Chapter Text
The Tower becomes warmer when it’s full of people and noise. Bob should know, he walks the empty halls more than anyone else; Bucky might be a close second with his insomnia. When the team returns from their missions it’s always the whir of the jet engines, chatter, arguing, boasting, clanging from the equipment room, high water-pressured showers—until it all culminates into the common space with too much food.
Bob ordered ahead this time so he keeps his eyes on his phone screen to track the delivery as he walks to the common space to unload the dishwasher he started earlier in the day. He happens to glance up while passing the couch and spots John stretched out, face buried in the cushions, looking as close to a cleaned-up corpse as anyone could.
Bob’s first wave of panic fades when he doesn’t see anything actively bleeding. He steps closer. “John?”
“Ngh.” John grunts into the fabric.
Oh. So it’s that. Bob frowns and gently sits down, sharing the cushion with John’s head. “Want me to get you anything?”
“No.”
The driver is fifteen minutes out with their food. Bob looks up from his phone. Normally John manages something quick and sugary after demanding missions: crackers, sports drink, a glucose packet if the crash is bad enough. But he clearly opted to shower first and couldn’t make it past the couch on his way to the attached kitchen.
“Stop,” John says, still face down.
“What?”
“I can hear you judging me.”
Bob hasn’t judged John since their first encounter back in the vault. “You showered,” Bob says as observationally as possible.
John huffs and rolls just enough to free his face. “Yeah, well, the monster threw up on me and it smelled, really I did everyone a favor.” He doesn’t look great, but he has looked worse. Bob notes the slight pallor and sheen of sweat one might mistake for shower water if they didn’t know better.
“Here.” Bob hands over his phone because John accepts help if it’s disguised as a mutual exchange rather than anything that could be taken as pity. “Watch this.”
John sighs and takes the phone, staring dully at it while horizontal, and Bob goes into the kitchen to get snacks that work fast but aren’t horrible to stomach; he comes back with a candy bar and apple slices.
“Thanks.” He takes his phone back before sitting fully on the couch in the corner, drawing his legs up. Nothing is said between them as John slowly eats, eventually finding the strength to sit up.
John groans and bows his head.
“Dizzy?” Bob asks.
John just nods. Then he mutters, “Thanks.”
Bob can’t help but smile. A little ball of warmth sits in his chest in a space reserved for his friendship with John. They may not have started off friendly, Bob still blames John for that hiccup, but since the team formed and moved into the Tower something honest has grown between them. Maybe even a little vulnerable, in Bob’s opinion.
Yelena and Alexei’s voices echo down the hall causing Bob to glance over and John to curse under his breath.
“They’re going to be annoying,” John says around another bite of candy.
Bob frowns. John’s usual bravado is still dulled and sluggish.
Yelena sees them. “Hi Bob.” Then she really sees John and chuckles. “You look like shit.”
Normally John would say something snarky back and the two would bicker like siblings, but today Bob practically leans into Yelena’s line of sight.
“Yelena, where are the batteries again? The ones in the remote don’t work.”
“Seriously? I will just have to text you so you stop forgetting.” She pivots into the kitchen to get them out of the drawer. Despite her tone, she has no issues helping Bob with anything, still seeing herself as his emotional protector.
“Oh, and Alexei, the food I ordered should be here soon.”
Alexei frowns dangerously. “I will go meet delivery boy and make sure he did not eat half of the bag again.”
“Never happened.” Yelena rolls her eyes.
“It did. I saw it!”
“Make sure you tip him,” Bob calls out.
“Why you no tip in app?”
“I forgot.” Bob winces.
Yelena watches her father leave and says, “That is probably why they eat our food.” She tosses a pair of batteries over and, by the time she sits in her favorite chair, she’s forgotten about John who’s since collapsed back into the couch.
Bob turns on the TV to something she’ll enjoy before glancing at John who glares back but gives the smallest nod. Bob tries to be cool in return, which means he has to turn away to hide that smile.
“Space your feet better.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.” John kicks Bob’s ankles until they’re just past shoulder-width.
Bob immediately feels the difference. “Oh. Yeah, that’s better.”
“Told ya.” John inspects the rest of his stance.
