Chapter Text
Bob was surrounded. Bucky’s legs were tangled with his. John’s arms wrapped tight around his waist. Ava’s hand rested lightly on his arm. Yelena’s breath tickled the back of his neck. Every part of him was touched, held, anchored. And still, he felt alone.
Worse than alone, really—he felt like a fraud. Like if any of them knew how loud it was in his head, how much he hated himself in these moments, they’d finally see it: the dead weight on their perfect machine.
It was no one else’s fault, only Bob’s own. He’d been too in his own head. He’d been trapped in his head for hours, eyes fixed on the ceiling in the dark, waiting for the silence to drown him out. Doubting every action he made, questioning his partners’ decisions, replaying every mission, every word. His brain wouldn’t quit. He was overthinking everything. He’d been awake for hours, just lying in bed. Thinking. Wishing. Willing the Void away.
He wished he were normal. Someone in charge of his own mind. Someone not so easily thrown off by a joke. Truth is, Bob started spiralling weeks ago. He’d made a mistake on a mission, and Bucky got hurt. Nothing too serious, but enough of a mistake for Bob to almost plead for Bucky to forgive him. It was John’s comment afterwards that affected him. He’d said it—so casually, so carelessly it might as well have been smoke, “Bob always messes things up for us, but he’s our mess-up.” Yelena had giggled. Soft. Offhand. But Bob had heard. And that was enough.
The words wedged deep and festered. Always messes things up. Always. It was stupid; Bob knew it was stupid. He shouldn’t have cared, should’ve brushed the comment off. John didn’t mean to hurt him. It was a dumb joke. Yet it fucked with Bob’s head, and has been for weeks. Did he really always mess things up? He’d heard it his whole life. From his dad. From his mom. From himself. Now from John. The people he trusted most. “You always make things worse, Bob.”
The phrase looped in his head, and all of his mistakes replayed in his head as he lay between his lovers. He could see every stupid slip lined up in his head like a film reel. Dropping a weapon mid-fight. Hesitating too long on a rooftop jump. Misjudging the timing and leaving Yelena with a bruise. A missed punch that had made Bucky bleed. Little things, things the others shrugged off or laughed about—“that’s just Bob”—but to him they stacked into proof. Proof he was unreliable. Proof he was their weak link. Everything he’d ever felt guilty for flashed in his head as he tried to sleep. He tried to ground himself. His lovers’ warmth pressed in from all sides, but it didn’t reach him. It felt like trying to hold water in his hands. Leaking through no matter how tight he clenched.
He started unpacking that in therapy, too. Why he’d go through phases of wanting to be surrounded by love, to wanting nothing to do with it. And it helped. Sometimes. He’d been told, “You’re bipolar, Bob. It’s not a failure. It’s your brain.” It gave him language for the storm. Permission to stop blaming himself for being too much, too little, never steady enough. But the thing was, his brain never shut up about failure. It made him feel like therapy was a scam sometimes. He knew the words. Knew the diagnosis. Knew he wasn’t imagining it. And yet, when the Void crept in, it whispered louder than every session, every notebook, every reminder to breathe.
And still. Nights like this came. He needed space. He should’ve felt safe, anchored by all of them. Instead, every press of skin felt like pressure. John’s arm around his waist felt like a shackle. Bucky’s legs against his felt like a reminder that he might trip him. Ava’s fingers on his arm felt like electricity. Yelena’s breath on his neck made him want to flinch. He hated himself for it— they love me and I can’t even take it. The weight of every touch, every breath, every rustle of sheets felt like pressure against his ribs. Suffocating. So he floated. He carefully pried John’s arms from his waist, untangled his legs from Bucky’s. Then, without a sound, he rose above them. Weightless. Effortless. Easier than climbing over them. Easier than saying, I need a break.
He hovered above the bed for a moment, watching them. Four people tangled together, their chests rising and falling in unison. His heart clenched—love, guilt, longing—all at once.
Then he drifted out into the hall. Toward the balcony. The city spread beneath him, restless as ever. A tide of neon and headlights, horns and hums. He opened the door and let the air hit his skin. Damp. Fresh. The smell of rain. Alexei once told him rain released chemicals that calmed the brain. Probably bullshit; he’ll believe it for now.
He floated up, higher and higher, until the balcony was a pinprick beneath him. Everyone knew he hated heights. Maybe that’s why he liked them now. The higher he went, the less the world could touch him. Being so high up meant he was away from all of his problems, closer to the sky than the ground. Above the tower, he hung suspended like a star. His heart steadied.
