Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I’m agoraphobic, actually.”

The joke left Bob’s mouth before he thought twice about it. The opening was too obvious, the opportunity too good to miss. Bob’s smile curled up his face as John turned toward him, one brow raised.

“You’re not funny,” said John, his own lips a forcibly tight line. He was amused by Bob’s bad jokes more than he’d ever admit. Bob quickly typed out another message on his phone. When John read it, he rolled his eyes again. “Was telling the women really necessary?”

“I thought maybe they would think I’m funny,” Bob told him, “since my boyfriend apparently doesn’t.”

“I just think it’s ironic you’re being so pedantic when you always call me annoying for that.”

“Maybe I wanted to be annoying.”

That was all it took to get John going again. Maybe because they’d already been making out for fifteen minutes before the interruption and he was still hot. Or maybe Bob really did look that damn good in the first custom tailored suit he’d ever owned in his life.

Either way, Bob smirked when John grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back against a tree. He sank into the kiss without resistance. He dragged his tongue over John’s teeth and the roof of his mouth; bit down on John’s bottom lip and tugged with a smile when John moaned beneath his breath.

John’s hands slowly shifted down from Bob’s shoulders to his waist, squeezed him tight as he tapped Bob’s tongue with his own. He pushed inside Bob’s mouth, playfully flicked the Zyn wedged in his upper lip. Honestly, he kissed Bob so often at that point it was a wonder he hadn’t gotten addicted to nicotine too.

So distracted by John’s mouth, Bob didn’t notice John’s hands shift again until they were buried in his pants. Rather than go down the front that time, John curled his fingers around the bottom of Bob’s ass; squeezed his cheeks as he shifted his lips to kiss Bob’s face, his jaw, his neck.

Bob wrapped his arms around John’s collar, chuckled as he mumbled, “Paparazzi could be watching.”

“Don’t care,” said John, even though Bob knew he did, that he would spend that night scrolling social media to make sure they hadn’t been seen. “Gonna give you a hickey so they all know you’re spoken for.”

It was everything he needed emotionally and just too much physically. Their bodies were pressed almost fully against each other, John’s pelvis pushing into Bob’s, and he knew that if he let it go any further, it would become more than his stupidly sensitive nerves could handle.

“Gotta stop,” Bob whispered with a kiss to John’s ear, even though he really, really didn’t want to. “You’ll make me come in my pants if you keep doing that.”

John responded by kissing Bob’s neck three more times. “Good. Then we’ll have an excuse to leave.”

“Embarrassed as I’d be, I’d kinda love to see you walk up to Mayor Fisk and tell him you have to leave his gala early because you made your boyfriend come in his pants. That’s popcorn-worthy.”

“You’re lucky you have a great ass because you’re still not funny.”

Out of witty comebacks, Bob grabbed John’s face with his hands and pulled their lips back together. John hadn’t completely lied when he agreed with Yelena that Bob was anxious. Big crowds in enclosed spaces were a massive trigger for his agoraphobia.

If he could have stayed in the courtyard kissing John all night, he would have. There was no place in the world he felt safer than in John’s arms; no taste he loved more than the lingering cinnamon from John’s breath mints. It made him forget how much he hated public events, forget that he’d have to go back inside and face his fears.

Unfortunately, the moment remained fleeting. He heard Yelena before he saw her and Ava approaching as she shouted, “Get out of my Bob!”

Though he lifted his hands out of Bob’s pants immediately, John kept one hand on Bob’s waist until Yelena physically dragged him away. He held one arm out toward Bob longingly, as if he weren’t a super soldier who could escape Yelena’s grasp at any second.

“I told you to stay out of him,” Yelena snapped. Bob didn’t know whether it was because of his trauma or her delivery but sometimes he had a hard time discerning whether she was just teasing. “People are looking for you two.”

“If you didn’t want me to make out with him,” started John, “you shouldn’t have let him wear a suit.”

“Whatever. We are going back inside before people ask questions. Trust me, this is not the venue to make your relationship public.”

“She’s right,” said Ava, a hint of concern in her tone. “You know I love you two together, but that’s a building full of politicians. It’ll inevitably cause a problem somehow.”

