find them in a position that is, to put it generously, difficult to explain.
"What the hell are you two doing?"
Yelena, physiologically incapable of shame, blurts out, "What does it look like?"
"Yelena!" Bob exclaims, pulling himself together and using the momentary distraction to snatch the card back. He turns to the intruder, smiling awkwardly. "Hey, Ava."
Ignoring Yelena's indignant glare, Ava blandly points between them. "I hope you're both talking to your therapists about whatever this is."
"Eat shit. We're not codependent," Yelena answers, calmly. Bob massages the bridge of his nose, wishing for all the world he’d just stayed asleep.
"I never said you were."
"You insinuated it."
"Defensive much, Belova?"
"Talk to me when you stop breaching your roommates’ boundaries, Starr."
"So you do admit you two were doing something private." The smirk is audible in Ava's voice.
They bicker over his head, and Bob knows by now they could go on like this for hours if left to it.
He interrupts.
“Here,” his voice is meek but they stop nonetheless, which has happened before and never fails to confuse him. But given the situation, he'd rather not look a gift horse in the mouth.
Bob hands Ava the card, she takes it slowly as if suspicious of what it contains, Bob purses his lips to hold back a laugh.
“Just read it,” he says. She reluctantly complies.
"Wow," says Ava, inspecting the card with ostensible disinterest before handing it back. Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, "Anyway, I only came to call you two down for dinner. You know how pissy Walker gets."
Then she vanishes again.
Bob doesn’t get the codependency thing Ava was hinting at, not really. Although, admittedly, he and Yelena can be pretty in sync. Sometimes.
“Shit,” they say in unison.
☀☽
Bob is distantly aware that these wonderful people he's somehow ended up sharing a life with haven't exactly led normal lives before fate brought them together, and aren’t considered so “wonderful” by most people.
The public’s distaste for them is no hidden secret, especially online where freedom of speech opens doors nobody’s quite figured out how to close yet; names like ‘the Dollar Store Avengers’ and ‘the B-vengers’ (that one's funny, but he refuses to laugh) spread like wildfire days only after the now infamous press conference.
Bob could only report so many tweets.
Popular opinions on the New Avengers mostly make no difference to a man who's met his fair share of so-called ordinary people who ended up hurting him regardless. These people, knockoff Avengers or not, are kind and good and everything he hasn't encountered in life up until now. He knows it better than he knows himself.
Other times, it becomes quite apparent that they are a group of misfits learning – or relearning, in some cases – what it means to co-exist with other human beings.
Yelena would rather comfort someone else than be comforted herself, reading the room is a myth in Alexei's book. It takes Walker four to five business days to realize he's said something insensitive, and another two to apologize. Ava has a hard time comprehending what doors are for. And Bucky… Well, if it's not missions or PR related, and isn't the result of losing some bet to Yelena (game night last week), you won't find him anywhere near it.
Like tonight's dinner.
Bob supposes he's glad, for once, that Bucky's absent. One less person to witness his utter mortification, as it takes Ava all of five minutes to bring the card up, which Bob is grateful for. No time to catastrophize.
Before that, Alexei was discussing his current pet subject: marketing. Walker was humming along, clearly humouring the man, the way he often does with Alexei, without truly paying attention.
Walker’s gaze gets this faraway quality when he’s pretending to be present. Anyone watching closely enough would catch it.
Bob does. Watch closely, that is.
He swiftly averts his gaze and returns to pushing peas around his plate. Walker and his obsession with healthy food, guess the guy is a father, after all.
Alexei’s booming voice is weirdly grounding.
“We should be parading around in glory and adoration from the masses after successful missions where we save people,” Alexei laments, and Ava leans back subtly to avoid the fork currently threatening to poke her eye out. She could probably phase out, she’s just dramatic, “But instead all we get are secret missions the media knows nothing about–”
“–and cereal boxes.” Yelena points out mid-chew, intonation as bland as it ever gets when dealing with Alexei. There’s a hint of anger in there, too, Bob notes, because if there’s one thing Yelena hates more than Valentina, it’s the publicity stunts assigned by Valentina.
Oh. And Walker must be truly tuned out if he didn’t berate her for talking with a full mouth.
“–and cereal boxes! Except those are good. The secret missions? Not so good,” the Russian super soldier shakes his head with the air of profound wisdom. Yelena rolls her eyes.
Bob momentarily forgets his own peril, choosing to indulge in his curiosity instead, “Do you check the breakfast aisle every time, Alexei?”
"Yes, Bob!" Bob is slowly unlearning the flinch-at-every-loud-sound thing that’s been sorta ingrained into his DNA for so long. With Alexei, he wishes the process were a little faster.
The speech is carried on with the same enthusiasm, and volume, “Merch sales are generally picking up. But that nasty woman gives us no public missions to satiate the public’s curiosity about the ‘B-vengers’–” Bob almost chokes mid-bite, he didn’t think anyone from the team had caught that one, “–floats around and around and around with nothing better to latch into–” Ava is leaning so far back now, face completely unfazed, it’s a wonder she hasn’t fell off yet, “–until it sours into negativity!”
Huh. Strangely insightful. Bob is on the verge of reassessing his entire stance on Alexei when Walker interjects, bored voice and all.
"Or maybe the public isn't fond of some randos showing up out of left field to replace beloved figures."
Appearing ominously like a shark smelling blood, Ava's smirk settles before she's even fully turned toward him. “Speaking from experience, Walker?”
“Fuck off, Starr.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
“I swear to god–”
As a result of being a disaster in most things requiring genuine skill, Bob knows a talented person when he sees one by the simple process of self-comparison. Walker is naturally gifted in many aspects, including an almost terrifying proficiency in weaponry, a skull so thick it's a wonder he needs a helmet at all, and a complete and utter lack of restraint in the face of provocation, no matter how obvious or ineffective.
