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The problem with Bob is that his credit is fucked. His credit had been fucked since his bender in Phuket, where the good people at the Waygo Big Bike had no qualms renting to the drunk and disorderly.
Now, the memories of a hefty fine and a tire rolling down Old Town haunt his Capitol One charges, along with countless cash advances and 7/11 transactions.
All of this to say – there isn’t a landlord on earth that would rent to Bob.
Dr. Aziz – Bob’s new therapist, generously funded by the same woman who turned him into trauma personified – has been working with Bob on his sense of control. He sends Bob off with ‘homework’ more often than not, and ninety-nine percent of the time, said homework is to practice asking for the things he wants.
If only Bob ever fucking knew what he wanted. He feels so pliable sometimes that it’s laughable. God. He’s Gumby.
After days spent scrolling through apartment listings for hours on end, it’s pretty clear that he’ll need to find somewhere to crash for a bit, and soon. The idea of a roommate, a stranger, is terrifying. It feels too risky. His trust is fragile, and the thought of not having a home, a place that feels safe, overwhelms him to the point of panic.
“Hey, you have an extra room, right?”
Walker’s fork and knife freeze in his waffle as he pauses mid-cut. His brows furrow minutely, his head tilted a bit, before his face goes cold. Bob reddens. The words had been out before his brain could process them.
“Nice, man,” Walker says with a blank face and takes another bite.
“What do you mean?” Bob asks, utterly lost. Walker drops his utensils, and they clang too loudly against his plate. The din of the diner feels louder than it had a minute ago, and Bob’s tapping leg beats up against the top of their checkered table.
“Yeah, Bob, I’ve got an extra room. Want it?” John spits.
Yes, he thinks without hesitation, so he lets himself say it out loud.
“Yes. I do. My credit is shot, and I need a place to live. So. Thought I’d ask.”
Dr. Aziz is going to be so fucking proud.
For a moment, Walker just… looks at him. Picks up his fork. Takes a bite of his waffle. He doesn’t look away.
“Okay,” he says, and signals for the check.
“Okay,” Bob says back, and. Okay.
“Hey,” Yelena says, sliding back into her chair with an easy smile, “What did I miss?”
“Bob’s moving into my spare room,” Walker says, matter-of-fact, and pulls out his credit card. Bob, unable to stop himself, performs the ceremonial reach for his own wallet, but Walker just rolls his eyes at him and slaps the check on the edge of the table.
Whew. Close one.
Yelena’s eyebrows shoot up over her coffee mug.
“Oh?” She says, looking at Bob. He shrugs innocently, like yeah, these decisions are always made in the time in takes someone to take a leak. Yelena shrugs back.
“Okay. Time to shop for housewarming gift, I guess.”
— — — — — — — — —
Bob arrives at Walker’s with a duffel bag and a giant pretzel.
It’s a small, one-story house with baby blue shutters and a porch swing. The front yard is small but neatly trimmed, and there is a beautiful garden bed swarming with green and yellow and pink. Potted plants are scattered in the driveway and down the front steps, some knocked over by the wind.
Bob has to side-step a few bags of mulch, and he approaches the door, which has fading yellow paint and a mail slot. He knocks twice.
To Bob, this was an entirely new version of Walker. Yes, he had seen him in casual clothes, plenty of times. Jeans, button-downs, plain t-shirts – the typical straight man’s closet.
Never like this, though.
Walker’s ancient-looking t-shirt was presumably from ‘Pacific Pirate Surf Shop’ (if ‘Pacific Pirate Surf Shop’ splashed across the front is anything to go by). He’s wearing basketball shorts that reveal fine blond leg hair, and his white, calf-length socks have those honest-to-god blue and red stripes at the top.
“Hi,” Bob says, a little breathlessly.
“Hey,” Walker says, stilted. The pair flounders for a moment, trapped on either side of the door, before Walker steps aside. Bob enters hesitantly, and Walker grabs his duffel without a second thought, carrying it down the hall.
“Where's the rest of your stuff?” He calls over his shoulder, and Bob pulls his eyes away from the living area, with its built-in bookshelves and fireplace. A giant Turkish rug with fraying edges sits in the middle, and the furniture is adorned with pillows and blankets and candles and books (war novels, so many war novels). Bob could feel the ghost of a feminine touch in the space.
“On my body,” he replies, trailing after Walker. Walker laughs, a little.
“Honestly, that’s what I thought,” he said, stopping at the bedroom door, “I mean, no offense, but nobody could love that shirt enough to wear it that much, man,” He says.
Bob laughs despite himself.
“Warm welcome, asshole,” he shoots back, but he’s still smiling.
Walker, on the other hand, winces a little and nods toward the door.