“Fine, all right.” John rolled his eyes and shook Yelena’s hand off his arm. “Just one second, I forgot something.”

Bob couldn’t help but smile against John’s lips when he sneaked in one more kiss; couldn’t help but laugh as Ava dragged him away by the sleeve to wash the evidence of Bob off his hands.

Because of her over-the-top reaction, Bob almost expected judgment from Yelena once they were alone. Instead, she just stared at him for several seconds and said, “You look happy.”

So he smiled again and told her, “I am.”

Bob’s intention was never to ignore John completely. He just wanted to be a brat, to make John sit with his horniness for a few minutes as he texted Bob increasingly needily.

It wasn’t until he stopped asking for specific things, stopped saying “Bobby,” and reduced himself to nothing but text after text of Please that Bob complied and hit the FaceTime button with his thumb.

John took about half a second to answer. Based on the look on his face, he clearly expected a better view than the shoulder of Bob’s sweatshirt and the top half of his face; the bottom obscured by his novel leaned against his chin.

“Don’t make me beg, Bobby,” said John, groaning beneath his breath.

“I’m not,” Bob started, smirk hidden to the camera. “I told you; I look like hell. You’ll lose your boner.”

“Just humor me.”

He hesitated before he moved his book and pulled back the camera, allowed John to see more of him. Everything he’d texted was true. He was wearing a sweatshirt big enough to hide his entire body in and pants to match; he hadn’t brushed his hair in at least three days; and the book he was reading had some of the worst world-building he’d ever encountered.

It actually surprised him when John breathed, “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Bob chuckled and dragged his free hand over his nose, trapped in a limbo between bratty and self-conscious. “Gross, right?”

“You look like you need to get railed.”

“Fucking liar.” His face flushed and he looked down, hair falling in his eyes. “I don’t look sexy, you’re just horny.”

“No, you look sexy.”

Bob rolled his eyes as he shifted on to his side, knees tucked up into his chest, phone grasped in one hand. He tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt like he was trying to smooth it out, deliberately exposing just enough of his waist for John to notice and stare.

“I know what you’re doing,” said John.

He bit his lip innocently. “What am I doing?”

“Being a fucking brat.”

“I’m not even doing anything. It’s not my fault my depression turns you on.”

John was always just a little bit shyer on the phone, just a little bit more hesitant to lean into what came so naturally in person. His cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink as he stared at Bob, his lip curling upward.

“Get the lube from my drawer,” he commanded, the tiniest waver in his words. “Get your fingers wet.”

The idea that anyone could be turned on by him when he looked like that—weighed down by his bipolar depression, his instability, half a dozen recent panic attacks he’d never tell John about—was mindboggling. It was hard enough to believe that John was attracted to him in general; the thought that he still wanted Bob at his lowest was more arousing than anything else.

“Are you serious right now?” asked Bob, tongue between his teeth as he stifled his laugh. “I’m not even hard.”

John stared at Bob for a long moment before he tilted his phone down, showed the tent of his boxers on the motel mattress. “I’m hard enough for us both. Two fingers inside. I want you to milk yourself.”

“That what you’d do if you were here?”

“Damn right.”

Bob took a deep breath before he flipped over on his back again. He bent his knees as he tugged off his baggy sweatpants and underwear, left himself shivering and soft just beneath where John could see. Free of his constraints, Bob reached into the drawer beside the bed and fumbled for the first bottle of lube he could grab.

He set his phone down on John’s pillow, camera angled toward himself before he slathered his fingers in lube. The heavy breaths from his phone gave him the encouragement to follow orders, to press his fingers into himself. Bob’s breath hitched when he reached his knuckles, and he made a face as he readjusted.

“You all right, baby?”

“Fucking tight,” Bob grumbled, flushed more from embarrassment from arousal. John had been gone for almost two weeks, and Bob hadn’t touched himself there since. “Just give me a minute, please.”

“Take your time,” said John, his tone gentle and reassuring. “Not in any rush.”

His breath quickened and evened out as he worked his fingers deeper. Bob followed John’s orders and took his time opening himself up, stretching himself back out. His cock hardened with each scissored movement of his fingers until it felt engorged and heavy, curling toward his belly.

