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Yelena’s snoring woke Bob up first.
And even though she always denied it, chest puffed out, that she didn’t snore, it didn’t change the fact that she did. And this time, it wasn’t delicate or cute, not the soft little breathing sounds people pretended to find charming when they were in love.
It was loud, uneven, and startlingly aggressive for someone so tiny. Every few breaths, a faint whistle slipped through her nose, followed by a congested snort only someone very sick could make.
For the last several days, she’d insisted she was fine with the grim determination of someone trying to win a war against her own immune system. She’d gone through tissues at an alarming rate that Alexei brought back home, drunk tea only after Ava placed it directly in her hands, and then told Bucky and Walker that her fever was “just because the Watchtower was too warm.”
It was not warm in the slightest.
Yelena had been bundled beneath two blankets, wearing one of Bob’s oversized sweatshirts and a pair of fuzzy socks with tiny yellow ducks printed all over them. At some point in the night, she’d stolen most of his pillow, one corner of his blanket, and nearly all the available space on the mattress.
Bob lay awake beside her for a moment, staring at the dim outline of the ceiling and trying to decide whether waking her would help or make things substantially worse. Knowing him? He’d probably make it worse.
Even though he was trying to break the habit of assuming he was a burden before anyone had the chance to tell him otherwise, Bob couldn’t shake the feeling that Yelena would be better off sleeping alone.
However, Yelena was difficult when she felt well.
Sick Yelena was a different category altogether: stubborn, suspicious, and somehow even more convinced that accepting help amounted to a personal defeat. Earlier that evening, when Bob had suggested she take something for the fever, she’d narrowed her glassy eyes at him and asked whether he was trying to poison her.
Then she had taken the medicine anyway, but only after Ava read the dosage aloud and Bucky checked the label like they were defusing a bomb.
Bob turned carefully onto his side and stared at his Lena.
In sleep, Yelena looked younger.
Less like the woman who could walk into a room full of armed people without blinking; less like the woman who carried every hard thing she had ever survived behind an insult or glare. Her face had softened against his pillow, lashes resting on flushed cheeks. A loose strand of blonde hair had stuck to the damp skin near her temple.
She snored again, and before he could help it, his mouth twitched.
Even unconscious, she was putting up a fight.
He reached over, gentle enough not to jostle the mattress, and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. Too warm. Not dangerously so, he didn’t think, but warmer than she should have been. The kind of fever that left her tired, irritable, and absolutely determined to prove she could still do everything herself.
It bothered him more than he wanted it to.
Yelena was supposed to be untouchable.
Not literally, but in the way she carried herself.
Like nothing could get through her armor unless she allowed it. She made herself sharp around the edges on purpose. Capable. Unbreakable. Someone who did not need anyone hovering at her bedside with tea, tissues, and concerned looks.
But Bob had seen her nearly fall asleep standing up after dinner.
He watched her wipe her nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt because she’d declared the tissues “too far away,” even though the box sat less than two feet from her. And when he’d tried to guide her toward bed, she’d leaned into him for exactly three seconds before realizing it and quickly sitting back up.
Yeah, it had been the closest thing to an admission he was likely to get.
Bob eased out from beneath the corner of the blanket she’d stolen from him. Yelena immediately made a displeased sound, her hand searching blindly across the sheets as she grumbled his name.
“Hey,” he whispered. “I’m right here, Lena. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her fingers found his wrist and closed around it.
Bob froze, afraid that moving would wake her, but Yelena only sighed through her stuffy nose and tugged his hand closer to her chest. A second later, she was snoring again. Soft at first, then abruptly loud enough that Bob had to bite his cheek.
So very intimidating.
He carefully pulled the blankets back over her shoulder, then slipped from the bed with as little movement as possible. The Watchtower was quiet at night; the halls were washed in low blue light and the steady hum of machinery.
Somewhere beyond their room, someone had left a television playing quietly. He could hear the muffled cadence of Alexei’s voice, followed by what sounded like Walker telling him to lower it. Bob found the small medical kit Ava had left on the kitchen counter.
It was organized with unnerving precision: fever reducers, cough medicine, electrolyte packets, a thermometer, tissues, and a jar of vapor rub. Even a note sat there in Ava’s neat handwriting as well:
Make sure she actually drinks the tea.