“I-uh, ran out of time to paint, so I’ll have to do it this weekend. But I guess that means you can pick out the color. Woo,” He says, voice flat, and runs a hand through his unstyled hair.
The door, he noticed as they walked into the room, has a few half-torn stickers on it, and the name Daniel painted in blue cursive letters.
Oh. Shit.
Well, Bob hadn’t really thought about that one, huh?
He knew the truth about Walker’s family. Ava had told him, hoping to spare the awkwardness of Bob asking about them. But then Walker had mentioned that he was using his other bedroom to store his gear, and Bob just assumed, just forgot.
His cheeks go hot with the familiar shame of being cruel by mistake. Suddenly, Walker’s agreement to this whole imposition feels a lot more meaningful, and Bob feels a lot more impose-y, unable to grasp Walker’s meaning.
The room had been furnished, which is unexpected. It’s simple, just a bed with olive green sheets, a nightstand, and a dresser. There was a lamp on the nightstand and two house plants on the dresser, with a little post-it note stuck to each pot. Care instructions, Bob realizes. Detailed care instructions.
“Where did this come from?” He asks while reading.
“The plants or the furniture?”
Bob holds up one finger.
“Lowe's.”
Bob snorts.
“Thank you,” he says, “For the plants AND the furniture. How much do I owe you?”
Walker scratches at his beard, “Don’t worry about it.”
“Walker, no, I want to. I can, for once in my life.”
Well, once his next check comes in, anyway, but who needs to know? Walker rolls his eyes, looking annoyed at the very idea.
“Just. Start calling me John and we’ll call it even,” he says, and his smile is the closest thing to warm he’s exuded in a while, but his cheeks are red and he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, “And give me some of that pretzel.”
“Okay, Walker, it’s a deal,” Bob says with a smile in return, tearing the pretzel in half and handing Walker the bigger piece. A beat, then, “Starting right now.”
Later, when Bob goes to bed, he realizes his walls are bordered by little painted dinosaurs.
— — — — — — — — —
His first morning in Walker’s house, Bob wakes from a nightmare to the smell of bacon. When he stumbles into the kitchen like he didn’t just spend five minutes in bed trying to convince himself he’s safe and ten minutes in the bathroom fixing his messy hair, it’s to sliced fruit and hot coffee on a wobbly table.
“Good morning,” John says, “How do you like your eggs?”
Bob shrugs, slinking into the nearest chair. He can’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him.
“Surprise me,” he says, though he only really liked his eggs sunny side up. He’ll eat whatever type of eggs he gets.
Walker smiles and cracks two eggs into the pan with one hand.
“Impressive,” Bob says, then, “I’m sorry I asked you to let me live here.”
John’s head snaps up from the sizzle of the stove, eyes wide and a little frantic.
“What?” He says, moving like he’s about to come around from behind the counter, then remembers that he’s mid-task, “Why would you say that?”
Bob just shrugs, in that awkward space where he’s said something impulsive without determining the appropriate follow-up procedures.
“Bob?” Walker asks again, transferring the eggs to a plate and bringing them over to the table. They’re sunny side up.
Bob fiddles with the strings of his hoodie.
“It was more generous than I deserved,” He says, carefully, “And it was too much. To ask of you.”
“That…” John starts, sitting in the chair next to Bob. Their knees touch, and it’s entirely too much, “That isn’t true.”
Walker looks nervous, Bob realizes. He busies himself with Bob’s plate, loading it with fruit and bacon, and a little cinnamon roll that looks suspiciously homemade.
“I’m really glad you’re here, Robert,” he says, “It’s been… Olivia had– has a lot in her life. Friends, god, she has so many friends. From college, from work, from the fucking farmer’s market. She’s close with her family, too. They were always over here, helping out with Danny. They hated me. I never knew what to say to them.”
“And now?”
“And now, I’m lonely. I was lonely then, in a house full of people. It’s worse now. Now that I’ve lost…” his voice cracks, and Bob knows better than to draw attention to it, so he stays quiet, “Now that I’ve thrown out the two most important things in my life, it helps. You help.”
Bob opens his mouth to say something, anything, but John stands like nothing has happened and grabs a baseball cap off a hook near the front door.
“I’m going on a run. I would ask if you’re joining, but, well…” He says, laughing to himself. Asshole.
Bob stands up and motions to the kitchen table.
“You’re not gonna eat?”
John turns back from where he’s halfway out the door with a smile no less blinding than the morning sun framing his face.
“Nah. I never eat breakfast.”
— — — — — — — — —
They fall into a bit of a routine after that. Every morning, Bob wakes up to John making breakfast in the kitchen, smiling with a sheen of sweat on his face from his morning run. Before John showers, Bob makes sure he at least eats something. John does the dishes after Bob puts the food away. Bob pretends John isn’t gorgeous after John looks gorgeous. Routine.