Then higher still—into the clouds. Cold mist bit at his skin, soaking his clothes through in seconds. For the first time all night, he felt real. The prickling reminded him he had a body. He wasn’t just a storm of thoughts. Not some alien. Not someone else living in his skin. He stayed there. Floating in the gray. Watching the city shrink below, watching the horizon bleed into gold.
The prickling subsides after a while. Bob doesn’t know how long he’s been flying. His clothes are soaked; he’ll have to change when he gets back down to the tower. The sun rose before he realized he’d lost track of time. It surprises him, the fact that he lost track of time. He’s always in some state of anxiety over how much time is in the day. How long he gets to have with his lovers before one of them is sent to save the world again. He was always counting minutes, rationing them like oxygen. But right now, he doesn’t care. Only relishes the feeling of being alone after almost feeling suffocated.
Up here, he could breathe. Up here, no one was watching. No one was waiting for him to mess up. He almost wished he could stay forever, suspended above it all. Because the second he went back down, he’d have to face them. Smile. Pretend like he hadn’t almost come apart at the seams.
He already felt guilty for leaving the bed, for needing space at all. They deserved someone steady. Not someone who floated away the second it got too loud.
Finally, as the sky broke into pinks and yellows, he descended. Slowly. Carefully. Like if he moved too fast, the spell would shatter. He landed back on the balcony, clothes heavy and dripping. He let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging with it.
The world rushed back in—the fridge hum, the faint sound of someone stirring in bed, the ache in his chest. But for a while, up there, he hadn’t been a mess. He hadn’t been too much or not enough.
He floated into his bathroom, took off his soiled clothes, and stepped under the shower. He stands under the warm water, a stark contrast from the almost numbing cold he’d put up with in the sky. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this—showered, eaten without Ava nudging him, slept more than two hours.
His body moved sluggishly, like it wasn’t his, as he scrubbed at his arms. The water blurred everything, his mind slowing just enough for exhaustion to melt him. His eyes drifted shut. He didn’t even hear the bathroom door opening. Didn’t hear the shower slide open. Just felt a cool breeze for a moment and then heard a soft knock come from behind him.
He turns to find John, boxers low on his hips, hair sticking out in every direction. God, he looked so cute like this. Messy, unguarded—too human for him to touch.
“Can I join you?” John’s voice was low, thick with sleep.
Bob hesitates long enough for John to notice.
“I don’t have to. You can…take care of yourself,” John says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes like he wished he could take the question back.
“No,” Bob cut in before he could think. “Come in,”
It was the opposite of what his brain wanted. His mind was screaming at him to be alone—to run, wherever he could, as fast as he could, but his mouth told John to stay.
John paused—looking at him with that look that Bob knows all too well. He’s looking at him to make sure this is what he really wants; Bob’s seen this look many times, toward Yelena, mostly, but also to himself. John and Bucky shared that sentiment. Making sure he truly wanted something before actually doing it.
Bob nods, his wet hair draping in front of his eyes. As soon as Bob nodded, John grinned, practically hopping out of his boxers. Bob couldn’t help but grin at John, a soft snort escaping him before he could stop it. John looks at him one more time—relishing, maybe?
Then he walks in, pressing against Bob’s back, his head resting on Bob’s shoulder. The sound of running water fills the air, drowning out any other noise from the tower.
“John–stop,” Bob protested weakly, squirming. “I-I’m wet!”
John chuckles against his skin. “We’re showering, Bob. You’re supposed to be wet,” John pauses, rubbing his beard against Bob’s neck, scratchy and warm. “And I don’t care.”
Bob shivers at that. Flashes of John’s shame room rise to the forefront of his mind. A cruel reminder of all the mistakes Bob has made. He’d almost let John fall when they’d first met. It lingers in the back of Bob’s head. Everything does.
John’s voice interrupts his spiralling. “You okay?”
Bob pauses, not wanting to answer too quickly. “Yeah…I’m good.”
He stepped aside, letting the water rush over John instead, pretending to focus on lathering his hair. His nails scraped his scalp harder than necessary.
John doesn’t press further, but he doesn’t stop watching either. His eyes lingered on the bags under Bob’s eyes, his usually clean-shaven face replaced by week-old stubble. He didn’t say it aloud, but Bob could feel it: I know something’s wrong, but I’ll wait for you to say it.
Their eyes locked
“Do I have something on my face?” Bob asks, raising a brow, hands still tangled in his hair.
“No–no. Just looking at you.” John mumbles. “You’re so pretty, y’know that? My pretty boy.”
Bob’s heart stutters. He doesn’t respond, just gives him a soft smile.
Their shower ended in silence, steam clouding the glass. Both of them stood in front of Bob’s bathroom mirror, towels hung low on their waists. They don’t say much, but their bodies remain close.
