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The front door creaked open as the team trudged in, exhausted and bruised from the mission. Combat gear clanked and boots thudded against the floor as Bucky, Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and John filed in, all still smeared with blood and grime from the day’s work.
The familiar hum of the television greeted them.
On the couch, Bob sat cross-legged in sweatpants, entirely relaxed, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. His eyes were glued to the screen, where an old black-and-white Soviet war film played—rapid Russian dialogue echoing across the room.
“...ты не понимаешь, Павел. Это не просто война...”
(You don’t understand, Pavel. This isn’t just a war...)
Bob didn’t even glance back when the team entered.
Bucky gave him a nod as he walked by, unstrapping a bloodied rifle from his shoulder. “Movie night, huh?”
Bob just raised the popcorn bowl in greeting. “Classic,” he said. “One of the best.”
No one questioned it. They were too tired.
Wordlessly, one by one, the team sank into the various pieces of furniture, armor still on, dried blood flaking from their skin. Yelena kicked her boots off and curled up at the end of the couch. Alexei groaned dramatically as he lowered his massive frame into an armchair that protested under his weight.
Ten minutes passed, filled with gunfire and dramatic monologues in Russian. No subtitles.
Suddenly, John sat up, squinting at the screen. “Wait. I just realized... I don’t speak Russian.”
Everyone slowly turned to look at him.
Yelena tilted her head. “You’ve been watching a movie in Russian... for ten minutes... and only now noticed?”
“I just assumed it was some weird war movie thing!” John defended. “You know—vibe watching! Like how people watch anime without subtitles and just... get the gist.”
“You thought you could vibe watch Soviet cinema?” Ava said with a raised brow, amused.
“I mean... there were explosions!” John gestured. “I was following the emotional beats!”
Bucky smirked. “You’re the only one who doesn’t speak Russian?”
John blinked. “Wait. All of you speak Russian?”
“Well, yeah,” Ava shrugged, brushing a smudge of dried blood off her gloves. “The scientists who experimented on me were Russian. I had to understand what they were doing... and I speak German and English too. Plus ASL.”
“I speak Tatar too,” Alexei added proudly, puffing his chest out. “And English, of course. But Russian is the language of the soul.”
Yelena grinned wickedly. “Language of your soul maybe.” She leaned forward. “Ask me how many languages I speak.”
“Okay...” John said warily. “How many?”
Without missing a beat, Yelena launched into a stream of languages.
“Bonjour, mon petit américain. Wie geht’s dir? Ciao bello. これはどう？... You want me to keep going?”
John held up both hands. “Okay, okay! Point made!”
Bucky chuckled. “I’ve had time. Russian, English, Romanian, German, Spanish... Xhosa, Portuguese.”
John’s eyes widened. “What the hell, man? Xhosa?!”
Bucky shrugged. “I was in Wakanda for a while. You pick things up.”
Later, after everyone had showered and changed, they gathered around the dinner table. Plates of reheated pasta and leftovers were passed around, the mood lighter now. Conversation flowed as easily as the wine Yelena had uncorked.
“So what about you, Bob?” Ava asked, prodding at a meatball. “You were watching that movie like you were born in Moscow.”
Bob chuckled nervously. “Eh, I know a little Russian. My mom taught me. Her father was from St. Petersburg.”
“And you never mentioned that?” John narrowed his eyes.
“I mean, no one ever asked.” Bob shifted in his seat.
Yelena raised a brow. “We’re asking now.”
With a dramatic sigh, Bob relented. “Fine. English, obviously. Russian from my mom. Welsh from her dad.”
“You speak Welsh?” Bucky asked, surprised.
Bob nodded. “Fluently.”
John leaned in. “That’s three. Keep going.”
“Well... when I was traveling—before Sentry stuff—I picked up Spanish. I’m really good at it. Also Hindi, Japanese, German, Vietnamese, Turkish, Latin…”
“Latin?!” Yelena barked a laugh. “Why?!”
“Church choir,” Bob muttered. “And... I picked up American Sign Language, British Sign Language, and Chinese Sign Language. Oh, and I know a bunch of Hebrew dialects from when I was a kid. Family was Jewish.”
