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When you lift the Clorox wipe off of the counter, you can visibly tell where your fingers had scrubbed away insistently. Indents of cooking oil and whatever else are people spilt left indents, a sigh escaping you as you tossed it into the garbage. From across the room, Bob has a stack of deftly folded blankets upon the couch cushions. Laundry has been plentiful ever since last weekend’s movie night when the team had bickered over what to watch, popcorn butter and soda spilt into the fabric. You’d already taken a hefty fabric cleaner into the couch, and thankfully almost no evidence of the incident had remained.
Bob’s eyes are focused, his hands deftly folding the fabric on his lap. He’s cross legged, bangs obstructing his face, but that only seems to pique your interest as your gaze lingers.
Fuck- no.
You were just checking for any remaining stains, that’s all.
Nothing else.
Your hand instinctively reaches for another wipe, only to come up empty. You reach deeper, only for nothing once again. Damn, you knew it was running low but your attention was split.
“I’m gonna run to the supply closet, do you need anything?”
His head perks up, eyes meeting your own before he’s averting his gaze yet again.
“Uh, I’ll just go with you,” he shrugs, brushing his pants off as he stands. He’s quick to follow you, something you find yourself fond of as his familiar presence looms behind you. Just a month or two ago, he’d be following several paces behind with hesitance. Originally, you had presumed he didn’t trust you with your past, only to realize it was himself he was concerned about. That thought alone was heartbreaking.
His feet pad behind you almost rhythmically as you two approach the closet. The metal handle lays cool beneath your touch, the door creaking open. Guess you still need to oil the hinges, the new installments around the compound each needed some elbow grease.
Wire racks lined the dim closet, your hand blindly following along the wall for the light switch. While your fingers grazed it, you insistently tried to flick it on. Once, twice, and with added pressure the third time-
To no avail.
“Valentina is so fucking cheap,” you curse beneath your breath, stepping further into the closet,
“I’ll just find it myself.”
Instinctively, Bob’s feet seem to follow you, his figure no longer guarding the threshold of the closet. You pay no mind, eyes adjusting to the darkness while you sift through the shelves for your required supplies. A resulting thud reverberates through the limited space, your head whipping around. You don’t miss the way Bob’s shoulders jolt at the sudden noise, his lips parted in surprise.
Almost instantly, he tries the door as if the air inside is suffocating, but the handle only rattles in response. A muttered curse escapes him, lips pressing together and his arms clutching at the sides of his sweater.
You could attempt to force your way out, you reason, but almost immediately recall that some walls in the compound are made with reinforced steel in order to shelter civilians or susceptible Avengers staff.
“I think we’ll have to wait,” you guess, leaning back against the shelf. It’s not comfortable by any means, but the cool metal digging into your back is soothing, so you take what you can get. You can discern Bob amidst the darkness, the only light peeping from a small crack beneath the door. His feet block the glow, his whole figure parallel to the door.
“You can’t punch your way out of here?” He inquires, his voice wavering ever so slightly.
“This room is basically a safe. Valentina’s provided blueprints said a few rooms such as this one,” you gesture with your hands before remembering it’s dark and he probably can’t see you, but you continue, “are a last ditch measure from protection if a non Avenger or something is here.”
His shoulders collapse, his body seemingly loosening up.
“Oh.” He swallows, “did the team say how long it would be?”
You shrug, stuffing your hands into your pockets.
“Four hours, maybe six if they run into more trouble than expected.” You note, your tone neutral but careless.
You can’t help but observe him, or at least the faint lines of him. Half of the time, you never get to really see him- he’s always shrinking himself into a corner, and when he’s not, he’s skittering off to his room. While Bob has grown more sociable, he still manages to put some distance between the two of you. Some days, it’s not terrible. He’ll loosen up, you’ll play cards or cook something together, occasionally joking and chatting about anything. It’s enlightening how carefree you two can be, and conversation with him feels meaningful. Even if it’s about something mundane, like the weather, or what book he plans to read next.
But some days he just seems to grow quieter when you enter a room. Your mind runs rampant with questions- is he afraid of you? Did you somehow break his trust, tarnish everything with him?
He shifts his weight from one foot to another, his figure remaining in front of the door.
“Why, you excited to finally be set free from my company?” You joke, but it doesn’t really land as humorously as you’d hoped, moreso an offputting remark.
His head turns towards you, his side profile barely discernible from his silhouette. The ends of his shaggy bangs stand in every which direction, like they’re alert themselves.
“No- no, you’re amazing- you’re great.” He stumbles out, clearing his throat.
