Chapter Text
As he and Bob approach the gym, John can hear people already in there. That in itself isn’t unusual, though they generally all keep different times. No, what immediately catches his attention is the sound. He’s heard it countless times as he was training and then countless more when he received the official commision. He’s felt it travel up his arm and cut through the air. It’s unique and unmistakable and it makes the hair on his arms and at the back of his neck stand on end.
"Walker?" Bob asks quietly.
Right, John just stopped in the middle of the corridor for no apparent reason whatsoever—but then Bob squints his eyes down the corridor towards the gym and just says, "Ah."
Ah, indeed.
Why don’t people check the availability? It’s not really an issue when he’s just planning on using the weights or doing some cardio, but when he’s got a sparring session with someone else he always makes sure to block a timeslot in the gym. Like now for example, he goes to check on the screen right next to the door and yep, there is his name, Johnathan F. Walker, plain as day, to be using the gym for the next two hours for his ’Bob training’ as he’s taken to call it in his head even though it makes it sound a bit like Bob is a pet with a behavioral problem. It is pretty much Bob training though, so he can get comfortable with using his powers and most importantly control them.
John himself doesn’t get much out of these sessions, if he’s honest: he mostly hangs around jogging miles on the treadmill while Bob goes through his tai chi and breathing exercises and tries not to feel like an ant at the mercy of a god when Bob just wipes the floor with him just by virtue of his impossible strength despite his absolute lack of technique and spatial awareness.
At least he doesn’t flinch as much anymore when John lunges at him.
Bob hasn’t said anything yet, but John can feel his stare boring into the side of his face, evidently waiting for him to do something.
Well, there’s nothing to it, it’s not like he can turn his back and walk away like a coward. There’s not even anything to be afraid of really, he was just taken aback by the unsual—and unscheduled—presence, so he approaches the automatic doors and then steps into the gym when they part for him.
A red, white and blue projectile slices through the air, John’s eyes snap to it as his fingers instinctively close around empty air; he feels its song vibrating through his bones. A hand catches it out of the air and then Sam Wilson straightens up from his stance and straps the shield to his arm. He’s out of uniform and wearing workout clothes that look vaguely familiar.
"Walker."
"Wilson."
"Walker."
"Barnes."
Bob pinballs his eyes among the three of them before realizing that they’re now all staring at him. "Oh," He raises a hand and waves at Sam. "I’m Bob."
Sam offers him an easy smile. "Hey, Bob, I’m—"
"Captain America, yes."
"—Sam Wilson, but sure. That too." He gestures to the room at large. "Nice set up you got here. I was in town and Bucky said I could drop by and spar a little." He takes in Bob’s own workout clothes—a band shirt so faded it’s hard to make out what it says and a pair of basketball shorts in a violently bright highlighter yellow shade; no matter how many times Yelena takes him shopping, he always comes back with appalling thrift store finds—and John’s uniform, complete with his warped shield and raises an eyebrow. "Didn’t mean to cut into your timeslot."
"Oh, it’s fine," Bob dismisses him with a gesture. "Walker was just gonna try and beat me up a little."
Yeah, and it never fucking works. Sometimes if Bob is distracted enough John can manage to push or pull him or even on some rare occasion, flip him to the floor, but no matter what he throws at him, the guy doesn’t even have the decency to get a little bruised.
Sam arches an eyebrow and exchanges a look with Bucky.
"Bob is—" he trails off, "—gifted."
John and Bob speak at the same time.
"—a Thunderbolt."
"—a pain in the ass."
"Oh?" Sam raises an eyebrow, his lips pressing together to suppress a grin. "What’s a Thunderbolt?"
"It’s a long story," Bucky shrugs. "And to be honest I’m not exactly sure how it started, but it’s sort of our...group name."
Sam frowns. "I thought you were the ’New Avengers’?" He doesn’t need to do airquotes around the words when it’s perfectly clear from his tone that they’re there.
"As I said, long story." Bucky sounds grumpier than usual, which is unusual only in that it seems to be due to Sam. John hasn’t really seen them together since the Flagsmashers fiasco, but he clearly remembers them being basically attached to the hip. Either something’s happened that he doesn’t know about or that New Avengers dig really got to him just now.