Bob smiled despite himself.
Back in the room, he set everything on the nightstand as quietly as he could.
He opened the vapor rub, hesitated, then dabbed a little beneath Yelena’s nose. She scrunched her face, swatted weakly at his hand, and muttered something in Russian that Bob was almost certain was not complimentary.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“Goin’ to kill you,” she breathed.
Ah.
“Okay. You can kill me after you get up and take your meds,” he decided, pressing a kiss onto her sweaty temple. It seemed she also needed a cooling patch after this. “Wake up, Lena. Come on.”
“Mm.”
She let out a soft whine in protest, nose wrinkled, her eyes squeezing tighter as she rucked the blankets up to nearly swallow her head. Bob immediately frowned and reached to tug them back down.
“Come on, Lena. No.”
In response, she let out a raspy cough, or perhaps it was a growl, but he wouldn’t be able to tell you which it really was. And because she’s the most stubborn woman to grace this entire world, she still tried to burrow deeper, even as Bob held the blankets and stopped her.
“Cold.”
Bob’s expression softened immediately. She sounded miserable. Small and rough around the edges, nothing like the sharp, unimpressed woman who had spent the previous day insisting that she could “fight a biological inconvenience” without anyone’s help.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you’re cold.”
Yelena made a noise that might have meant ‘then leave me alone,’ before attempting to pull the blankets over her head again. Bob caught the edge before she could disappear completely. “Hey. No hiding.”
“Not hiding,” she muttered, voice muffled beneath the blanket. “Strategic retreat.”
“From medicine?”
“Mm,” she nodded weakly. “Disgusting.”
“That’s fair,” he mended, trying not to smile. “But you still have to take it.”
He gently peeled the covers back from her face.
It took a little effort.
Yelena had somehow wrapped herself in both blankets, his pillow, and part of the fitted sheet, forming a lumpy, overheated nest in the middle of the mattress. When Bob finally managed to uncover her, she squinted up at him with watery eyes and an expression of profound betrayal.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair had gone in several directions at once. A faint crease from the pillowcase marked one side of her face, and the cuffs of his sweatshirt had been pulled over her hands.
She looked less like a terrifying former assassin and more like an offended, feverish creature someone had disturbed in the woods. It was adorable, and it made Bob want to smother her in kisses for a second there.
“Do not look at me like that,” Yelena rasped.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some…” she trailed off and sniffled as she sat up with Bob’s help. “I forgot.”
Her eyes glazed over for a moment, like she was trying to remember.
Then a cough caught her off guard, harsh enough to bend her forward. Bob was moving before he thought about it, one hand steadying her between the shoulder blades while the other reached for the water on the nightstand.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Some tea for your throat.”
She accepted the glass with both hands, though mostly because the sleeves of his sweatshirt swallowed her fingers. After a few reluctant sips, she handed it back and immediately curled toward the warmth of his side.
“Mm, tastes like shit.”
“I’ll let Ava know,” Bob mused, setting the tea down carefully afterward. “Okay, time for meds.”
“No.”
“Lena.”
“Bob.”
“You have a fever.”
“I have always been hot.”
Yelena’s mouth twitched, just barely, before exhaustion stole the expression away.
“See? Still funny, so not dying and brain not fried. That would be a very boring way to die."
Bob sighed, but he couldn’t stop himself from brushing a stray piece of hair away from her forehead. At this point, it might be better to take a washcloth and rinse her down to keep the temperature low.
“Okay,” he agreed. “You’re not dying. But you’re taking the medicine anyway.”
She looked at the medicine in his hand as if it had personally insulted her.
Then, with a put-upon groan that suggested he had asked her to drag herself through the Arctic, she held out her hand. Bob quickly placed the pills in her palm before she could change her mind.
Yelena tipped them straight into her mouth and dry-swallowed them with the grim, practiced expression of someone enduring an interrogation. Bob reached for the water bottle at the same time, already holding it out.
She took it from him without a word and drank nearly half of it in several long gulps.
“Happy?”
“Very,” Bob said softly, relieved. Yelena handed the bottle back, wiped her mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, and gave him a look that clearly said, ‘do not make a big deal out of this.’ Then, before he could offer the cooling patch or ask whether she needed anything else, she collapsed sideways into the mountain of blankets.