John paints Bob’s walls an eggshell shade they spend too much time picking out together. They go to work, and Bob tries to pretend he’s useful. He laughs at Alexei and makes John’s coffee like he knows he likes it. He listens and tries not to talk very much when they talk strategy. What a joke.
They do have a housewarming, eventually, but nobody calls it that. They all play poker and eat Bucky’s shitty attempt at Italian fare.
Yelena brings them a cactus.
“It’s a nice cactus,” Bob comments later, pulling a preroll (also from Yelena) out and lighting it on the back patio.
“It’s okay,” John says back, “Overwatered.”
“Oh, so that’s like, your thing, huh?” Bob asks, though he knows the answer. John spends at least an hour a day out in the yard, trimming or weeding or whatever else you do in a garden.
“It’s nothing. Just something I picked up recently.”
By now, John knows what ‘recently’ means.
“Your garden is beautiful,” Bob says, lighting the joint up, “you should be proud.”
John just shakes his head.
“I thought you were done with that stuff,” John says, a clear ploy to change subjects, and nods towards the joint; he accepts it regardless when Bob offers.
He looks good, Bob notices distantly, breathing in smoke, blowing it out in a slow, steady stream. He licks his lips before he takes another hit, and Bob almost forgets to answer.
“Dr. Aziz approved and endorsed,” He says, and John nods.
“I can try to grow you some, if you’d like,” John throws out like it’s nothing. Bob laughs, too loudly for the quiet evening.
“Such a green thumb. It’s alright. Mindful consumption, moderation, blah blah. Thanks, though.”
“Good for you, dude. I never do that therapy stuff right.” John isn’t looking at Bob, eyes focused on something near his feet. Bob takes a hit and scoots a little closer.
“Is there a way to do it wrong?” He asks. Walker snorts.
“I’ve heard you’re actually supposed to talk during your sessions. I never seem to make it that far,” He says, voice full of self-contempt, and Bob blames the shitty weed for making him reach out and put a hand on John’s shoulder. It’s not as awkward as he expects, this quiet moment of contact.
“Well,” Bob says, “You keep going, right?”
“Yeah,” John knocks their shoulder together, “I keep going.”
— — — — — — — — —
Bob wakes up drenched in sweat and with a hand on his beating heart. He’s used to waking up in the early hours of the morning. Typically, he’s out of bed by four, practicing his breathing exercises and trying to distract himself until he hears the sounds of Walker slipping out of his own room and lacing up his sneakers.
Today, though, for the first time in years, Bob doesn’t have a nightmare. He has a dream, and it’s so much worse.
The most significant part was how similar everything was. He still lived with John, but they were dancing around the kitchen in their pajamas to a song that Bob is pretty sure doesn’t actually exist. John looked looser around him too, not afraid to brush past him with a quiet ‘hey you’, or to kick him playfully under the table. And when they walked down the hall to John’s room, now their room, Bob passed his old space and noticed children’s furniture and little painted dinosaurs along the wall.
He shakes himself off and makes his bed, knowing there’s no point in trying to sleep now. He showers as quietly as possible, then shuffles to get his book from the living room.
As soon as he reaches the doorframe, he realizes he isn’t alone. John is curled up in an armchair by the window, and even through the moonlight, Bob can discern red eyes and tear tracks.
“Hey,” Bob says, trying to keep his voice soft. He doesn’t know how John will react.
“Bob?” John asks, standing and crossing over to him before Bob can blink, “Are you okay? What are you doing up?” Despite his wet voice and trembling hands, John’s eyes are full of worry; he runs his hands up and down Bob’s arms, just once.
“I was just about to ask you that, actually,” He pulls John over to the couch by the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” John asks again, but Bob is already waving him off.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. It was a bad dream, nothing I’m not used to,” he lies, just a little, “talk to me.”
John says nothing. He runs a hand over his mouth, then through his hair, which is sticking up all over. Without thinking, Bob reaches up and moves one strand back into place.
“John,” he says, quieter than he thought he could sound, and Walker loses it.
Bob sees it in the collapse of his shoulders before he hears it, and then John is weeping. His body jerks with the strength of his sobs, closing in on himself, hiding his face. Bob just tucks himself in closer, bringing his knees up to his chest and sitting patiently, tracing patterns onto John’s arm and back. John leans into the touches, but barely.
“Do you want me to leave?” He asks, even as he prays that the answer is no. And it is, if John’s panicked look is anything to go by.