There was a long pause.
Ava dropped her fork.
Alexei blinked slowly. “You are... like, genius or something?”
“More like a sponge,” Bob said with a shrug. “You travel enough, you absorb stuff.”
Yelena stared at him. “You’ve been hiding this this whole time? You—you—know more languages than any of us?”
John just sat there, stunned. “So let me get this straight. Everyone here speaks Russian but me. Even Bob. The popcorn guy. He speaks Russian.”
Bob grinned. “Pretty well, actually.”
“I’m learning it,” John muttered, stabbing his fork into a piece of bread. “Starting tomorrow. I’m learning Russian out of spite now.”
Yelena raised her glass. “To spite.”
The rest of the table echoed the toast, laughing, their strange little family even more bound by the secrets, stories—and languages—they shared.
***
KITCHEN – MORNING
The sun filtered lazily through the blinds as the team shuffled into the kitchen one by one, nursing bruises, sore limbs, and caffeine dependency. The smell of strong coffee and burnt toast filled the air.
At the kitchen counter, John Walker was hunched over his laptop, glasses sliding down his nose, one hand typing furiously while the other shoveled cereal into his mouth. His face was scrunched in concentration.
“‘Political participation in transitional democracies...’” he muttered to himself.
Yelena, still in sweatpants and a tank top, sauntered over and peeked over his shoulder. “Ooh. Big words this early? You working on your manifesto?”
John looked up, startled. “No—I'm finishing my thesis.”
Alexei raised a brow as he poured a mountain of cereal into a mixing bowl. “Thesis for what?”
John hesitated, as if unsure anyone would care, then shrugged. “I’m finishing my master’s in Political Science. Also working on my Bachelor’s in Communication. Wanted to finally knock it out.”
Ava blinked, mid-sip of her coffee. “Wait, seriously?”
Bucky, freshly showered and still toweling his hair dry, looked up from the fridge. “You’re in school?”
“Online courses,” John nodded. “Night classes, summer sessions, accelerated credits. I started before I became Cap... and after everything went to hell, I figured I might as well finish.”
That got the team’s attention.
“Education talk now?” Alexei asked gruffly, settling at the table.
Yelena grinned. “Why not? We’ve had worse breakfast conversations. Remember the toe surgery discussion?”
Everyone groaned.
“I’ll start,” Alexei said, pointing a spoon at no one in particular. “Russian schools... they teach you everything you need. History, literature, how to skin bear... basics.”
Ava raised an eyebrow. “Did they also teach you how to exaggerate?”
Alexei shrugged. “It is important skill.”
Ava set her cup down gently. “I never went to an actual school. I mean, I had teachers—scientists assigned to educate me in the lab. But none of it was on paper. No transcripts. Nothing that counts in the real world.”
There was a beat of silence.
“You deserved more than that,” John said quietly.
She gave him a small smile. “I’ve made peace with it.”
Bucky leaned against the counter. “School was... different back then. Chalkboards and dunce caps. I went through the system before the war—barely finished high school before getting drafted.”
“You remember all of it?” John asked.
Bucky nodded. “Some of it. But most of what I know now? Picked it up later. During the soldier days. I was trained in... a lot of stuff. Retained most of it. And when I was in Wakanda, Shuri insisted I take courses. Modern science, media literacy, ethics. She said I needed to catch up.”
“She wasn’t wrong,” Yelena muttered, smirking.
“I read,” Yelena added. “The Red Room had structured lessons. Russian classics, strategy, math. Efficient... emotionless. But I read for pleasure now. A lot. Anything I can get my hands on.”
Then, as if on cue, the room turned toward Bob.
He had been oddly quiet, flipping pancakes with the serene focus of a man who had seen war and chosen breakfast instead.
Bob looked up. “What?”
Everyone stared.
“You?” Yelena said. “Did you go to college?”
Bob raised an eyebrow. “Why does everyone always look so shocked?”
“You watched Soviet war films for fun last week. Forgive us for assuming,” Ava replied.