They’re in the gym on the matts today, using the large mirrors to work on basic technique. Bob isn’t necessarily working towards any goal to become a full-fledged team member who joins them on missions, but he agreed when John voiced concerns that he has all this power but very little training. So, for everyone’s safety, the two of them have been doing one-on-one sessions for a few weeks now.
John is surprisingly a good teacher. Sure, he can be abrasive at times, but he listens and corrects the small things before they can spiral into dangerous habits. Bob believes him when he offers support and boosts Bob’s confidence, and he trusts him when he says Bob isn’t ready to try something new. It’s easy to forget the decade of experience John has when he throws up his walls and hides behind that false ego.
“Good.” John makes a tiny adjustment.
He also isn’t afraid of Bob, not really. Bob’s full Sentry powers are mostly dormant when he’s emotionally and mentally balanced like he is now; he’s closer to the super soldiers on the team than any god. But John doesn’t let Bob hide behind his powers, doesn’t let him phone-it-in because of what he can sometimes do. It really shows in John’s instructions that he’s lived most of his life as a normal person, surviving war zones by his own merits and those of the teams beside him rather than any serum.
Bob looks John up and down without dropping his hands from the defensive stance John has him in. John doesn’t look completely recovered. His movements are slow, his voice is rough, and his emotions are a little flat. Though, Bob knows better than to suggest they take a break.
Ever since Bob accidentally discovered John’s serum-crashes, he’s been surprised to learn how many of John’s sharp edges all trace back to the same fear: judgement.
Lucky for John's health, Bob has no issue making himself look like the ‘weakling.’ “Can I take a break?” Bob huffs, acting it up a little.
“Fine.” John groans. “Some superhero.” But he steps away and hands Bob a bottle of water all the same.
Bob smiles and drinks, happy when John takes his own break in the meantime.
Then Bucky has to walk in. He keeps to himself by the weights, doesn’t say much or pay them any mind until the two return to their routine. John is too focused on teaching, but Bob notices all of Bucky’s quick glances their way; his blue eyes always seem to linger when John physically touches Bob to correct him. One time Bucky and Bob make awkward eye contact in the mirrors before Bucky looks away and goes back to his own business, leaving Bob to think that’s the end of that weirdness.
If only.
“You’re wrong,” Bucky says from across the gym without warning.
Bob feels John bristle beside him. John proceeds to ignore Bucky and continue.
Bucky says again, “He’s asking to be swept.”
John works his jaw. “Didn’t ask you, Barnes.”
“You’re teaching him your style when that probably won’t work for Bob.”
“My style has kept me alive this long.”
Bob chimes in, “I think it’s fine.”
Bucky ignores him. “It’s not exactly standard.”
John grins when he smells a challenge. “You don’t think I’m good enough to teach Bob.”
“I’m saying we shouldn’t teach him things he’ll have to re-learn later.”
It’s like Bob’s no longer in the room.
John crosses his arms. “You think you can teach him any better?”
“I am the better fighter with more experience.” Bucky shrugs.
Bob sighs, knowing what’ll come next.
“Fine.” John snaps. “How about we let skill decide? Winner trains Bob.”
Bucky stares, unblinking, for far too long. “Fine.”
Bob turns to John and says under his breath, “Probably not a good idea when you’re not one-hundred percent.”
“I don’t need to be one-hundred percent to beat grandpa.” John starts rolling his shoulders, never taking his eyes off Bucky.
“John.”
“Relax, Bob, I’ll be fine.”
Bob wrings out his hands and backs off the matts as the two soldiers meet in the middle. He doesn’t know what he’s worried about; the team spars all the time, and maybe there’s a little accidental blood, but no one ever hurts themselves. Is he concerned on behalf of John’s ego or pride? Bob can’t figure out where this dread is coming from as he watches them circle before striking.
John of course attacks first. He’s a natural fighter, explosive, using momentum to overwhelm opponents. It’s how he initially picked up and utilized the shield so seamlessly. Experienced in hostage situations, John always had to enter a room and immediately gain control; the shield may have become more of a battering ram in his hands, but it got the job done.
Unfortunate for John, Bucky’s tactics involve more observation and precision, ultimately wearing John out. John's punches delay. When he pivots too fast the room spins. His skin feels cold, limbs far away. From the outside to the untrained eye, it would still be an impressive fight, but it falls short for what a super soldier should be capable of--at least that's how John would phrase it to Bob.