Bob can barely handle it. John has never looked so small, so unsure of himself. But he’s also a vision, blue eyes shining with tears. His cheeks are red, and the tip of his nose is even redder. Bob wants to kiss him, he thinks with terrifying clarity.
“You look really pretty when you cry,” Bob says, because John needs to know. John laughs, but it’s a wet, mean sound.
“I’m pathetic,” He spits, obviously trying to get a hold of himself. Bob catches his wrists, still his hands as they frantically wipe at his face.
“No,” Bob says, “No, you aren’t.”
“I called Olivia today,” He says without preamble, “she, uh, she doesn’t think I’m ready to see him. The social worker gave us the go-ahead, but–” his voice breaks, “but she’s worried. Understandably. Hell, I wouldn’t let me near him.”
Bob can tell John means it, truly believes it. Bob wants to kiss the column of his throat until the bitter tone leaves his voice, wants to hold his hands until John believes they’re capable of gentle touches.
“John,” Bob starts, scared, so scared to say the wrong thing, “You are… you love your son,” It isn’t a question, “That’s like, the most important thing.”
“It’s not enough,” John says back, no hesitation.
“No, it’s not,” Bob agrees, “But this is. What you’re doing now. Were you in therapy a year ago? What did that yard look like last spring?”
“Gardening. You’re giving me gardening.”
“No, I’m giving you sensitivity, patience, and resilience. You are leagues ahead of where you started, and Olivia knows that. We all know that.”
“She said soon,” John says quietly, “and soon should be enough. Soon is enough. It’s selfish to ask for more, I know it is, but he’s my son,” John’s crying again, silent tears streaming down his face, “He’s my son, and I just want to hold him.”
Bob hugs him. It’s a bit awkward, from this angle, but he can’t not hug him. He winds one arm around John’s back and presses his forehead against his shoulder.
“You will,” Bob promises, “trust me, John, there’s time. You will have so much time with him.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, their breathing synced.
“Do you, with Olivia, are you, do you want to…” Bob asks, heart in his throat. As scared as he is to ask such a personal question, he’s more scared of the answer.
But John is already shaking his head, rolling his shoulders as he stands and grabs his shoes from beside the door.
“No,” He says, firmly, “No, not since this,” He gestures at Bob and the gear scattered by the front closet, “All happened. If I’m going to do this, I can’t drag her into it. I won’t. It’s the least she and Danny deserve.”
Bob understands, or thinks he does, at least, but he’s never been great at giving up the things he wants. He lingers in the doorway, and it feels like something is clouding the air between them, a fog of heavy emotions nobody can interpret.
“It hasn’t been like that between us in a long time,” John adds, looking much less sure of himself than he had a second ago, “And it won’t be like that again.” He gives Bob a look, then he’s out the door.
— — — — — — — — —
“Okay, I’m heading out,” Bob calls as he catches Ava’s car pulling up in the driveway. Yelena spots him from the window and waves wildly, and Ava just makes a face of vague indifference, which, from her, is as warm as a kiss hello.
“Wait, Bobby,” John calls, jogging over from where he’s scrubbing down the kitchen counters for the hundredth time, “do I look okay?”
You have no idea. John does look good, clean-cut and all-American.
“Take a breath, Walker, you look great. The house looks great, the yard looks great, and the food looks great,” He says, gesturing to the spread set out at the dining table, “It’s going to be great.”
John nods, but Bob can tell he’s still freaked, fidgeting with his clothes and practically bouncing on his feet.
“Nerves are good…” Bob starts, adjusting John’s collar.
“... Nerves mean I care,” John finishes with an eye roll, “Now get out of here.”
Bob almost tells him to tell Danny he said hi, but snaps his mouth shut. Firstly, because Danny’s barely a year old and consequently does not do well with the speaking and listening parts of interpersonal communication. Secondly, because Bob has absolutely no business trying to involve himself with this part of John’s life. He feels embarrassed for just having that thought in the first place.
Not for the first time, he reminds himself that just because he doesn’t have a family, it doesn’t mean he gets to cling to everyone he meets until they’re suffocated. Not for the first time, Bob reminds himself of his place.
But later, when John’s smile is so wide and bright that Bob is sure he’ll be blinded, and he’s talking all about seeing little Danny and how big he’s gotten in just a few months and how damn civil he was with Olivia, he tells Bob:
“I can’t wait for you to meet him.”
And Bob can’t fucking stop himself. He’s kissing John, right there on the porch swing. It only lasts a second, dry lips brushing against each other, before he pulls himself back.
“I’m sorry,” he says before John has a chance to say anything, “I won’t try that again. I’m sorry.”
John just looks at him, brows creased, like he’s trying to solve an equation.
“Why did you do that?” He asks, voice rough. Bob swallows, and thinks.