Bob sighed dramatically and flipped a pancake. “I graduated high school with all AP classes. Clean record. Valedictorian, believe it or not. Then I... drifted a while. Got clean, focused. Went to a few colleges. Studied some things.”
Alexei leaned forward. “Like what?”
Bob smirked, mysterious. “A little of this. A little of that.”
They weren’t getting more than that.
THROUGHOUT THE DAY
The mystery lingered, festering like an itch.
Later that day, Alexei caught Bob while lifting weights in the basement.
“So... what did you study?”
Bob wiped sweat from his brow. “Architecture. Love the structure of it. Designing something that lasts. Almost opened a firm once.”
Alexei nodded, impressed.
Upstairs, Ava found him tending to a wounded plant by the window.
“Hey,” she said casually. “Just curious—what’d you actually study in college?”
Bob looked up. “Psychology. And a minor in forensic science. Wanted to understand how people tick. And how to catch the ones that tick... weirdly.”
Ava tilted her head. “Really?”
He just winked.
Bucky caught him reorganizing the bookshelves later.
“Alright, mystery man. Spill it. What was your major?”
Bob shrugged. “Astrophysics. And astronomy. Stars are... calming. When I got sober, they gave me perspective.”
Bucky just nodded, unsure how to respond to that.
In the garage, Yelena found him fixing the coffee machine with surgical precision.
“Tell me you studied something weird,” she teased.
“Dentistry,” Bob replied without hesitation. “Tooth anatomy is fascinating.”
Yelena burst out laughing. “No way.”
He only smiled.
Finally, as John was setting the table for dinner, Bob wandered in with the salad bowl.
“So,” John said, not looking up, “what was it really?”
Bob set the bowl down. “Engineering. Mechanical. I was always good with my hands.”
John narrowed his eyes.
DINING ROOM – NIGHT
The team was halfway through dinner when Yelena suddenly put her fork down.
“Okay. Everyone shut up. What did Bob say he studied?”
They each answered in turn:
“Architecture,” said Alexei.
“Psychology and forensic science,” Ava added.
“Dentistry,” Yelena said, pointing at herself.
“Engineering,” John muttered.
“...Astrophysics,” Bucky finished, blinking.
They all turned slowly toward the kitchen.
Bob emerged with a tray of brownies and a smug smile.
“Something you want to tell us, Bob?” Ava asked, arms crossed.
Bob sighed and set the tray down. “Fine. You caught me.”
Everyone leaned in.
“I did all of them.”
There was stunned silence.
“You’re joking,” John said.
“Nope,” Bob said, popping a brownie in his mouth. “Took time. Went to a few schools. Took some breaks. Transferred credits. Had scholarships. Some semesters I was full-time, others just one class. I didn’t sleep much. It was a long decade.”
Alexei stared. “You have how many degrees?”
Bob counted on his fingers. “Five full ones. Three minors. A couple certifications. Oh, and a night school certificate in culinary arts. For fun.”
Yelena dropped her fork. “You’re not a sentry. You’re a nerd in disguise.”
Bob grinned. “Guilty.”
John shook his head. “This is not okay. I’m out here grinding through two degrees and you’re just casually walking encyclopedia?”
“You’ll get there,” Bob said, clapping him on the back. “One paper at a time.”
John groaned. “I’m learning Russian out of spite, and now I gotta catch up to PhD Bob too?”
The team laughed, the kind that bubbles out unexpectedly but fills the room with warmth. The tension eased, and for a while, they just talked—about school, books, languages, life before and after heroics. A table full of strange pasts, unexpected futures, and a whole lot of brilliant chaos in between.
***
MORNING
It was rare that the entire team had a day off, rarer still that they didn’t spend it recovering from injuries, filing incident reports, or dealing with explosions—emotional or otherwise.
And somehow, Bob had won the weekly pick for their team outing.
Everyone sat around the breakfast table, still groggy from sleep and not quite caffeinated enough for surprises. Bob stood at the head of the table, hands behind his back like a magician ready to pull a rabbit out of a very questionable hat.
“So,” he said brightly, “get dressed. We’re going to the opera.”
There was a beat of silence.
Yelena squinted. “I must still be asleep.”