She pulled them up to her chin, tucked her cold feet beneath the warmer layers, and curled into herself with a quiet, exhausted huff. Within seconds, she had claimed his pillow again. Bob watched her settle, her eyes already slipping shut.
“You’re going to be sweaty under all that,” he said gently.
“Cold,” Yelena mumbled.
“Lena—”
“Cold,” she repeated, more firmly, though it came out sleepy and congested.
Bob exhaled through his nose. “Okay.”
He let her have the blankets.
He adjusted the edge around her shoulder, moved the water bottle closer to her hand, and set the cooling patch on the nightstand for later when she was asleep. Yelena made a faint, content sound as he smoothed her hair away from her damp forehead.
“Bob?” she murmured.
“Yeah?” he asked, already slipping in beside her.
“Did…did I wake you?”
“No,” he lied softly. “I’ve been awake for a while.”
“Mm." Yelena hummed, the sound low and unconvinced.
For a second, Bob thought she might argue. She had a strange talent for detecting when people were trying to spare her feelings, even through a fever and half-asleep beneath enough blankets to survive a blizzard.
But instead, she only shifted closer until the side of her face rested against his chest.
Bob wrapped an arm around her carefully, mindful of how warm she felt even through the sweatshirt and blankets. His eyes flicked to the thermometer on the nightstand, then back down.
“Can I check your temperature, Lena?” he asked.
Rather than answering, she simply opened her mouth.
Bob paused, surprised by how immediate the compliance was. No narrowed eyes. No dramatic complaint. No threat to break his fingers if he brought the thermometer anywhere near her. Just Yelena, feverish and sleepy, eyes closed and mouth slightly open.
Something in Bob’s chest went soft.
He reached for the thermometer and switched it on, waiting for the small beep before carefully placing it beneath her tongue. Yelena’s lips closed around it without protest. Her hand found the front of his shirt and curled there, fingers weakly gripping the fabric as though she needed to make sure he was still there.
Bob stayed perfectly still.
The room was quiet except for the steady hum of the Watchtower, Yelena’s congested breathing through her nose, and the faint electronic chirp when the thermometer finished. Bob glanced at the screen.
His brow pulled together.
“What’s the number?” she mumbled.
Not terrifyingly high.
But high enough that he was glad he had woken her for the medicine.
“Maybe I should call Bucky and ask for—”
“No,” she interjected. “Don’t need more eyes.”
“Lena, you look and sound terrible.”
“Mm, thank you. I love to hear that from you. Really.”
“You know what I mean,” he retorted.
“No.”
Bob gave her a look, and Yelena gave him one right back—bleary-eyed, flushed, and only mildly effective beneath the nest of blankets and his sweatshirt. It still had enough attitude behind it to make him hesitate.
Bob looked from her flushed face to the thermometer, then back again.
It was a stalemate, a quiet war neither of them particularly wanted to be having.
Only he had learned, little by little, that taking care of Yelena didn’t mean treating her like she was fragile. It meant listening when she asked for something. It meant understanding the difference between her being stubborn and her being scared.
And right now, she did not want an audience to see her like this.
“Okay, I won’t call anyone right now,” he said finally, and her shoulders dropped at once. “But,” he added before she could disappear back into the blankets, “if it gets higher, or if you start feeling worse, we’re getting help. Okay?”
She had the audacity to pout. “You worry too much.”
Bob smiled softly.
“When it comes to you, always.”
That seemed to catch her off guard. Her expression shifted for just a second, the sharpness easing into something softer and sleepier. She lifted one hand from his shirt and touched the side of his face, her palm warm against his cheek.
“I’m the same,” she murmured.
The words were so quiet he almost thought he imagined them.
Then Yelena yawned, ruined the moment by sniffling loudly, and pulled her hand away to wipe her nose against the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He reached for the tissues. She swatted his hand away without opening her eyes.
“We have tissues,” he maintained.
“Sleeve is closer,” she grumbled.
“Fine, but I’m changing your shirt in the morning.”
He put the thermometer back onto the nightstand and tucked the blankets around her again. This time, he didn't try to take any back when she claimed most of the comforter for herself. He only slipped beneath the edge she allowed him, settling close behind her with one arm draped loosely over her waist.
Yelena immediately backed into him.