Because I’m falling in love with you?
Certainly not.
Because I want to fuck you?
Not quite.
“You just looked so happy. You’re so beautiful. I’m sorry.”
John's eyes close for a second, then flutter back open.
“Stop fucking apologizing,” he says, and he’s pulling Bob through the front door. The door slams behind them, and Bob expects to be thrown against the wall for one reason or the other, regardless of whether John wants this, too.
But that doesn’t happen. Instead, he gently guides Bob into the living room, where sunlight streams in and highlights John’s blond hair, unstyled and falling against his forehead. John’s staring again, and Bob feels the urge to shove his hands into his pockets or duck his head. He doesn’t.
John rests his hands on the back of Bob’s neck, slowly, thumbs coming up to stroke the sides of his face, the touch so gentle it tickles.
“Hi,” John whispers, borderline giddy, and then he’s kissing Bob, soft and slow, like he’s trying to communicate something that Bob needs to hear. Bob thinks he might understand.
Bob opens himself up to John, and his tension drops like a puppet on loose strings. John whimpers into Bob’s mouth, immediately licking into him, flicking his tongue up against the back of Bob's top teeth. His beard scrapes against Bob’s skin, and it's the perfect burn.
Bob thinks he’d be on the ground by now if John weren’t there to hold him up. They move in tandem down the hallway, neither noticing until they reach the threshold.
“I’m sorry,” John babbles, then kisses him again like he’ll stop breathing if he doesn’t, “I’m moving too fast, we don’t have to–”
Bob cuts him off with another kiss, and they go inside. Bob takes a second to be nosy, looking at the framed pictures on the dresser, indiscipherable finger paintings from Danny taped to the wall, the acoustic guitar in the corner that Bob hears him playing some evenings. Bob is relieved to see that the space feels like John, not John and Olivia, then scolds himself for the selfish thought.
They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, falling onto Walker’s soft bed sometime during the process. Bob feels overwhelmed. This morning, he thought John was only into women. Honestly? This morning, Bob wasn’t sure how John would react to Bob’s equal-opportunity lifestyle. Now, John was grabbing his ass and slotting his knee in between Bob’s legs and making sweet, small sounds as he kisses the life out of him.
“Johnny,” Bob says between kisses, chest heaving, “What do you want? What gets you off?” He needs to do this right, needs to make John feel good enough to come back for more. “I’ll do anything,” He says, and he means it.
John pulls back, and Bob gets to see another new version of him, with red glossy lips and hooded eyes, but he’s not smiling.
“Bobby…” He starts, looking unsure.
Great, Bob was already messing everything up. He kisses John again, dirty and fast.
“I don’t have to talk if you don’t want me to. C’mon, John, my hand? My mouth? I don’t need anything, this can be all for you. Or I can–”
“Stop,” John says, voice hard. He stands up, and Bob knows he’s ruined it.
But maybe not, because John is dropping to his knees with a thud, looking fiercely determined.
“Oh,” Bob breathes out as John nuzzles his head against him, kissing the denim covering his thighs.
“You get me off,” He says, “I want you so much. I’ve wanted you for a lon- for a while.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve never done this before,” John murmurs, looking up at Bob nervously, “but let me do it for you?”
Bob nods, unable to form words. Truth be told, he doesn’t remember the last time someone did this for him. Years, it must have been. And there were never any feelings, not like this.
It’s terrifying, and it’s all Bob wants.
John takes his time, explores the skin over Bob’s waistband, pushing his shirt up and pressing soft kisses onto the lines of his stomach.
“Pretty boy,” John murmurs, “so pretty, baby.” He moves back down to mouth at Bob’s strained zipper, and Bob nearly slides straight off the edge of the bed.
“I can’t believe this,” John says, babbling, “I’m so goddamn lucky what the fuck, Bobby. Are you sure? With me?”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Bob replies, and though he doesn’t understand why John is treating him like something precious, he helps drag his jeans down his wobbly legs and kicks them to the side regardless.
John takes his time worshipping Bob’s legs, kissing him from ankle to the tight band of his boxer briefs.
“Good,” he says, and Bob has to work hard to remember what they had been talking about, because he’s so amped up right now it’s insane.
“I like these,” John continues, running his hands reverently over Bob’s briefs like they aren’t plain black and cheap as shit, then wraps his hands under Bob’s thighs and tugs him down to the very end of the bed.
“Thanks,” Bob says, the only word that will leave his mouth right now. John laughs at him and reaches up to kiss Bob one more time before he tugs Bob’s underwear down and tosses it away.