Hidden from view by his own shield, John clenches his fist and then shakes out the fingers until the numbness in them fades away. "Are you about done?" He asks.
Suddenly, he finds himself the target of three glares. Even Bob, who should have his back because this is their gym and their gym time, looks offended on Wilson’s behalf. So he could’ve phrased it better, so what, he put his name down. He’d bet Bucky didn’t even have him sign in for a guest pass at reception, Sam probably just literally dropped by via the landing pad like his buddy Torres did.
Still, he doesn’t really have beef with Sam, no matter what everyone seems to think so he raises his hands in a placating gesture. "I just mean, me and Bob were gonna train, so..."
Bob leans into his space, face angled down so that he’s basically speaking to his shoulder. "So, is that the same shield you used or..." To his credit, he does whisper that, but the gym is empty and silent except for the four of them, so it echoes in the vast room and as a result it’s perfectly audible to each and every one of them.
John clenches his jaw so hard he feels the tendons in his twitch against the collar of his suit. "Yes, Bob," he growls through his gritted teeth and then turns to glare at him for good measure. The man has the decency to look embarrassed, at least. He blinks really fast and then looks away from John, muttering an apology.
"Yeah, used to be Steve’s," Sam looks down at it with obvious fondness in his eyes. He runs his hand on the edge of it and then glances up at Bob, "Rogers," he says for his benefit, as if that were necessary. "It’s Captain America’s shield," that he says to John instead.
Right. Rub it in, Wilson, why don’t you? Real Captain America-like of you. Though John supposes he’s done the same on more than one occasion. There’s just something exhilarating about it, beyond the name, the mantle and the duty, it’s the shield itself. He misses it. It took time to master, but once he did it, it was like having tamed a wild, living thing, to have all that power at the tips of his fingers, to have it sing for him.
Sam smirks and then raises an eyebrow in question. At John’s confused look, he rolls his eyes, hoists the shield up and then throws it across the room aimed straight at his chest. John is moving before he even realizes it, shifting his stance so that he’s pivoting on his back leg. He catches the shield mid-spin with his right hand and then releases it when he’s built enough momentum. The shield bounces off the floor, then into one of the pillars at the far end of the room before changing trajectory and sailing barely a foot above Sam’s head before bouncing again off a pillar to Bob’s right and then on the floor for one last rebound before returning back to John’s hand.
Bob gapes at him in awe. "Woah!" He retraces the route the shield took, drawing the pattern in the air with his index finger and then turns back to John, slack-jawed. "Wow! You really were Captain America."
John’s face feels hot all of a sudden. He clears his throat. "Yes, Bob." He rolls his eyes. "Even though I’m an asshole."
Bob snorts and swats at his arm, but John easily deflects it with the shield. "Gotta try harder than that, Bobby."
This time, Bob throws a clumsy but fast punch at his face which John blocks again; it strikes the shield with a sharp ringing noise and its force is dispersed harmlessly. Bob lets out a surprised hum. He shoots John a look and then brings his hand up again, but instead of a punch or a hit, he simply flicks the vibranium surface with his middle finger. There’s a sharp crack like that of a whip and then a high-pitched reverb that pierces John’s ears as the kinetic energy of the blow is redirected towards Bob in a tiny shockwave that ruffles his hair and baggy t-shirt.
Bob’s eyes go comically round. "Wow!"
Holy shit, he knows that can happen with the shield when enough force is applied to it, but John used it to block bullets and that never had this effect. If Bob can put that much strength and speed in one single finger flick...If Valentina somehow gets her evil hands on that piece of knowledge they’re all fucked. He makes a mental note to find out if there are cameras monitoring the gym and to wipe the footage if that’s the case.
At the sound of a throat being cleared, John’s attention immediately snaps to Sam, who’s staring at him with both eyebrows raised. Once he’s sure he’s got John’s attention, he looks down at the shield and then back at him.
Right.