“You’re not,” Ava said, sipping her coffee with a wince. “I wish you were.”
John raised an eyebrow. “You mean... like, real opera?”
Bob nodded. “Front row seats. Balcony view. Fancy box. Val let me use her credit card.”
“You asked her?” Bucky asked skeptically.
Bob grinned. “She was half-asleep and said, and I quote, ‘Whatever keeps you from adopting a goat this week.’ So, yes.”
Alexei crossed his arms. “Opera is... dramatic noise. I like music, not people screaming in Italian.”
“You get used to it,” Bob said cheerfully. “Besides, you can wear a tux. You like looking important.”
Alexei perked up slightly. “That is true.”
OPERA HOUSE – EVENING
They arrived looking like a group of misplaced celebrities. Tuxedos, sleek black dresses, carefully combed hair. Even Yelena wore heels—begrudgingly.
The opera was a grand production of La Traviata. The orchestra swelled, sopranos hit impossible notes, and chandeliers glimmered overhead. Despite early grumbling, the team found themselves surprisingly captivated.
Well... most of them.
Alexei spent half the time whispering to Ava about how he definitely could’ve been a violinist in another life.
“I have strong fingers. See?” He wiggled them dramatically.
Ava side-eyed him. “I’ve seen you break a toaster trying to butter bread.”
After the final bow and thunderous applause, they made their way outside, buzzing with post-show conversation.
Alexei puffed out his chest. “The violinist was off-key.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Yelena said flatly.
“She was! I have very... refined ear.”
“Alexei,” John said, amused, “you don’t even play an instrument.”
Alexei scoffed. “You don’t know that.”
Everyone turned to him.
“Alright,” Yelena said. “What do you play then?”
He hesitated, then said with mock gravitas, “The Russian balalaika.”
Ava snorted. “You don’t even know what that is, do you?”
“I might,” he said, clearly not.
“Okay,” Bucky chuckled. “Let’s go around the circle. Who actually plays something?”
Ava raised a hand. “Violin. It was part of my... education. The scientists thought it helped with discipline. Focus. Plus, I liked it. Strings felt... safe.”
Yelena nodded. “Violin too. But I learned piano first. My tutor was obsessed with Chopin.”
“Same,” John said. “I started with acoustic guitar when I was a teenager. Added electric later. Played in a garage band in high school. We were terrible, but loud.”
Bucky leaned on a railing. “Drums, actually.”
“Really?” John asked.
Bucky nodded. “Me and Steve wanted to start a band when we were kids. He was gonna sing—badly. We never got past two rehearsals, but I stuck with the drums for a while.”
Everyone turned to the last member standing silently nearby.
Bob.
He looked suddenly very small for a man who once punched through a wall to retrieve a waffle iron.
He blinked. “What?”
They all stared expectantly.
And then—John, of all people, spoke first, sounding utterly defeated.
“So,” he said slowly, “what don’t you play, Bob MD?”
Bob fidgeted. “That’s not fair—”
“List them,” Yelena said firmly, arms crossed.
Bob exhaled, eyes on the floor. “Okay. I play the saxophone. Trumpet. Bass. Cello. Clarinet. Flute.”
Ava leaned forward. “Wait, flute?”
“It’s harder than it looks!” Bob defended. “Anyway... harp. Because it was my mom’s favorite. She loved Debussy.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“That’s... beautiful,” Ava said, surprised.
“My dad made me learn drums and guitar,” Bob continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never really cared for them.”
“Keep going,” Bucky said.
Bob groaned. “Bagpipes.”
Alexei choked. “What?!”
“I was living in a castle in Ireland for a few months,” Bob explained, completely deadpan. “I was super high for most of it and I don’t remember why I was there... but I do remember how to play bagpipes.”
“Of course you do,” Yelena muttered.
Bob looked embarrassed now. “I learned accordion when I was a kid. For fun.”
“And?” John asked, narrowing his eyes.
Bob sighed dramatically. “My favorite’s the organ. Something about the sound. The power. The way it fills a space. I used to sneak into churches just to play them.”
Silence.