Bob’s cock is so hard he’d be embarassed if he wasn’t this fucking horny. John stares, a little dazed, for a second, and Bob reaches for himself desperately because he’s so hard and John looks so good and so happy, and if he doesn’t get a hand on–
John slaps his hand away with an eye roll, “Geez, give me a second.”
“Hurry up,” Bob grumbles, hips jerking against the air. John just tuts and continues to tease him by licking and biting at his upper thighs. Bob, impatient and impulsive, puts a hand in John’s hair and tugs until their eyes make contact.
“Please, Johnny?” He asks, eyes pleading, and John curses and suddenly his mouth is all over Bob’s dick and Bob’s making noises that he knows he’s never made before.
“Keep your hand there,” John begs, licking up the full length of Bob’s cock, “You’re so hot, Bobby, you’ve got no idea.”
Bob writhes against John’s strong hands pressed against his hips, holding him still. John takes the head of Bob’s cock into his mouth, warm and eager, and starts to blow him in earnest, the room filling with the filthiest sounds Bob’s ever heard.
That’s John fucking Walker’s throat making those sounds on Bob’s cock as he bobs deeper and deeper, desperate to take it all. Go figure.
“Yeah,” Bob breathes out when he remembers words, “You’re so– ah!– you’re good at this. Really fucking good, Johnny, baby,” he hears John let out a whimper at the endearment, “I love your throat, I love your mouth, fuck, I’m close.”
With that, John slowly pulls off of Bob’s cock, and a string of saliva follows.
“Let me taste you?” He asks, almost shyly, and Bob nearly drops dead with how perfect that sounds coming out of Walker’s mouth.
“What? But what about you?” He asks, genuinely worried that he won’t ever feel the stretch of John inside him, “You don’t wanna fuck me?”
John smiles, “I will fuck you. Eventually,” He presses his thumbs into Bob’s hipbones, hard enough to leave a mark, “Now, let me make you cum on my mouth, Robert. Please?”
And who the hell is Bob to say no?
John is swallowing him back down the second he starts to nod, and Bob’s back on the edge in no time, writhing and moaning like a pornstar. He pulls at John’s hair to warn him, and John just moans and takes him deeper.
“You’re perfect, soldier,” He chokes out, “So perfect for me. God, your mouth. So hot, Johnny.”
John pulls off of Bob’s dick with a wet pop and mouths at his balls, heavy and tight. After a second, he sits back on his knees to catch his breath and looks up at Bob through his lashes like he’s praying at the altar.
“You deserve this, baby. You’re so good for me.”
Bob is coming before he can think to try and stop it, his vision clouding as he throws his head back with a yell, his arms shaking from where he’s propped himself up. He can vaguely hear John murmuring his name, coaching him through his orgasm.
“Good, perfect, that’s perfect, you did so good, baby,” He hears John say once he comes back to himself, “Jesus, Bobby, I wasn’t even touching you anymore, you’re so perfect, that’s so fucking hot.”
Bob paws at John until he climbs up onto the bed, body framing Bob’s as he leans down to steal another kiss. They stay like that until the come dries on Bob's stomach, kissing and running their hands over any inch of skin they can find.
“Let me clean you up,” John says, getting up and heading to his bathroom. Bob retrieves his briefs and pulls them back on while the water runs. When he tries to accept the washcloth from John, his hands are (once again) swatted away.
“Let me clean you up.”
So Bob lets him, and when John’s done, he smiles and cocks his head towards the door.
“Movie?” John asks, walking down the hallway like he hadn’t just given Bob the best orgasm of his life.
Bob feels like a lost puppy as he trails after him.
“Did you…” He asks, and John shakes his head.
“Nah, but don’t worry about me,” he says simply, sitting on the couch and scrolling through some streaming service, “that was more than enough.”
Bob thinks John might have shot off in his pants, but nope, he’s still hard through his sweatpants– there’s even a wet spot contrasting the gray, and Bob’s mouth is definitely not watering.
“I’m confused,” Bob says slowly, walking over and swinging his leg over John’s lap, settling comfortably against his hardness, “you don’t want to cum?”
John groans, a bit weak.
“It’s not about want,” he chokes out as Bob shifts in his spot, “it’s about need. I don’t need to cum, especially not if it’s gonna make you think that’s the only reason why I’m doing this with you.”
Oh. That’s… oh. Huh.
“Oh,” Bob says dumbly, “alright.”
And then he’s rocking his hips against John’s in earnest, ignoring his own sensitivity and doing his best to grind his ass over John’s cock.
“Did you not hear me?” John asks, but his resolve is crumbling. His hands are on Bob now, holding tight to his hips.
“Well, I figured,” Bob says, reaching down to cup John’s erection and smirking when John chokes out a gasp, “That now I know, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get off tonight.”