“Okay,” started Bob, voice low and strained as he forced himself to avoid the natural urge to squeeze his eyes shut. “I can reach my prostate now.”

“God, you’re fucking beautiful.” John’s breaths were labored, nothing but sincerity in his tone. “Curl your fingers in. You know how I do it?”

“Yeah, I just— it’s kind of fucking weird doing it to myself.”

“No, no, it’s perfect. You’re doing great, baby. Keep going. I want to see you leaking before you touch your cock.”

Bob inhaled and exhaled slowly, tried to mimic the way that John milked him. It felt good when John did it, but it wasn’t something he ever did by himself. It wasn’t even something he’d really considered doing since what made it really hot was that John was so damn into it—a fact that proved to be true over the phone as well.

John didn’t speak when Bob drew the first beads from himself, the first spurt of precum. But his breath caught, and he inhaled harshly through his nose like it was the hottest sight he’d ever seen. Knowing how much John liked it made Bob enjoy it more, leave his shame behind. He tugged his sweatshirt up to his chest, gave his cock more room to spill.

“Fuck, Bobby, don’t stop.”

“You’re disgusting,” Bob mumbled, unable to speak when his fingers pressed down. He said it less as a comment toward John, more as a reflection of his feelings about himself; of how he looked while he was depressed, how slick his stomach was with precum. “I’m making a mess in your bed.”

“What, you think that bothers me?” The grin on John’s face was completely natural, genuine, lustful. “I want your mess in my bed because it’s mine.”

“You want me to soak your sheets while you’re not even here?”

“Yeah. If anything, I want you leaking more. Get the glass wand.”

An amused exhale left Bob’s throat as he shook his head. “The pink one? With the heart on the end?”

“You always make fun of it, but it makes you feel fucking amazing,” said John, eyes wide, begging Bob to do as he was told.

And he did, because he was a brat, but he was also literally dripping with precum and had needs to fulfill. Bob reached back into John’s drawer, fumbled until he found the dildo John was talking about. Lightly tinted glass with a bright pink heart on the end. He still wasn’t sure whether John had originally bought it as a joke.

Bob’s face flushed bright red as he settled back, pushed his sweatshirt up to his nipples from where it had slipped. He held up the dildo for John to see and John’s smile said everything—regardless of initial intention, he was damn into it now. His eyes never left Bob as Bob covered it in lube, shifted against his pillow, and directed it between his legs.

“Slow,” John told him. “I want to see your face when it goes in.”

He exhaled as he slid the glass inside him, inch by inch, precum smearing the hem of his sweatshirt as he closed his eyes and quit paying attention to where it laid. Bob’s whole body shivered, his thighs trembling from the sensation of the cool, ribbed glass pressed against his walls.

His cock weighed heavy on his lower belly as he moved the wand forward and back. Bob reached his left hand to his mouth, bit down on his first knuckle to stifle the whimpers that tried to escape. Each press of the glass against his prostate brought out fresh drops of precum until he was soaked, flushed, wrecked.

“Stroke yourself now,” said John, voice low, breath shaking, “but don’t stop pressing down.”

Despite making fun of it, the wand felt fucking good. He’d reached that point of forgetting how to speak, his sentences replaced with a whiny, broken, “I can’t— fuck, John, I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

He lowered his left hand from his mouth to his cock, lifted its wet, heavy weight in his palm. Bob’s whole body moved out of his control as he moved his hand up and down, slicking his hand, stroking himself until the pressure became too much.

“John—”

“You’re okay.” They were thousands of miles apart and John still managed to reassure him. Still managed to make him feel safe and wanted. “I’m right there too.”

Bob didn’t even know what the sound was that he made when he let himself go. Warm ropes of cum spilled over his belly as his hips bucked upward, tears springing to his eyes and dripping down his cheeks. He let go of the toy, still in his ass, and threw his arm over his eyes to soak up the tears on his skin.

He rolled back over on his side, too flushed and too mindless to care about the sheets or his sweatshirt. It wasn’t like he couldn’t just go sleep in his own room instead. Bob wiped his hand on his shirt and grabbed his phone, held it back in front of his face. He just stared at John for a long moment, trying to find his words again, trying to remember how to speak.