Absolute stunned silence.
John leaned against the stone railing, visibly reeling.
“Are you okay?” Ava asked him.
He looked at her like he’d just witnessed God do a card trick.
“I am not okay,” John said flatly. “That man just casually rattled off more instruments than most musicians learn in a lifetime. And his favorite is the organ?!”
Bob offered a sheepish shrug. “I had a lot of time.”
“I have a competency kink and it is spiraling,” John muttered to no one in particular.
Yelena burst out laughing. “Oh no. He’s spiraling.”
“I thought I was special!” John groaned. “I play guitar! Girls love that! Now I gotta compete with Bagpipe Bob?!”
The group dissolved into laughter as Bob turned an impressive shade of red.
“Next week,” Ava said, nudging John, “you pick the activity. Take us to a punk rock dive bar or something. Reclaim your pride.”
John nodded solemnly. “I’m going to learn the accordion just to spite him.”
Bob just smiled quietly and bit into a leftover opera-themed macaron. “That’s the spirit.”
***
COMMON ROOM – MORNING
Another so-called "free day" had arrived. But it wasn’t really free—not when Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was involved.
“Team bonding is essential to long-term cohesion,” her email read.
So there they were. A circle of easels set up in the common room, canvases propped, paint supplies laid out, and a looming sense of dread hanging in the air like a bad smell.
To make it worse, Val had assigned Sam Wilson as their “creativity supervisor.”
(Read: babysitter.)
Joaquín Torres had tagged along “just to watch the chaos unfold,” and somehow ended up as the judge.
“This is ridiculous,” Yelena muttered, eyeing the canvas like it might bite her.
“It’s arts and crafts,” Sam said, holding up a clipboard and smiling far too cheerfully. “Not a hostage situation. Lighten up.”
“I was trained to kill a man with a pencil,” she deadpanned.
“Perfect,” Sam said. “Channel that energy into expressionism.”
Bob was already seated, legs crossed like a serene yogi, brush poised in his hand. He wore a smock. A pink smock.
John sat across from him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glaring at his blank canvas like it had insulted his mother.
“Why am I here?” he muttered.
“To embrace your vulnerable side,” Ava answered without looking up, already sketching with mechanical precision.
“Val has far too much time on her hands,” Bucky said, grabbing a charcoal pencil and tapping it thoughtfully. “But I’m already here, so I might as well draw something that won’t make me hate myself later.”
Alexei was giggling to himself as he opened finger paints.
“What are you doing?” Yelena hissed.
“I have vision,” he replied, smearing blue across his hand. “And emotion.”
LATER
Thirty minutes in, the room had settled into an oddly peaceful rhythm. Brushes swished, charcoal scratched, paint splattered. Sam patrolled with a teacher's energy, occasionally tossing out words like “depth” and “contrast” with no context whatsoever.
Joaquín sat at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and watching them like it was reality TV.
“You all look so intense,” he said. “Like it’s a mission or something.”
“It is,” John muttered under his breath.
Bob, across the circle, was suspiciously quiet.
“Bob,” Sam said, eyeing him. “You good?”
“Mhm,” Bob said quickly, not looking up. “Totally normal. Very casual. Nothing to see here.”
Suspicious.
JUDGING TIME
“Alright, pencils down!” Sam called. “Brushes up. Glitter closed.”
Everyone groaned.
Joaquín stood up and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s do the big reveal!”
One by one, the easels were turned around.
Alexei’s Piece:
A chaotic finger painting. Stick figures of him and Yelena rode a very muscular Bob like a horse through what appeared to be space. There were planets. Possibly two moons. One stick figure (presumably Bob) had a glorious golden mustache.
“This is art,” Alexei announced proudly.
Yelena blinked. “Why am I carrying a rocket launcher?”
“You’re always carrying one,” he replied.
Ava’s Piece:
A tranquil, beautifully detailed colored pencil landscape. Rolling hills, soft clouds, a tree with perfect shadowing.
“Wow,” Sam said. “That’s... actually stunning.”
Ava shrugged. “It’s not hard. My lab teachers were strict. You weren’t allowed to leave until your sketch had correct proportions and light logic.”