Bob fumbles with the knotted string of John’s sweatpants until John groans and rips it in half, tugging the entire drawstring out of his pants, and though Bob is laughing, he’s all too eager to reach a hand into John’s underwear and squeeze.
“Fuck,” John swears, head tucking against Bob’s shoulder.
“You like this? My hand on your cock? Want something else?” He says, flicking his wrist in just the right way. John shakes his head frantically.
“No. Well, yes, I like it. I love it. Keep–keep going.”
And keep going Bob does, until John’s hands are shaking and honest-to-god tears shine in his eyes.
“You gonna come for me?” He asks, though he knows the answer, “You’re so lovely, Johnny, you’re doing so well for me. Such a perfect soldier,” he whispers as he kisses up the column of John’s throat. John is practically sobbing, held down only by Bob’s legs pressing him into the couch.
“You’re such a good boy, captain,” Bob purrs, and John’s coming all over Bob’s fist with a wail, their heaving breaths mingling. Bob licks up the length of his thumb and tastes his partner’s release, earning a choked sound from the bearded man.
“So, you’re into that, huh? The ‘captain’ stuff?” Bob asks casually, tucking his sweaty hair behind his ears. John snorts and pushes Bob off him. He tumbles onto the couch with a grin.
“No,” John says, “just, uh, when you do it, I guess.”
He’s blushing, and Bob is grinning like an idiot, and it’s all so perfect that it’s overwhelming, but then John’s getting a call from Bucky and suddenly they’re sharing one last kiss as he helps John strap on his vest.
“Be safe?” Bob asks, like he doesn’t know that John’s career is the furthest thing from safe you could get.
“You sure you don’t wanna come with?” John asks, and Bob shakes his head.
“I’d just get in the way,” he says, without angst. Just the truth.
John looks like he wants to say something else, but then he kisses the top of Bob’s head and says, “I’ll be safe. I promise.”
— — — — — — — — —
Bob sleeps in his own bed that night, because it seems like the thing to do. This… thing between them feels so tremulous, so fragile, and the last thing Bob wants to do is overstep.
The next morning, there’s breakfast on the table, but John’s already in the shower. Bob picks at his food, wondering whether to leave out something for John as he cleans up, but decides against it. They’re out of spicy Doritos and a few other essentials, so Bob heads out to the store before John’s left his room. He tells himself he isn’t avoiding him.
When Bob gets back, John’s car is gone. There’s no note, so Bob busies himself with chores and reads one of John’s boring war novels from cover to cover.
John doesn’t get home until late, and he’s a bit loose on his feet, humming a bit and struggling to hang his coat up.
“Hey!” John says, too bright, “Hi. Bob. I’m a little drunk. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Bob says, smiling a little, but he’s a bit nervous. He’s not used to being around drunk people who weren’t angry.
“I got drinks with Alexei and Ava,” John explains, “big mistake. They say hi.”
“Hi,” Bob says distantly, pulling John over to the armchair, where he drops down unceremoniously.
“I hope you aren’t uncomfortable. With my drinking. I don’t do it often, I swear.” He says, and his voice is so sweet and sincere that Bob melts just a little.
“I know,” Bob says, and he does know, “it doesn’t bother me.”
“Okay,” John says, slapping his hands onto his thighs, “Okay, that’s good. By the by, I got drunk because I can’t tell if you want to be with me. I also got drunk because I really like pale ale. Pale ale, pale ale,” He says, slurred, but he’s still smiling. Bob freezes a bit, unsure of what to do, what to say.
“Huh?” He asks because he isn’t hearing him right, surely.
“I want to be your boyfriend, Bobby,” He says, “Just so you know. No pressure, but it’s what I want. Too scared to say it before.”
“And, uh,” Bob starts, voice unsteady, “you aren’t scared now?”
John laughs.
“I’m fucking terrified,” John says, “but I needed to say it.”
With that, John gets up and pats Bob on the shoulder in a very ‘way to go champ’ fashion. Bob scrambles for the right words, or any words, but before he can open his mouth, John’s down the hall and entering his bedroom.
“Goodnight, Bobby. Thanks for listening! See you tomorrow,” He waves a hand wildly over his head, and the door shuts behind him.
— — — — — — — — —
When John wakes up the next morning, the first thing he notices is his headache. The second thing he notices is that something is definitely burning.
He’s up in a snap, flying down the hallway with thoughts of Bob, Bob, where’s Bob until he reaches the kitchen, where Bob stands running a steaming pan under the sink, looking caught out.
“Good morning,” Bob says meekly.
“What happened?” John asks, rushing over to make sure Bob didn’t burn himself.
“I, uh, made you breakfast?” He says, offering the burnt pan of bacon out like a peace offering. John laughs, open in a way that surprises himself.