John rolls his eyes. "Oh, settle down, I don’t want your damn shield." He tosses it up in the air, catches it by the bottom edge and then hurls it back at Sam, who catches it easily. Well, it’s not like John threw it that hard, anyway. He raises his left arm, with his own shield wrapped around it. "I have a perfectly good one here."
Sam tilts his head to the side, brows furrowed in a confused frown. He exchanges a look with Bucky, who shrugs. "It’s all bent out of shape," he points out, like maybe John is blind or stupid and hasn’t noticed he’s got a fucking taco strapped to his arm.
"It’s a great shield, Wilson." He smiles through gritted teeth. "One of a kind. Got it special made."
"It’s special, alright," Sam mutters, ducking his head with a snort. He seems to contemplate his own shield for a moment, then he looks back up at John. "Bucky and I were playing catch, wanna join?"
John stands there stunned.
He’s sure there’s some competitiveness there: play squash with the shield and see who’s better; but Wilson must think it’s also a kindness that he’s giving him, an olive branch offered across the gap between their two tenures carrying it. He can’t possibly know that he’s just shoving John’s face in it: he refused it the first time, yes, but he never lost it, not like John.
He swallows, throat clicking desperately to feed some saliva to his dry mouth. "Nah," is all he manages, aiming for indifference and probably falling short. He shoots a look to the side, but can’t quite meet Bob’s eyes either. "I guess I’ll beat you up another time, Bobby."
He spins on his heels and marches out of the gym.
Behind him, he hears Bob let out a surprised, "Oh!" before scrambling to catch up with him. "Bye, Captain Wilson!"
As they just used it to get there, the elevator is already at the floor and the doors open instantly. No matter how many times John pushes the button for his floor, though, the doors don’t close fast enough and Bob manages to slip in.
"Whew."
"He’s not actually a captain, you know."
He feels Bob’s stare as he glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. "Oh. Sorry."
"Don’t apologize for that shit."
"Ah. S-Sorry."
"I said don’t fucking—" John manages to snap his mouth shut just in time to turn his frustration into a tight lipped growl.
The doors slide open with a ding and he bursts out into the corridor, Bob following right on his heels, despite the fact that this is John’s floor and there’s nothing for him to do here. No one else’s claimed a room here, the kitchen is dark, the fridge usually empty and there’s still furniture covers on the sofas of the lounge areas and certainly no giant TV. It’s John’s floor, no one should be around, is that so hard to understand?
The fingers of his right hand worry at the straps of his shield until one of the prongs on the buckle stabs painfully under the nail of his index finger. With a growl, he tugs at the latches and loosens it from his arm, tossing it across the room so that it hits the kitchen island and drops to the ground.
The vibranium shield would have bounced back to him.
"Fucking stupid taco shield."
Bob follows him into the open kitchen and stands there fidgeting at one end of the counter while John makes his way to the fridge to see if there’s anything left in there from his grocery run the previous week.
"Oh. Didn’t you just tell Cap—Sam Wilson that it was great?"
He snorts. "Yeah, ‘cause his shield is obviously better."
The fridge only has a couple of wilted leaves of lettuce and a bottle of ketchup, not even a beer. John’s been spending more and more time on the 84th floor for his meals, even when he’s eating alone. It’s simply more convenient, all their cooking staff cooks there, his mug and the good coffee are there and so is the 100" TV. He still gives himself another moment of staring at the empty fridge just so he doesn’t look like a weirdo randomly opening and immediately closing the fridge right after.
He finally slams the door shut and turns to find Bob staring at his shield that he picked up from the floor. He runs his fingers lightly along the edge and then turns it carefully in his hands like it’s some kind of fragile, precious thing and not a piece of metal John uses to deflect bullets and bash faces in with. John stomps up to him and snatches it back so he can strap it back on his arm. He needs to figure out a way to carry it on his back sooner rather than later—maybe some kind of sling? No, that would compromise his reaction time. Maybe he should just get a new one made, but he’d hate to owe Valentina anything more than he already does.