Bucky’s Piece:
A hauntingly accurate pencil sketch of Wakanda. The mountains, the rivers, even the silhouette of the palace in the distance.
“I picked up a few things from Steve,” Bucky said quietly. “He used to sketch all the time.”
Sam raised a brow. “You’ve got some serious talent.”
Bucky shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
John’s Piece:
An incredibly detailed, high-contrast painting of Bob. Shirtless. Ripped. Like a Calvin Klein ad if Calvin Klein was a soft-spoken demi-god.
“Oh my god,” Yelena muttered, eyes wide.
“Dude,” Bucky said, squinting. “Did you paint his abs in layers?”
John looked at the floor. “Shut up.”
“Why is he glistening?” Ava asked.
“Lighting is important,” John mumbled defensively.
Bob looked like he might combust.
Bob’s Piece:
Bob hesitated.
“I didn’t know we were going to share them,” he said. “I thought this was... private. Like emotional release.”
“You’re the one who brought glitter,” Sam pointed out.
“I express myself sparkle-first,” Bob replied, then turned his easel around.
There was a beat.
It was an oil painting of John.
John... with a soft pink ribbon tied in a bow on his head. His expression was gentle, vulnerable. The background was a rich, rosy pink that faded to deep rose at the edges. His eyes were bright, and yes—glitter had been carefully applied to draw attention to them.
The team collectively forgot how to speak.
“Holy hell,” Bucky muttered.
Ava leaned forward. “Did you... blend glitter into the paint?”
Bob looked mortified. “I... maybe?”
John was dead silent. His face had gone a deep red. Bob looked over cautiously.
“Please don’t hate me,” he said.
“Hate you?” John croaked, eyes flicking between the painting and the glitter smeared across Bob’s cheekbone. “I’m about two seconds away from throwing you on the canvas and kissing you stupid.”
Bob blinked.
“Wait, what?”
Yelena immediately stood up. “And that concludes art class! Sam, we need therapy hours now.”
“I’m submitting this to Val as proof of emotional growth,” Sam said, already taking photos.
“I vote Bob wins,” Ava said.
“Seconded,” said Bucky.
“Glitter supremacy,” Alexei said.
John didn’t say anything, but he was already walking toward Bob.
Bob just whispered, “Is this part of the team bonding?”
“No,” John said quietly. “This is personal.”
Joaquín wrote on his clipboard:
WINNER: Bob.
SUBCATEGORY: Weaponized Glitter.
Note: Invest in more pink bows.
***
It started like most of their quiet nights did: with chaos.
In the living room, a Monopoly war was in full swing. Bucky, Sam, Ava, Alexei, and Joaquín were huddled around the coffee table, each trying to out-scheme the others. Ava was already hoarding properties. Sam was trying to invent loopholes. Bucky looked one step away from flipping the board.
Yelena, true to form, was curled into the corner of the couch with a tattered book in hand, occasionally snorting at the ridiculous deals happening around her.
Meanwhile, at the far end of the room, John Walker was setting up a chessboard with a level of intensity that made it feel like the stakes were global.
Across from him, Bob sat peacefully, his fingers gently arranging the black pieces, one brow raised in his usual calm, inquisitive way.
John slid into the seat across from him with a self-satisfied smirk. “You sure about this? I was the state champion in high school.”
Bob smiled brightly. “Cool! I think I remember how to play.”
Five games later, John was slumped in his chair, arms crossed, staring at the board like it had just betrayed him.
Bob sipped from a mug of tea. “Checkmate... again.”
“You cheated.”
Bob blinked, genuinely surprised. “What? No I didn’t.”
“There’s no way I lost five times in a row,” John muttered. “Unless you’ve got some kind of weird chess sorcerer past.”
Bob hesitated, then shrugged. “Oh. Huh. Actually... I kinda do?”
That got everyone’s attention.
Sam leaned around from the Monopoly game. “Oh this I have to hear.”
Bob scratched the back of his neck. “Well... I was in Russia once. Years ago. Super hungover. I don't really remember how I got there, but I woke up in this quiet village outside Moscow.”