There’s a knock on the door. Then Yelena’s voice comes through.
“We’re off to Manila. Should be back by Tuesday. Love you guys.”
The blue-eyed men say their “I love yous” back, hurriedly dressing, catching their lovers for hugs, kisses, and “good lucks” just before the elevator doors shut. Bucky gives John a look; Bob doesn’t know what it means.
He turns to head to his room once they’re gone, but his arm is caught by John. Bob winces slightly. John lets go instantly.
“Sorry. I-I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, John.”
“You’re not”
“I am. I swear.”
“You don’t swear,” John said softly. “You promise.”
“I promise,” Bob almost flinches as he says it. “I’m fine. I just wanna be in my room.”
“You’re always in your room.” John’s voice wasn’t accusatory, just sad. “Don’t you wanna spend time with me? With Alpine?”
“I do. Just…not now.” Bob answers.
“Okay,” John smiled gently. “I’ll start breakfast. You can join me whenever you’d like.”
Bob nods, but his brain twists it all. John wasn’t upset, but Bob heard disappointment. He always makes things worse. There’s no way to make things worse if he isn’t around anyone. Yes, he’s avoiding his partners. He has been for weeks. Coming up with excuses to not spend time with them, in group settings or one-on-ones. He can’t disappoint anyone if he’s in his room, by himself.
He retreated to his room. Sitting on his bed, staring at the photo of them on his bedside table—the five of them, pressed close. Ava had put it there, had put one in each of their rooms for their 10-month anniversary. Their first anniversary was coming up, and somehow, that was making Bob feel worse. His partners had witnessed him making mistakes so closely for a year. A year of him disappointing them. God, he was so stupid.
All he’d wanted was to find his people after so long being alone. And now that he has people who love him, he’s pushing them away. Is he messing things up again?
His chest ached. Is he good enough? Do they laugh at him without him there? Do they think he’s pathetic? Bob would. He’s still spiralling over a dumb joke his boyfriend made weeks ago.
He just sits in his bed, staring at the photo of them. The world begins to fade around him like static, his brain relaxing enough for him to drift to sleep.
Bob is startled awake by thunder. A sharp crack interrupted the silence, followed by a flash of light that lit up his room like daylight for a single second. His heart thuds against his chest like he hadn’t just awoken.
He fumbles for his phone, the glow nearly blinding him in the otherwise dark room. It was 11:14. His stomach dropped. He slept for 16 hours straight—though it felt more like unconsciousness than rest. He sighed, sitting up.
He hears John’s voice, muffled, from down the hall. He sounds sad, almost…heavy—did something happen while he was sleeping? Bob slips out of bed, padding barefoot down the hall until he reaches John’s bedroom door. It was cracked open, a sliver of light spilling out. Bob’s never been more thankful for Alpine and her habit of breaking into rooms. He lingers in the shadows, far enough not to be noticed but close enough to listen.
“No, Ava. He’s just going through a rough patch right now.”
Bob blinked. Wasn’t Ava in Manila? What the fuck are they talking about?
John’s voice softened. “He loves us. Don’t tell me you’re doubting that all of a sudden.”
Bob’s chest aches. Him. They were talking about him.
“I know. I know. I tried to get him to talk right after you guys left. He won’t—Yes, Ava. I get that, but I’m not gonna force him to talk if he’s not ready.”
Guilt curdled in his stomach. He wants to run. He wants to float off into the sky. Bad yet—he wants nothing more than to curl up in John’s arms. Earlier, he craved distance. Now he craved—ached for touch, John’s touch.
“I don’t even know what I did, or if we did something. But I’ll fix it. I just don’t like seeing him hurting.”
Bob’s breath caught, and his hands were trembling. The rumbling of the storm outside mimics his own inner turmoil.
“Alright. I’ll try again after he wakes up. But if he’s not ready, I’m not forcing him. I love you. Stay safe.”
The call ends. Bob sniffles, too loudly.
“Bob? Alpine?” John’s voice came from the crack in the door, gentle but certain.
Fuck John and his stupid supersoldier senses.
Bob moves closer, into the light of John’s bedroom, like a kid caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.
John was sitting on the edge of his bed, phone still in his hand. His expression softened instantly. “Morning, sleepyhead. You feel better?”
Bob’s throat was dry. “Definitely. I needed that.”
“Good,” John nodded slowly. “You hungry?”
Bob crossed the room, flopping onto the mattress beside John. “Not really.”
There’s another pause. The storm rumbles again.
John glances sideways, “How much did you hear?”
Bob’s voice was small. “Enough.”