Once John is breathing hard and sluggish, Bucky looks to take him down. He dodges a jab then grabs John’s wrist and pivots, using his leg to trip the blond in the process. But John’s sudden surge of strength surprises him and instead it’s Bucky who’s being whipped to the matts.
Before John can pin him, Bucky uses his left arm to break free and flip John until he’s on his back and under Bucky’s weight. John bucks, but Bucky wrenches his arm above his head—not enough to hurt but just enough to strongly suggest he yields.
John grins, a flush to his cheeks. He says in between heavy panting, “Still breathing.”
John tries to throw him off, so Bucky flicks out his knife and presses it to John’s throat. Bob yelps but neither man looks his way. Instead, John’s eyes narrow and something darkens in them. Bucky looms over him, metal hand tight around John’s wrist so that he feels the blond’s racing heartbeat through his fingertips.
Bucky’s eyes wander to John’s chest where the thin athletic shirt clings around his muscles rising and falling with each hot breath. When his eyes make it back to John’s the blond is looking at him, mouth curved into a baiting grin. They stay like that for too long, leaving Bob to watch awkwardly.
However, when Bob notices the slight tremor in John’s hand, he snaps himself back and says, “Uh, tap out?”
John blinks and remembers he doesn’t want to lose, but the moment he moves an inch Bucky reminds him of the blade.
Bucky says, without looking away, “You rely too much on raw power.”
“And you rely too much on that arm.”
“Right, cause it’s my arm that’s at your throat.”
Bucky’s dark hair falls around his face and John blinks again, trying to catch and steel his expression before it slips away into something he might have to explain later.
“Okay,” Bob says gently. “I think you’ve made your point, Bucky. Can we put the weapons away?”
Bucky glances at Bob. Something passes over his face, something Bob can’t read, before Bucky pushes off John to stand. John doesn’t want to give away how dizzy he is, so he remains on the floor and simply props himself up on his elbows.
John frowns. “Go ahead, take Bob, teach him how to brood at people.”
Bucky looks between John and Bob again. He sheaths his knife. “Do whatever you want.” He leaves the gym, forgetting the water bottle he brought in earlier.
John huffs and picks himself up, staring at the space left behind.
“You okay?” Bob asks.
John steadies himself on his knees first. “Fine.”
“…want to get food?”
John glances at Bob with an openness only brought out because of his weakened body. “Sure.”
Bob finishes cleaning the kitchen after a late dinner, which John insisted on cooking despite not standing up straight. He felt lucky enough convincing John to go sleep that he doesn’t mind doing the dishes. There’s relaxation in routine—John taught him that.
When he’s done, he decides to make himself some tea and listens to music through soft headphones; he doesn’t hear when Bucky enters the dark common space, though it’s possible he might not have heard the assassin either way.
“Oh, hey.” He pulls off one side of the headphones when he sees him.
Bucky had not come to dinner.
“Mm.” Bucky goes to the fridge.
“John made enough for leftovers,” Bob says.
Bucky seems to pull out the Tupperware reluctantly, staring down at the southern food.
“Uh, you okay," Bob asks.
“Sorry about before,” Bucky says. “About the fight.”
“Wasn’t me you were sparing.”
“You seemed bothered by it.”
“John’s just John sometimes. You know.” It isn’t Bob’s place to tell Bucky about John’s serum quirks, how volatile it is and just how much John has been trying to hide it.
Bucky stares, but his hands clench around the plastic container. “Can I ask, are you guys… You know.”
“Huh?”
“I know you guys are close.”
“Yeah.” Bob furrows his brow.
“But are you, uh… Never mind.” He promptly turns around to start fixing himself a plate of food, leaving Bob to stare at his tense shoulders and process.
Oh. Oh! Suddenly those weird looks from earlier make sense. Bob’s eyes go wide. Is Bucky into John? He always thought they had fun chemistry but usually Barnes comes off as annoyed more than anything; John’s the one to openly admire Bucky given the mood or situation. Wait, does Bucky think John and I—
“We’re just friends,” Bob blurts out. “Promise.”
By the time Bucky glances over his shoulder, he’s already schooled his emotions. “Okay. I don’t care.”
“Well, just saying, John’s not dating anyone right now.”
The microwave buzzes.
Bucky turns and leans on the kitchen island, facing Bob. He says, “But you’re interested.”