You nod, before remembering that he probably cannot see you amidst the darkness.
“Thanks,” you decide upon, but your tone has an edge you didn’t intend.
You regret it the second you see Bob recoil, his outstretched arms now crossed before his chest. His feet shuffle, back tentatively resting on a shelf opposite you.
You can barely see him, but he has his own audible cues. His weight shifting from foot to foot, the way he nervously swallows, even his amused scoffs whenever Walker embarrasses himself.
Something rumbles from Bob’s chest, his shoulders collapsing.
“I mean it.” He says, almost defeatedly. Because respite for Bob was never soft for him, it was carved with late nights and beaten limbs flooded with exhaustion. Peace was the aftermath of madness, not built with care, reassurance and patience- all things your company brought him.
“Just getting used to everyone. My old roommates wouldn’t even be home half the time,” he chuckles, the sound dry in his throat. He neglects to mention that he was lucky to even have an apartment, sometimes couch hopping until he was kicked out.
You cock a brow, crossing your arms in amusement.
“And now sometimes it’s suffocating?”
His brows furrow in thought, absentmindedly tilting closer to you- the movement is slight, but in the expanse of the cramped closet it equates to miles of distance.
“No- just an adjustment period. Yeah.”
“I get that. I’m sick of handwashing dishes because there’s not enough room for plates and Bucky’s arm,” you scoff, albeit playfully. Little did you know, the action was purposeful. Per his observant eye, Bucky had crammed his bionic arm into the dishwasher in hopes to encourage the two of you to talk amongst yourselves.
“And uh, Ava phasing in randomly. I still get surprised.”
“Remember when she stole Walker’s shield right beneath his arm?” You snicker, recalling his flabbergasted expression as he ran after her. From what you remember, it was a bet between her and Yelena. They originally wanted to try and take Bucky’s arm, but upon hearing that feat had already been accomplished (apparently his arm had been gifted to a raccoon?) they decided otherwise.
“Pfft- yeah, Taco Tuesday.” His voice rumbles comfortingly, the two of you encased in warmth. The tenuous knot in your chest doesn’t feel so taut anymore, alight with fondness and familiarity. You find yourself relaxing into the shelf behind you, feet sliding forward to incidentally meet his own. The toe of one of your shoes meets the inside of his foot, the brief contact enough to send shivers up your spine- and his own too.
The lean muscles of Bob’s back tense, his shoulder blade meeting a bottle of cleaner behind him. You hear it before you see it, the distinct sound of plastic shifting slicing through the air. Without missing a beat, your forearm lurches across the room to catch it; the bottleneck of plastic is easily caught in your hand before it makes contact once more, cool in your palm as your fingers wrap around the ridges.
In your panic to reflexively snatch it, you don’t realize how you’ve bridged the gap between you and Bob. Your torso had lunged before him and almost made contact with his own.
Time seems to still, neither of you daring to move. He won’t meet your eyes, glancing downwards while he musters the courage. Nothing prepares you for when he does meet your gaze, his stare careful but curious.
Observing you.
Admiring you.
From this close, you can see his eyes: a distinct blue accompanied by cesspools of grey, flecks of green and framed by lovely lashes.
He’s so beautiful.
The sight alone causes your limbs to buckle slightly, barely catching yourself before his lips purposefully brush the corner of your own. They’re slightly chapped from his frequent fidgeting, but they warm you regardless. Every part of Bob is soft- the way he leans into you, the way his hands are outstretched in case you fall, how he exhales against you- it’s so characteristically him.
Your shoulder supports your weight, still clutching the cleaner in one hand as you tense, muscles taut before relaxing beneath his touch. Neither of you pull away, your nose brushing his own; you make no move to initiate another kiss, rendered almost catatonic. You simply breathe one another in, lashes fluttered shut and basking in the silence.
Even if it’s temporary.
The distinct clang of combat boots and injured groans flood the compound, muttered Russian curses flooding Yelena before Alexei proudly applauds her for swearing like her father.
Ava is the first to remark on your absence, the others beginning on their search for you. You’re almost sure you hear Yelena grumble about having to find you two and something about a zucchini… or maybe a cucumber.
Their looming footsteps are enough warning for you to scramble off of Bob, your flustered state leaving you uncoordinated while you fumble the forgotten cleaner in your hands like a ruffian. You miss the way Bob awkwardly swallows, folding into himself once again- but he still harbors an unmistakable fondness in his eyes.
Inevitably so, the door creaks open by Bucky, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
Yeah. You sure as hell weren’t fooling him.