Bob fingers flutter across the shield, curling around its edge. "Maybe I could fix it?" He hums in thought as he grabs hold of its sides in an uncanny reverse of Sentry’s actions that reduced it to its current state. "I’m more in control now." Bob’s forearms flex as he starts putting pressure on it, but John pulls his arm back.
"No. Even if you put it back in the same shape all that bending and unbending will weaken it."
Bob’s hands are still in the air between them, fingers twitching. "Oh," he says, in a small voice, and his hands drop to his sides.
He looks like a fucking kicked puppy even though he was the one who reduced it to its current shape in the first place. John was lucky to get out with his arm intact. Imagine that, two shields gone and two arms broken. Fucking pathetic. He sighs. "Look, it works well enough. I can’t really throw it anymore, but it’s not like it’s made of vibranium so it wouldn’t bounce back as well even if it was perfectly round. And—" He shadow boxes a couple of jabs and an uppercut with his shield arm. "—it’s actually faster in hand to hand."
Bob just stands there, staring and blinking his big eyes.
John straightens up from his stance, clearing his throat. "So yeah. It’s...okay. I guess. I just have to get used to the reduced surface area when I want to use it as cover." Not to mention the slopes of its new shape make ricochets wildly unpredictable.
"I can be your shield."
What? What the hell does that even mean? Why is he so weird?
"I think you’d look even dumber than taco shield hanging from my arm."
Bob’s face flushes a pale pink and he ducks his head. "No! I-I mean," he stammers, "I’m bulletproof and I sort of did that already with that guy who was cooking meth in the apartment fire."
"So you’re saying what? That you’re gonna come on missions and just...stand in front of us the whole time?" The mental image is kind of funny, John has to admit, but it’s also incredibly dumb and they’re already a laughing stock. "The team already has a shield guy, that’s me. You’re Sentry not...the Impenetrable Wall Man."
How did they even get here? John looks around the room for...something, whatever, but he’s the only one who ever comes down here and there’s nothing on this floor except John’s room. Even the lights aren’t fully furnished, so they’re pretty much two dudes standing around in semi-darkness.
"Why are you still here?" Bob startles and looks up at him with wide eyes. Shit. John should have definitely phrased that one better, why can’t he just—think before opening his mouth? He clears his throat. "I mean. I guess we’ll reschedule training for later?"
Bob shuffles his feet. "Well, I got you in my calendar for the next couple of hours, so."
"You have a calendar?"
Bob shrugs. "My therapist says I need structure and a regular schedule."
John supposes that makes sense. From what he saw in his head and the stories he’s heard from him, it didn’t seem like Bob had much of either for most if not all of his life. Still. A calendar entry just for their training? Does he have one for everything he does? Monday, 1000 to 1200: reading, 1200 to 1300: lunch, 1300 to 1500: nap, 1500 to 1700: more reading, et cetera. Does he color code them? Is John saved as ’training with Walker’ or just ’Walker’? Or maybe just ’JW’? Nah, Bob doesn’t strike him as a shorthand kind of guy, and he probably spells everything in lower case too.
He blinks. "Well, the gym is probably gonna be occupied for a while, so."
"Maybe we could just...hang out?"
"Hang out."
Bob shrugs. "Watch a movie or something."
Well, it’s not like John has anything else planned, color coded calendar or not. "What the hell, sure." He throws up his hands. "I’ll go change out of the suit and meet you downstairs. Your pick of movie and snacks, but nothing with subtitles."
Alexei has been on a Soviet cinema retrospective for the past week and made it all of their problem. Even Bucky is fed up with him and he’s only at the tower half of the time anyway. Unless Sam Wilson is visiting, of course
Ten minutes later, John drops on the sofa next to Bob, who barely even acknowledges him with a hum as he keeps his eyes glued to his phone. The 100" TV is frozen on the start up screen for Alien, which is a solid choice at least. There are two beer bottles set on the coffee table, some fancy German imports that Bucky likes and Bob must have stolen from his stash.
Bob keeps scrolling on his phone.
"Bob."
He only gets an absent-minded "Hm?"
"Are you fucking Door Dashing microwave pop corn?"