Not enough to make a big show of it. Not enough for Yelena to admit she actually just wanted comfort in the morning. Just enough that Bob could feel her relax when his chest pressed against her back.
“I’m cold,” she whispered after a moment.
Bob pulled the comforter higher around them both, trapping the warmth beneath it. He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her head, breathing in the clean scent of laundry detergent, faint menthol, and the herbal tea Ava had made earlier.
“Better?” he asked.
“Mm. Now quiet.”
And what more could he do but listen to what his Lena wanted?
Bob knew the exact moment she fell asleep from the way she breathed.
It was still rough around the edges. Congested. Every so often, she made a little unhappy sound through her nose and shifted deeper into the blankets, but her body had begun to loosen against his. Her shoulders no longer sat stiffly beneath his arm. Her hand, which had found his wrist at some point, rested there now with only the lightest grip.
Her breathing evened out first, slow and warm against his forearm. Then her weight settled more fully into him, all of the tension draining from her in the gradual, unguarded way it only ever did when she trusted the room around her enough to stop fighting it.
A tiny snore slipped out.
Bob smiled into her hair.
Cute.
She would deny it in the morning. She would sit up with her hair in every direction, glare at him over a mug of tea, and insist that he had imagined the entire thing. If he told Alexei of how cute his daughter was, she would probably find a way to make him regret having a mouth.
But he would remember.
The crease the pillow left on her cheek. The duck socks sticking out from the bottom of the blanket pile. The fever warmth of her back against his chest. The way she asked if she woke him, as if she hadn't spent half the night snoring directly into his ear. As if she worried, somewhere underneath all that stubbornness, that she had taken too much from him.
His chest tightened.
A part of Bob understood time differently now.
Not because he wanted to. Not because he had asked for any of this when he signed up for the Sentry Project and wanted to be something more. But something in him no longer aged the way "humans" did.
Things had changed his body, his strength, and the strange, frightening reach of what he could become when the manic high rose too close to the surface. He could feel it sometimes in the quiet moments, in the knowledge that he might stay the same while everyone around him moved forward without him.
Then came the low when he realized Yelena would get older.
Bucky would, too, in his own strange way. Ava, Walker, Alexei. All of them would change. Their hair would gray, their hands would wrinkle, their voices would grow softer with years. They would complain about their knees and tell stories about missions that had become distant enough to sound impossible.
And Bob—
He didn’t know what he would be then.
The thought terrified him more than the Void ever had.
Not the power itself. Not the weight of it. Not the possibility of losing control and hurting the people he loved. No, it’s the possibility of standing at the end of everyone else’s life with nothing but memories.
Of being left with rooms that still held Yelena’s laugh in their corners. With one of her sweatshirts folded away somewhere, a yellow duck sock missing its pair, a thousand little things that would hurt because they had once been ordinary.
His arm tightened around her before he could stop himself.
Yelena stirred.
“Bob?” she mumbled, barely conscious.
He immediately loosened his hold and smoothed his hand over her stomach instead.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”
She made a sleepy, congested sound and turned just enough to look back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were barely open, and her brows bumped together. “Yes, you’re thinking too loud.”
Bob huffed a quiet laugh, though it caught somewhere in his throat.
“Is that a thing?”
“With you, yes.”
“I’m fine.”
Yelena stared at him for half a second longer, clearly deciding whether she had the energy to interrogate him. Then she lifted his hand from her stomach and tucked it closer beneath her chin, holding it there.
“You so warm,” she murmured. “I like it.”
Bob’s smile came easier this time.
“Go back to sleep, Lena.”
Yelena settled again, her fingers still threaded loosely through his. Within moments, sleep pulled her back under, her breathing softening against the pillow. And he stayed awake for a while longer.
Not because he wanted to borrow trouble from a future neither of them had reached yet. Not because he wanted to turn this fragile, warm moment into something sad. But because Yelena was here beside him.
She was alive and stubborn and feverish, stealing his blankets and refusing tissues. She was curled against him beneath the comforter, trusting him with the quiet parts of herself that she gave almost no one.
For tonight, that was enough.
So he pressed one more kiss into her hair and let his eyes close to the uneven rhythm of her breathing, committing every imperfect sound to memory while he still could and making sure she’d never sleep alone for as long as he was around.
Because he’ll love her long after she’s gone.