Yelena perked up slightly from her book. “Was it snowing?”
“Yeah,” Bob said, surprised. “You know the place?”
“Only every village outside Moscow in winter,” she muttered.
Bob continued, “So I was taken in by this old man. Real stern type. Barely talked. He had this little chess set made of bone—kinda morbid now that I think about it—but he just... pointed at it. Every day. Wouldn’t even let me eat until I sat down and played.”
John raised an eyebrow. “This sounds like the start of a cult.”
“Pretty much,” Bob said brightly. “Turns out he was Yuri Averbakh. A grandmaster. Total legend. He didn’t tell me who he was for weeks. I stayed with him for a while—got sober, learned chess, meditated a lot. Real quiet time.”
Ava looked over. “So... you were trained by a grandmaster and you didn’t think to mention that before this game?”
Bob shrugged. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”
John stared at him for a long moment. “It was incredibly relevant.”
“Oops,” Bob said with a smile.
John leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You ever teach someone how to play better?”
Bob nodded. “All the time. Yuri believed that the real power of chess is sharing it.”
“Cool,” John said, tone dropping to something low and smooth. “Maybe you could give me some... private lessons sometime.”
Bob’s face lit up with unfiltered joy. “Oh! That’d be fun. I could draw you some diagrams. Do you like strategy books?”
John blinked. “I... sure.”
“Awesome,” Bob said. “I’ve got like twenty upstairs. All in a binder. Some are laminated.”
John pressed his lips together, suppressing a groan. “Perfect. That’s just... devastatingly sexy.”
Bob nodded seriously. “Yeah, waterproofing your study material is super important if you like to drink tea while reviewing.”
Across the room, Sam had frozen mid-handshake with Joaquín. Bucky just silently slid a five-dollar bill over to Ava.
Monopoly was now forgotten.
Back at the chess table, John was still desperately trying to flirt. “I mean, you keep beating me. Gotta admit, it’s kind of hot.”
Bob blinked, confused. “You’re feeling warm? I can turn the fan on.”
John put a hand to his forehead and leaned back, exhaling like he’d run a marathon. “Unbelievable.”
Bob stood up and began packing up the pieces. “You know, chess is all about patience. Persistence. Reading people.”
“Yeah?” John asked, glancing up at him.
“Yeah. You’re actually not bad. You just overcommit to aggressive openings,” Bob said helpfully. “It’s charming.”
John stared at him, deadpan. “You just called my inability to play defense charming. Are you trying to kill me?”
Bob tilted his head. “No? I mean, I wouldn’t? You’re on the team.”
John stood, hands on hips. “Okay. I’m done. No more chess. I’m putting on The Hunger Games. At least those people make decisions.”
Bob blinked as John stomped off to the couch and grabbed the remote.
“You want to watch together?” Bob called after him, genuinely cheery.
John muttered something that vaguely sounded like “please” and fell onto the couch like a man who had fought and lost a great battle.
Bob grabbed a book from the table—Pride and Prejudice, the graphic novel edition—and slid into the seat next to Yelena.
“Did you see that last move he made?” he asked casually. “Knight to e5? Bold. Risky.”
Yelena didn’t even look up. “So bold.”
On the couch, John threw a blanket over himself and glared at the screen, hoping that someday, somehow, Bob would figure it out.
Bob, blissfully unaware, turned a page and smiled to himself. “I like chess night. This was fun.”
John whispered, “Yeah... it was.”
***
The team was scattered across the kitchen like furniture: Bucky leaned against the counter with a mug of coffee, reading the label on a cereal box like it held classified intel. Yelena was sitting on the counter, kicking her legs while picking pieces of fruit out of Alexei's bowl, despite his grumbling. Ava and Joaquin were arguing over whether or not bagels counted as sandwiches.
John, for once, was quiet. Focused. Nervous.
Bob stood by the stove, humming softly to himself as he flipped pancakes like it was a sacred ritual. He wore a too-large hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his hair still a little messy from sleep.
John cleared his throat.
No one noticed.
He cleared it again, louder this time. “Hey, Bob?”