“Told you I look like hell,” Bob mumbled, face covered in tears, sweat, and a hint of drool. If he thought he looked bad before masturbating, he looked fucking disgusting after.

John opened and closed his mouth twice before he said softly, “I think you look like home.”

“You’re sappy as shit after sex, you know that?”

“Maybe a little.” A brief silence hung over them as Bob reached back between his legs, only for John to interrupt him with the request, “Wait, don’t take it out yet.”

“Not coming again,” said Bob, his tone only half joking. “If you wanted more, you shouldn’t have made me milk the hell out of myself.”

“No, no, I don’t mean that. Just… you like falling asleep with me in you, right?”

“Yeah, you. Not a pink dildo.”

John chuckled. “You don’t have to. I wish it was me there.”

“Still horny?”

“No.” For some reason, it was hard for Bob to accept that John was into the cockwarming too; that John liked holding him as much as he liked being held. “Just miss you. I want to hold you while we fall asleep.”

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Bob joked, more touched than he felt able to admit. “Making me cockwarm a dildo.”

“You’re doing it aren’t you?”

He sniffed as he stared at John’s face on the screen, the tiniest smile tugging at his lip. John was right, he did like falling asleep with John inside him. He liked the feelings that it gave him—the fullness, the comfort, the warmth, the safety.

“Yeah, well.” Bob shrugged and brushed his palm over his eyes. “Maybe I miss you too.”

“You’re not listening again.”

Bob blinked. His left elbow rested on the counter, hand holding his chin as he stared at the coffee maker. Or, at least, in the direction of the coffee maker. The problem was that John’s arms were also in the direction of the coffee maker, and his long sleeves didn’t do as much to hide them as Bob had hoped.

“No, I am,” said Bob quickly, not half as convincing as he wanted to be. He lifted himself up, made a show of pulling his shoulders back and pushing his hair out of his face. “I’m listening.”

John raised a brow. “What did I just say?”

“Something about vinegar?”

He couldn’t get enough of the way John hid his amused smile. His lips pulled up before they bent down and he shook his head in feigned annoyance. Or maybe real annoyance. Bob wasn’t always the best at telling the difference.

“Honestly,” John started, “I’m kind of impressed you got that part right.”

“Of course I did,” Bob teased, tongue poking out in the middle of his own lopsided smile. “I was listening.”

“Keep listening, then. I had you grab that pitcher because after we run the vinegar through it, we have to…”

Bob’s gaze started at John’s hands, watching how he fixed the machine. Then they slowly tilted upward, following the line of his arms up to his biceps. John had gained a little weight since he’d bought that shirt. Bob wasn’t sure whether it was fat or muscle and he didn’t care. All he could see was the way the fabric pulled on his arm, the way it stretched and almost highlighted everything.

He had no idea how long he was staring at John before he was abruptly snapped out of it by John saying, “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” asked Bob. He fluttered his eyes, feigning innocence.

“You know what.”

“I’m just watching you fix the machine. Watching… your arms… fix the machine.”

John rolled his eyes. “You told me you could focus if I wore long sleeves.”

“I was wrong.”

His body took over before his mind could decide to follow his desires. Bob set his hands on either side of John’s face, tugged on his freshly shaved beard to pull their lips together. He let his tongue taste the lingering breakfast pastries on his lips, let his teeth chew on his skin for a fleeting moment.

Then John put his hand on Bob’s chest and gently, lovingly pushed him away. The grin on his face kept Bob in the mindset of being a silly brat rather than devolve into a spiral of embarrassment and self-doubt.

“Pay attention, Bobby,” said John.

Bob groaned. “But I’m thirsty…”

“That’s why we’re fixing the machine.”

“…for you.”

John flipped the coffee machine on as he rolled his eyes with a smirk. The machine hissed for several seconds before it spat out an inconsistent stream of murky water into the mug below it. It certainly didn’t look like coffee. There was no way that they’d completely finished, but he had no idea what steps were left to take.