“No! Not like that.”
“So, you hang out because...?”
“Because he’s nice.”
Bucky is confused.
Bob adds, “He’s nice in his own way. Looking after people... You know how he is.” If you’re into him you must see what I see.
Bucky hums and gets his food when it’s done reheating. He doesn’t stay, instead leaving for his own room with a quiet ‘good night.’
“Night.” Bob watches him go, shoulders drooped. Did he say something wrong? Worse, does Bucky not believe him?
Bob does a headcount of the team, not because they’d ever leave someone behind, but because it calms him to know when the Tower is whole again, which is why he panics when he doesn’t find John.
“He came back with us,” Ava says as if that’s the most concern she can muster.
“Okay, but,”
“Maybe shower?” Alexei suggests.
“I didn’t hear anything…” Bob stands at the threshold to the common room where everyone seems content with their own post-mission decompression. Except for Bucky, he’s the only one staring at Bob.
“I,” Bob licks his lips. “I’ll be right back.” He rushes to the usual places: bedroom, gym, locker room. He backtracks until he’s easing up the ramp to the jet. “John?” He spots the boots first. John sits tucked against cargo crates, more like slumped and forgotten. Sweat coats his pale skin, beading up around the tight collar of John’s suit. Each breath is strained, fast but thin.
Bob kneels and checks his pulse.
“M’fine.” John’s eyes flicker open.
“You’re not! What the hell are you doing here?” He presses his palm against John’s sternum to better feel his racing heart. “John?”
“Huh?”
Bob finds confusion clouding those blue eyes. “You are not okay!” He frantically feels for the little pockets of John’s suit.
“Hey.” John whines and weakly pushes against him.
Bob ignores the childish resistance and pulls out a small glucose gel pack.
John’s face turns. “Bob, no.”
Bob rips it open.
“M’fine!”
“Eat this.” Bob shoves it towards his mouth.
“Stop!”
“John.” Bob wrestles him, sort of, John doesn’t have the strength or coordination to put up a fight. Like he’s dealing with a dog, Bob practically pries open his mouth and squeezes the strawberry stuff inside.
John nearly vomits, but Bob clamps his hand over his mouth until he swallows.
“God.” John groans.
Bob shows the pack again, his own hair askew. “You still going to fight me?”
But John didn’t learn his lesson. “Fuck off.”
So Bob makes him, again. And then a third time until the stupid paste is fully eaten. Bob is out of breath by the end, mostly from panic. He balls up the plastic and throws it.
“What are you doing in here?" he asks.
The glucose doesn’t work that fast, but John can at least sit up. “Being assaulted apparently.”
“Jesus, John. What if I didn’t come looking for you?”
John’s eyes find him. He shrugs.
“Why didn’t you take your thing on the plane?” Bob gestures to the gel pack wrapper.
John considers not answering for a while. “…couldn’t open the zipper.”
“Maybe that’s a sign you’re pretty low!”
“Thought I could make it till we got back.”
“And what, did everyone just leave you in here?”
“I was upright when we landed.” John wipes at his beard with one floppy hand. He groans and knocks his head back into the crate, which doesn’t help the swelling headache.
Bob says, “This isn’t working.”
“You breaking up with me?” The joke lands weird given Bob’s last conversation with Bucky; it throws him.
“What? No. I—I mean hiding it isn’t working.”
“Not telling them.”
“Why? They’re your team. They should know.”
“Not telling them my serum’s fucked.”
Bob sighs when he feels the usual pattern of this argument resurfacing. “It’s not, John.”
“Broken,” he mutters.
“You’re not.”
“Everyone else walked off this plane.” John’s eyes harden. “Look at me.” He sits, leaning, arms useless in his lap. “Some fucking Avenger I am.”
“It’s…not you. It’s biological.”
“Not telling them.”
Bob slumps in defeat.
After a minute, he asks, “Can I help you up?”
“You’re going to do it whether I say no or not.” John doesn’t look at him.
Bob happily grabs his arms and helps leverage him to his feet. He takes most of John’s weight as the two start walking, well, dragging is what John does.
“Easy.” Bob feels whenever his friend sways. Hand on his hip, he starts to notice a wetness soaked into the suit fabric. Entering the hall outside the hangar, Bob steals a peek around John and sees his fingers are red. “John!”