Bob looked up, spatula still in hand. “Yeah?”
John scratched the back of his neck. “You, uh… doing anything this afternoon?”
Bob blinked. “Laundry. Probably gonna fix the leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom. Why?"
John hesitated, then said it in a single breath: “Wanna get lunch? With me. Just us.”
Bob’s face lit up. “Oh, sure! That sounds great.”
John’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Cool. Cool. I know a little place near the park. It’s quiet.”
“Nice,” Bob said, flipping a pancake with a satisfying sizzle. “You want to meet in the lobby at noon?”
“Yeah. Perfect.”
“Awesome,” Bob grinned. “Pancake?”
John took one with a dazed smile. “Thanks.”
As John walked out of the kitchen, Ava leaned over to Bucky and whispered, “He finally did it.”
Bucky nodded, sipping his coffee. “He’s doomed."
Later That Afternoon
Bob showed up right on time—clean hoodie, fresh jeans, hair brushed down neatly. He was humming again, hands in his pockets as John met him in the lobby, dressed a little nicer than usual.
“Hey,” John greeted, holding the door open.
Bob smiled. “Hey! Ready?”
“Yeah,” John said, heart pounding. “Let’s go.”
The lunch spot was a cozy little bistro tucked between a bookstore and a florist. Soft jazz played in the background. The tables were small and close together. Candlelight flickered, even in the afternoon. Bob glanced around, impressed.
“Wow, this place is fancy,” he said, picking up a menu. “Hope I didn’t underdress.”
John smiled. “You look great.”
Bob beamed. “Thanks, man.”
John stared at him for a second. Man? “Yeah. So… uh. Order whatever you want.”
They ordered—Bob got a vegetable panini and soup, John went for pasta. Conversation flowed easily. They talked about books, chess, old missions. Bob told a story about accidentally sleeping through an earthquake in Tokyo. John recounted a bar fight he got dragged into in Paris because someone insulted his French accent.
Bob laughed. A lot.
John found himself watching Bob more than eating. Every little smile. The way he gestured with his hands when he was excited. The dimple that only showed when he was trying not to laugh.
It felt like a perfect first date.
To John.
Walking Back
They strolled in silence for a while, the city buzzing softly around them. Bob was holding a takeout cup of tea. John’s hands were jammed in his jacket pockets, fiddling with his keys.
“That was really fun,” John said, nudging Bob lightly with his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Bob replied. “Good lunch. Great spot.”
John nodded, hesitated, then stopped walking just outside the tower doors.
Bob turned to him, sipping his tea. “Everything okay?”
John stepped closer, smiled a little, and leaned in to gently kiss Bob on the cheek.
Bob blinked. “Oh! Uh…”
John tilted his head. “Wait. Was that—too much?”
Bob looked utterly confused. “I—wasn’t this just… hanging out?”
John stepped back, heart sinking. “Oh. I thought—I mean, I asked you out. At breakfast. For lunch. Just us.”
Bob’s eyes widened. “Ohhh.”
“Yeah,” John said, voice dropping. “I thought it was a… you know. Date.”
Bob rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh no. John. I didn’t realize. I thought you just… wanted to hang out.”
John laughed once, but it was hollow. “Right. Of course. My bad.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Bob said quickly, stepping forward. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want it to be a date. I just… I didn’t know it was.”
John looked at him, unsure.
“I’m bad at this stuff,” Bob admitted. “You’d think with all my degrees I’d be able to read social cues but... nope. Apparently not.”
John raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t notice all the compliments? The fancy place? Me wearing cologne?”
“You smelled great,” Bob said sincerely.
John blinked. “Thanks.”
Bob was quiet for a beat. “Would it be too late to change the classification of today?”
“What?”
“Like, could I retroactively make this a date?” Bob asked. “If I said I want it to be?”
John's heart fluttered. “Yeah. I mean... yeah. That’d be fine.”
Bob smiled, a little sheepish. “In that case…”
He leaned in and, for the first time, kissed John—soft and hesitant, but very real.
When they broke apart, Bob whispered, “Now I get why you picked the candlelight.”
John just grinned. “About damn time.”