He tried his best to focus as John popped the top open and shut, as he changed multiple filters and sifted water through the machine twice more. But he focused so hard on looking at John that he forgot to listen to John. His jawline was just unfair; not to mention his biceps and forearms and belly and back and everywhere else the shirt pulled when he moved.

“Now try making your coffee.”

Bob went through the motions, one eye on John at all times as he fulfilled his daily routine well after it should have been completed. The machine brewed up a mug of coffee that, once Bob tasted it, proved to be perfect. He nodded his satisfaction and held his mug up toward John as if trying to toast.

“See?” Bob smiled as John gave him a look, already knowing what was coming. “I fixed it.”

“You didn’t do shit,” said John. “What was the first step?”

“Uh… stare at your biceps?”

He felt unbelievably lucky that, rather than scold him, John just chuckled and kissed his forehead instead. “God, you’re hopeless.”

John was lying on his stomach in bed, staring at his phone. For once, he wasn’t doomscrolling but lamenting the amount of time until he had to leave. He tried to be strong, to make Bob feel better about it. But the moment Bob left the room, he cracked. All he could think about was that in two hours, he’d be gone. That the next day, he’d be almost a thousand miles away from Bob.

He set his phone down when the door opened and Bob walked back in, snacks in hand. Bob placed them on the table before he flopped on the bed perpendicular to John, rested his head on John’s ass like a pillow. John reached back and dragged his hand through Bob’s hair playfully.

“What are you doing?”

Bob nuzzled into John’s back, used his nose to push his shirt up his spine. He kissed the curve of his ass and his back and slipped his arms underneath John’s belly. “Having a snack.”

“That’s what the pretzels are for.” John tried to nudge Bob off him but between his arms and his head, Bob had all the control. He rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the mood right now, Bobby.”

“Please?” The way he asked was a little different than usual. Like it was less horny, more longing. Bob kissed along John’s spine, breathed against his back until John’s cock twitched beneath him. He was relieved Bob couldn’t see. “Just a little. Please.”

“No.”

“You know when you milk me and I leak everywhere and I feel like I look disgusting but to you I look really, really sexy? This is that for me.” John took a deep breath when Bob lifted his hand, moved his hands to John’s ass, and squeezed. “You look so hot to me.”

He’d never felt self-conscious before he gained weight. Not like that. Not in the way that he did when Bob touched him in his softest places, when he found enough flesh to chew on. It just didn’t connect that it was something Bob was into; that he was genuinely attracted to John when he felt like his body looked the worst it ever had.

“I want you,” whispered Bob, fingers hooked into John’s waistband. He kissed a line above the fabric, breathed right into the top of John’s crack. “Please let me take care of you before you leave.”

“I’m not—” Attractive. Sexy. Worthy.

“You are to me.”

Rather than use his words, John reached a hand back and set it on top of Bob’s. He guided Bob to tug his pants down, let him go once he made it as far as his arm could stretch. Bob kissed the entire way down John’s ass and legs as he peeled off the fabric, then the whole way back up. And, apparently, that was enough teasing for him.

Bob wasted no time diving in. He dug his left hand into John’s outer thigh, his right reaching under his stomach to grab his half-hard cock. He slid his tongue between John’s cheeks, licked his entire length before he sank his teeth into his skin. Bob bit down on both sides, over and over again, his hand stroking John at a slow, steady pace.

“Jesus, Bobby,” John groaned, breath already heavy. “I’m not gonna be able to sit down.”

“You’ll be fine.” His words were less reassuring when followed up by another, harder bite and then several small munches in the same place. John might not have understood why Bob liked it, but he couldn’t argue that he seemed really damn happy munching on his ass. “Love you.”

“Love you too, you munchy monster.”

That released Bob’s teeth. He stopped to laugh for a long, beautiful moment, his hair tickling John’s skin. Then he leaned back in, abandoning the biting in favor of small, teasing licks. He spread John’s cheek with his left hand, his right firmly grasping his shaft as he slipped his tongue in.

He circled John’s rim for several seconds, eliciting moans John tried and failed to stifle. Because as much as it embarrassed him to be in that position, to let Bob taste him there, it did feel really damn good. Especially with Bob’s hands touching his cheek and cock. Until he suddenly pulled his tongue and left hand away and asked breathlessly,

“Can I use my fingers?”