“Thank you, but you’re lucky I don’t eat breakfast.”
“It was meant to be a thank you, asshole,” Bob explains, “for letting me live here. Rent-free, despite all my attempts to pay you.”
John takes a moment to appreciate Bob: the way his waves fall into his face, the ever-present smile in his eyes, the strong set of his jaw. Beautiful.
Also, fuck Bob’s money. He can keep it – literally.
“You don’t need to thank me,” he says.
“That’s not true,” Bob says, “I know I’m intruding, inserting myself into all of this. I know I’m not, like, the strongest, or the smartest, but–”
“Stop,” he commands, and Bobs jaw snaps shut, “I’m sick of that shit, okay? None of us would be here without you, okay? None of us. You’re braver than five of me put together, and you’re the most clever man I’ve ever known,” He smiles at Bob fondly, “It’s all those damn books you read. But even if you weren’t. Even if you were an idiot and a coward, I would still– we would still need you in our lives. We would still want you in our lives. Because you’d still be you, and that’s all we’d ever ask for.”
When he’s done, he’s a bit out of breath, but he’s crowding into Bob, making sure he hears, that he understands. Bob looks at him in a way John can’t quite make out, and then Bob kisses him, once, hard.
“Okay,” Bob says, voice firm, “I’ll stop, if you date me.”
John freezes, blinks a few times, just to see if Bob will disappear. He doesn’t, but it still feels unreal.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, quietly. Bob scoffs.
“Now who’s the one wallowing in self-loathing?” He asks, kissing along John’s jaw. He pulls back again to look him in the eye, “I think you’re wonderful. You have so much love, John, so much heart, and you can’t even see it. You are a fierce protector, and damn good at what you do. And you’re my best friend.”
For the first time ever, John’s knees go a bit weak.
“Please be my boyfriend, Johnny,” Bob says, but it’s not a question because John’s already nodding, already kissing him.
They melt into the kiss, John pulling Bob in by the hips and tangling his hands in his hair like he’s been waiting to.
“Okay,” John says, nipping at Bob’s bottom lip, “I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bob asks, leaning his head to one side to let John lick and bite at his neck, “How does it feel?”
“Feels pretty fucking good,” John says, “To kiss the man I love.”
Bob’s smile lights up the entire house.
— — — — — — — — —
“I’m so nervous. I’m so fucking nervous. John?”
“Yeah?” John asks, coming up and wrapping his arms about Bob from behind.
“I’m nervous.”
John laughs and spins Bob around, grounding him with firm hands on his hips.
“Don’t be nervous, baby. He’ll love you. Well. He’s two, so he probably won’t verbalize it, but he’ll love you regardless.”
Bob smiles, but it’s wary, “And Olivia?”
“Oh,” John says, unconcerned, “Don’t worry about that. She already loves you. Hard not to, after hearing the things I say about you.”
Bob is sure he shouldn’t be making out with his fiancé on the front stoop of his fiancé’s ex-wife’s apartment, but he just can’t help himself.
Danny, unsurprisingly, takes to Bob immediately, who babbles with him like they’re having a conversation and never gets tired of pretending Danny’s good at puzzles.
“Wow!” He says, sneakily connecting two pieces, “They fit, buddy, you did it!”
Danny laughs and claps wildly.
“Again please now!” Danny says, and Bob good-naturedly pulls out another board puzzle and shakes out the pieces.
“Oh no, they’re all over the place!” Bob gasps, and Danny laughs again and starts trying to put a triangle into the circular hole.
Later, as John tells Danny about the plants he’s going to show him the next time he comes over (Danny definitely does not care), Olivia meets Bob out on the balcony and hands him a bottle of water.
"John was telling me what you and Yelena have been working on at... work, or whatever you would call it. I'm impressed," She says warmly.
“Thanks,” Bob says, unsure of how to proceed.
“No problem. You’re great with Danny,” she says without preamble, trailing a finger along the railing. They’d had a good day today, laughing and chatting with Olivia more than he expected to.
“We probably have a lot in common,” He evades, unable to take the compliment, “Kids are great.”
Olivia smiles.
“So, uh, I think we should do this a few more times, but, uh,” Olivia says, and now she looks nervous and Bob doesn’t understand why, “I have a date next Friday.”
“Oh,” Bob says, relieved, “Cool. That’s great.”
“Yeah, it’s new, but I like him. A lot, actually. It’s just that someone will need to watch Danny,” She trails off, looking over at him, “Maybe overnight?”
Bob turns to where John and Danny are sitting on Olivia’s couch, and sees that John is already looking at them. Bob waves a little.
“Well,” Bob says, smiling, “we have a spare room.”