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
“I know,” Bob replies softly, staring at the ceiling. “I want to, though. Get things off my mind.”
John leaned back beside him, his shoulder warm against Bob’s.
“No pressure,” John murmured.
Bob shifts closer until his legs tangle with John’s like a dance they could never forget.
“I guess I should start from the beginning, huh?” Bob's voice comes out barely above a whisper.
John doesn’t rush him, just gives a small nod.
Bob exhales shakily. “It was a dumb joke I overheard. On the jet, after Budapest, when Bucky got hit.”
John squints, brow furrowing as he tries to remember. That only makes it worse—something that plagued Bob for weeks was forgettable to John.
“You said I always mess things up.” Bob’s voice cracks. “Yelena laughed. Both of you did. That’s what started it.”
John’s mouth parts to speak, but Bob doesn’t let him, raising a hand.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way. But my brain…” Bob shakes his head, words faltering. “It grabs onto things like that. Minuscule things. Stuff that doesn’t matter. And it runs with them until they’re bigger than me. Until I can’t breathe.”
As if on cue, John reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together. It helps more than John could ever know.
“I’ve been thinking about everything. Every mistake. Every wrong move. Big or small.” Bob swallows hard, his voice dropping. “And I keep coming back to the same conclusion: I always make things worse.”
John finally speaks, quiet but sure. “You don’t.”
Bob turns his head, looking at John. “I do. I have. Ever since I was a kid. My parents told me that more times than I could count. I remember those words more than anything. More than any birthday party or any Christmas I ever had with them.”
John’s jaw tightens. “Baby…”
That word nearly undoes him. Bob pulls his hand away, sitting up, leaning back on his palms like he needs distance, even from John’s kindness.
“No matter what I do, it always feels like I’m doing something wrong. I thought if I kept my distance from you—from everyone. Then I couldn’t fuck it up.”
John sits up too, turning to face him, his knee pressing against Bob’s. “You never ruin anything. Sure, you make mistakes. We all do. That’s what makes us human, Bob. That’s—” his voice softens, “that’s what makes you you .”
Bob shakes his head. “I don’t feel human, John. I feel like something else…like something wearing my skin. Watching me live, but never really being me.”
John doesn’t say anything, so Bob continues.
“I don’t deserve to feel human—to feel loved. Not after everything I’ve done.”
The silence that follows is deafening, almost unbearable. John’s eyes glisten, but his voice, when it comes, is firm. “No. Don’t say that. You deserve to feel human. You deserve to feel loved. Especially after everything you’ve been through.”
Bob’s throat feels tight, like the words are clawing their way out of him. His gaze drops to his hands, knuckles white where they grip his knees.
“I just…” His voice cracks. “I feel like I’m always on the outside. Even when I’m right here, with all of you, I feel like I’m watching instead of living. Like everyone else belongs, and I’m just…tagging along until you realize I don’t fit. That I don’t belong.”
John’s chest aches at the sight of him curling in on himself. He reaches out, brushing Bob’s hand with his thumb until Bob lets him lace their fingers again.
“You fit more than you think,” John says softly.
But Bob shakes his head, eyes filling with tears. “I don’t. I try so hard not to screw up, and I always do anyway. I replay every mistake—on missions, in my life, even stupid things like the way I laugh. I feel like I weigh everyone down. Like you’d all be better off without me.”
The confession hangs in the air, raw and dangerous. John squeezes his hand tight, grounding him.
“Don’t you dare say that,” John whispers, voice breaking. “You are not a weight. You’re the reason we can breathe. Do you know how many times you’ve kept us together? How many times you’ve kept me together?”
Bob blinks fast, shaking his head. “That’s not true.”
“It is.” John leans closer, catching his eyes, steady and unwavering. “I screw up more than anyone. I’ve lost people, done things I’ll never forgive myself for. And you—” his voice softens, trembles, “—you still look at me like I’m worth loving. How can you see that in me and not in yourself?”
Bob’s lips part, but no words come. His chest rises and falls unevenly, a silent war between belief and doubt.
John cups the back of his neck, gentle but unyielding. “You deserve to be here. You deserve happiness. And you deserve love— ours , mine . Even after mistakes. Especially after mistakes. That’s what love is, Bob. Staying. Choosing each other, over and over.”
Bob lets out a shuddering breath. His shoulders shake, and before he can stop himself, he collapses forward into John’s chest. John catches him instantly, wrapping him up, holding him so tight Bob can feel his own heartbeat slowing against John’s.
For the first time in weeks, Bob lets himself cry. Really cry.
John presses his lips to Bob’s hair and murmurs against him. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.”