John hesitated. “How deep?”

“Deep as my tongue?” He kissed John’s lower back again, brushed his right thumb over his wet tip. “Just want to open you up a little.”

“Okay. Just up to your knuckles.”

It was still hard for him to release his control, to let Bob do what he wanted to. Even when, physically, it felt really good. Even when Bob checked in constantly, asking permission before doing anything different and making sure John was okay when his breath hitched. There was a level of shame deeply ingrained in him that he hadn’t been able to kick, even when he encouraged Bob to let himself relax completely.

His thighs shook as Bob pushed a finger inside him, gently coaxed him open enough to add a second. That was as far as he went—two fingers, stopped at the first knuckles. John squeezed his pillow, panting against the fabric. He gasped when Bob pulled his fingers out, replaced them with his warm, wet tongue.

“You’re fine,” said John, when Bob started to pull back. “Keep going.”

There was some thing Bob did with his mouth that made John forget how to think. He seemed to be able to do it anywhere—on John’s cock, in his ass, on his fingers, in his mouth—and they all made him equally mushy. Bob sucked lightly, enough to stimulate but not enough to be uncomfortable. He licked, tongue moving in a way that was comfortable but unpredictable enough to keep him wondering.

John’s chest tightened as he pushed deeper into the pillow, hips rocking just slightly between Bob’s mouth and his hand. He opened his lips to speak, to tell Bob that he was close, it was happening, but the words caught in his throat. Bob didn’t miss a beat when John spent himself beneath his stomach, a warm, sticky release between the sheets and his flesh.

Bob pulled out and kissed his lower back, then licked all the way up to his ear and settled  down beside him. John reached his right hand up and grabbed Bob’s right cheek, gently stroked his stubble as he pressed their foreheads together. For a long moment, they just breathed, savored the moment of being together.

Then John lowered his hand down, tickled the hem of Bob’s pants. He could feel Bob’s erection against his thigh, could feel him leaking through the fabric. Bob nodded his permission, and John slipped his hand inside. He wrapped his right hand around Bob’s shaft and used his left to guide Bob’s head into his shoulder, holding him close as he stroked him.

It didn’t take long before Bob shuddered and came against John’s hand without warning. He apologized repeatedly, face buried in the crook of John’s shoulder, breathing fast and shallow. John just kissed his temple and held him close. Tried to remind himself that if he liked what embarrassed Bob, then it made sense for Bob to like what embarrassed him.

“Bit your ass so you’ll think of me,” Bob mumbled, hands digging into the back of John’s shirt.

John snorted, sure he’d heard Bob wrong. “What?”

“Want you to think of me while you’re gone.”

“Bobby baby… I always think of you.” He kissed Bob’s temple again, squeezed him in so close he swore he heard Bob’s t-shirt tear. “Always.”

John stared at his hands, the movie on the screen long since forgotten. He wasn’t even sure what the story was about. It was Bob’s idea to stop choosing, to just let it autoplay whatever weird comedies came up. The light from the colorful film was the only thing illuminating them; John laying back on the couch, Bob between his legs, cheek pressed to the left side of John’s chest.

His fingers were clasped over Bob’s belly, just holding him, feeling him breathe. John wasn’t sure whether Bob was asleep yet or not. It had been a long time since he moved, since he said anything. John’s heartbeat did always relax him, not to mention the perfect date they’d just had and the simple fact that John was home.

The remnants of their dinner were still in the room with them. On the coffee table were a few empty containers of ramen with chopsticks falling out, two milkshakes long since drained. Then there was Bob’s messy hair and wrinkled sweatshirt—a physical reminder of when they’d given up on watching the previous movie and decided to make out instead.

Bob didn’t react when John shifted his hands, rubbed gentle circles into Bob’s abdomen. His gray sweatshirt was soft, warm from the contact with his body. John smiled as he followed Bob’s slow, deep breaths. He leaned over just far enough to see Bob’s closed eyes, then adjusted himself on the couch.

He fully thought Bob was asleep until he heard his mumbled, “No, don’t go.”