If it's ragebait, Walker's falling for it with almost religious consistency.
Ava, who knows this very well and is only too happy to exploit it on occasion, sits directly across from him on the other side of the kitchen island. Bob wouldn't call his concern about a potential utensil-throwing match unreasonable.
It has yet to happen. But you never know.
Usually, nothing stresses out Bob quite like these instances. The logical part of his defective brain knows the others are joking around. Mostly.
When you’re far more familiar with weapons and violence than you are with mundane and everyday conversations, it’s only fair that you convert ordinary situations into more digestible ones. As long as the others can take what they dish out, Bob is in no position to fault them for their rowdiness.
Which is not to say Bob engages in any of the more chaotic moments between the Thunderbolts. Oh, no. He’s happier shrinking into the background, or using his notoriety for being a troglodyte to retreat to the safety of his bedroom. He may understand why the shouting happens between these people, but he can’t bring his body to relax. Something in his coding simply refuses to break the heavily established link between shouting and bad, bad, bad, danger.
Now, however, Bob is selfishly wishing things would escalate, potential collateral damage to the Watchtower kitchen and his internal stress meter both be damned. Perhaps it’d distract Ava from the subject of the Cursed Card.
The aforementioned five minutes are up and Ava brings up that cursed piece of paper.
Bob gets the sudden urge to rip his own hair out. In plain sight of everyone. He contemplates ways to accomplish this without risk of institutionalization.
The list is depressingly short.
"Anyway, Bob over here has no trouble getting adoration, Alexei." Ava reluctantly jerks her chin toward Walker. "Hate to give it to this arsehole, but maybe it is an 'us' problem."
Bob wants to scream: ‘I’m not exactly a member of the team now am I’, he wants to spit out ‘that guy must’ve been looking for a quickie, why else would he even glance my way’.
Most importantly, Bob wants to slide off his chair and cease to exist, all the while muttering: ‘gee, thanks Ava. Three out of four people in this kitchen don’t know I like taking it up the ass. One of whom is a straight guy I have a pathetically unrequited crush on’.
He settles on a scoff, “I–I’d hardly call it adoration.”
Ava rolls her eyes, “Certainly better than anything we’re getting, Bob.”
“What’re you talking about?” The question carries the tone of someone who has recently decided to mentally tune back into a conversation. Bob would preen on how accurately he had read Walker if he wasn’t so busy thinking up a way to shut down this thread of discussion altogether.
Ava shrugs as if the matter is one Bob would’ve shared with the whole team eventually anyway. He begs to differ but can’t unknot his leaden tongue to announce his disagreement.
He was gonna burn the card once he and Yelena’s playful brawl was over.
"Bob got himself a fan," Ava announces, clearly good-naturedly. "A number and all."
Alexei whistles mischievously and Bob is surprised he doesn't become one with the kitchen island from the force of the pat on his back. Yelena sits still but Bob can tell she’s ready for damage control any second.
Walker hums and lifts an eyebrow, “A real ladies’ man, aren’t you, Bobby?”
Now, Bob’s wonky brain can only manage so much input at once. Firstly, he had genuinely forgotten the card contained nothing but the letter C, no indication of gender whatsoever. That’s one worry off his (tender, seriously Alexei can you stop already–) back.
Secondly, he is a ladies’ man. Not in the traditional sense, but he does generally feel safer around women, meaning he could answer Walker’s – rhetorical, so he could also shut the fuck up and let it go – question with a straightforward ‘yes’. Wouldn’t be a lie.
Lastly, and most pressingly: there is something in Walker's tone. From what Bob has gathered — and it's a lot, sue him — the man has three moods at dinner: mentally checked out and pretending otherwise, mentally checked out and unashamed about it, or completely locked in on some technical argument with Bucky or Yelena about whatever mission they've just come back from. Bob can’t fit the man’s tone just then into either category.
Still, the situation is entirely conquerable. He could nod, smile in that awkward way that's gotten him out of messier situations before, eat his peas, and go to bed.
So, naturally, Bob has to go and fuck it up.
Later he’ll hog Yelena’s pillows, mumbling his woes into their soft fabric while the woman consoles him about what he’s done. As it stands though, Bob unglues his gaze from the granite patterns of the countertop, shrugs off Alexei’s touch, and straightens up in his stool,
"The–the librarian was a guy, actually." From his periphery he spots Yelena's head turning toward him inhumanely fast. "Nice place, nice, uh, books. Cameron was nice too."
Alexei, bless him, launches into something about true manhood being about "—appreciating beauty in all its forms!" while Yelena groans in embarrassment and buries her face in her hands.
Bob’s focus doesn’t waver, whatsoever, and he tracks the movement of Walker’s calloused hand as the man sets his fork down. Bob’s own hands are hidden beneath the countertop, leaner and abnormally unblemished, courtesy of the Sentry serum, yet trembling all the same.
"I'm not really interested though," Bob says, to no one in particular, and then, because he has always been his own worst enemy, he looks directly at Walker. "There's someone else."
"Didn't ask, Bobby." A beat. "But good for you."
Was it a friendly reassurance? A sardonic dismissal? Who knows. Which one does Bob want it to be? The answer is surprisingly not so cut and dry. God, he's such a freak, and Walker is a colossal asshole. It's all so terrible for Bob's heart and some other organ in the nether region.
Alexei fills the silence immediately, because Alexei always fills the silence, and the dinner table reassembles itself around the noise of him. Bob exhales. His neck is throbbing again.
Across the table, Yelena is staring at him with an expression he can't quite read.
He looks away first.