“Ow.” John recoils from the noise right by his ear. “God. What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are!”
John finally looks down and sees the blood from the wound he never felt. “Huh.”
Bob feels more of John’s weight falling into him. “I, I thought you always bragged about your healing.”
“Must be weird. Crashing.” John tries to walk on his own when he collapses.
Bob catches him roughly, jostling the wound and pushing a pained groan out of John’s lips.
“Fuck.”
“Sorry!” Bob panics. He eases John down to the floor to inspect. “You need a doctor!” Bob’s fingers are sticky, coated.
John seizes the front of his shirt and pulls him in with such strength Bob yelps. “Bob, do not bring me to medbay.”
“You’re stupid—”
“Val’s not finding out. The team isn’t finding out.” He clenches his jaw just to get the words out and stay conscious.
“I’m not going to—”
“If you want me to keep trusting you, promise me!”
“Fine. Fine! I promise.”
John breathes hard but something truly does soften when he hears that promise.
“Good.” His eyes droop, and he falls into Bob’s arms.
“Shit!” Bob trembles. He gently props John up against the wall then stands. After staring too long at the sluggish bleed, he finally sprints down the hall. No idea what to look for, he ransacks the nearest bathroom for towels and the tiny medkits stashed under the sinks.
“Bob?” Bucky’s voice sounds from outside. “You good?”
He must be making a lot of noise inside. “Uh, just fine.” When he comes out, it’s with arms full of stuff. “Peachy, just uh, bathroom emergency.”
Bucky’s eyes lock onto the blood. “Where’s John?”
“Um.”
Bucky starts walking, striding down the hall; Bob rushes to catch up.
“Why is he bleeding in his room?” Bucky practically kicks open the door to he stairwell.
“He was in the jet.” Bob slips in after him, stumbling down the stairs after the assassin.
“Why!”
“Because—oof.” Bob hits Bucky’s back.
“What is going on here, Bob?” Bucky turns to leer.
“I…” Bob shrinks under his cold gaze. Then he remembers how John looked when he left and decides forgiveness is better than a dead friend. “John doesn’t want to go to medbay because doctors will find out his serum is defective and then the team will know, and he thinks he’ll have to leave.”
“The team?”
Bob nods.
Bucky’s brain struggles to process. “Defective?”
“His word, ” Bob says. Bucky backs off, so Bob leads and explains: adrenal highs during missions, then crashes if John doesn’t catch them soon enough.
“What like a sugar crash?”
Bob nods as they turn a corner and find John exactly where he had been left.
Bucky loses air for a moment before rushing forward and kneeling. First thing he checks for is a pulse. Then he holds John’s jaw and stares into his pale, slack face.
Bob stands over them, arms still full of everything. “I gave him one of his emergency glucose gels. It helped. But then I don’t know if this is blood loss or—”
“Get down here and help.” Bucky growls, shifting John to lay him out on the floor, already finding the zippers and straps to peel back the suit until he can reach the deep gash carved into John’s side. He glances at the supplies Bob brought and snatches the cleanest towel, pressing it against the wound until it soaks up blood.
Bucky mutters, “Always said he had the better healing.”
Bob almost chuckles. “I think it crashed like everything else.”
“Leave it to John to be this stupid.”
“Hey, he wasn’t doing it to be difficult.”
“We need to know these things. What if he crashed during a mission?”
“I was telling him to tell you guys!”
“Then why are you defending him?” Bucky snaps.
“For a guy who has a crush on him, you’re pretty damn judgmental of him!” Bob covers his mouth as soon as he speaks. “…oh my God.”
Bucky glares, stunned but furious. “What did you just say?”
“I didn’t mean it.”
Bucky looks like he’s contemplating murder. “Listen to me. We’re going to help John. Then you’re going to forget what you just said. And neither of us will ever talk about it again. Deal?”
Bob wants to say no. He wants to shake Bucky and hear what he loves about John and when he first noticed and why he still acts like a dick sometimes, but he’s too scared. “Yeah. Cool.”
Bucky nods, clearly bothered and self-conscious. “Okay. Cool.”
Bob nods again, because what else is he supposed to do.
He sees a million thoughts passing behind Bucky’s eyes. He even notices the smallest blush along the other’s neck. But now isn’t the time. Not when there’s still blood on his hands.