“Hm?” Bob’s left hand reached up, wrapped around the back of John’s. He didn’t open his eyes, instead whined beneath his breath as he nuzzled deeper into John’s chest. “You okay?”

“Don’t want you to leave.”

His voice was tiny, almost unintelligible, slurred by near-sleep, but it landed in John’s chest with a thunk. John swallowed hard and tilted his head down, pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Bob’s head and let his lips hover above him as he whispered,

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Bob squeezed his hand tighter, shifted deeper into him. “I missed you.”

“I—” There were all the emotions he’d buried under noodles and low-budget comedy. Everything that came with leaving Bob, coming home to Bob, knowing he’d have to go again. He took a deep breath and kissed Bob’s head two more times before he told him softly, “I missed you too.”

Bob answered the phone immediately, but the first two calls dropped without even static. By the third, Bob was shaking so badly that he nearly hurled the phone across the tile. A sharp sob caught in his throat as static filled the line and then, finally, the noise cleared.

“Hey, Bobby, can you hear me?” John’s voice was cracked through the speaker but clear and careful; comforting and easy to understand.

“Yeah.” Bob squeezed the phone against his ear, clinging to it like it could somehow bring him the comfort of John’s physical presence. His breath shuddered, his chest tight and burning as he tried to steady himself enough to speak. “I can’t— John, I— I can’t—”

“I know, baby. You don’t have to talk.” It was confusing and comforting how fast John understood exactly what Bob meant. He spoke slowly, giving Bob time to process each word. “Just listen to me, all right?”

All he was doing was listening. The smooth hum of the ceiling fan, the faint music playing in the lobby. Everything felt overwhelming from the cold tile he sat on to the sharp, lingering smell of bleach in the air.

“You’re not fucked up. You’re not embarrassing.”

But he was. He was sitting on the floor of the Watchtower’s lobby bathroom, locked in a stall, sobbing into his knees. All because he was afraid of going to Starbucks. He was thirty years old, and he was afraid of going to Starbucks.

 “You’re not gross. You’re not a baby.”

The only reason John could say that was because he couldn’t see Bob. He couldn’t see that Bob’s face was slick with tears and spit and snot, couldn’t see that his left thumb was still shoved in his mouth, first knuckle starting to bleed from how far he bit into it.

“And I don’t hate you; I love you. I love you, Bobby.”

He couldn’t argue with that one, no matter how badly his panicked mind wanted to. Bob could feel like he wasn’t worthy of John’s love; he could feel like he was unlovable, but he couldn’t deny John’s right to love him. He couldn’t dictate the way that John felt.

“I love you too,” said Bob, words thick with tears. He hiccupped and pushed his sleeve over his eyes, soaking up the mess on his skin. “I love you.”

“Is it helping at all to listen to me?” John asked, a slight shake of emotion in his own words.

“Yeah.” Somehow, miraculously, it was. His chest loosened just enough to stop burning and his heartbeat slowed just enough to stop aching. “Can you— Can you do—”

“Box breathing?”

Again, John knew exactly what it was that Bob needed. “Please.”

“Okay, breathe in for four. One, two, three, four. Hold for four. One, two, three, four. Out for four. One, two, three, four…”

Bob struggled to follow the rhythm at first, still shaking with every breath, but he slowly steadied himself to match John’s breathing. He closed his eyes as he focused on John’s voice, on his counting, letting it guide his every movement.

Physically, he was still alone, but John’s voice was comforting enough that it almost felt like he wasn’t.

Bob squinted up at the jet as it landed, barely blocking the sun from burning his eyes. He squeezed his iced cappuccino in one hand, his phone in the other. When the jet’s feet settled on the helipad, Bob stuffed his phone into his pocket and took a long sip of his drink, trying to jolt his body awake.

The door to the jet lowered, the hiss of the hydraulics overtaking the distant sounds of morning Manhattan. A wave of heat hit Bob even from several feet away and he stumbled just slightly before he caught his footing. He wasn’t clumsy, he reminded himself, just on too many sedatives.

He leaped forward the moment he saw feet at the top of the ramp. John’s boots, unmistakable. The others were behind him but for once, all he could see was John. John who supported him through that awful fucking week. John who never judged him for his failures. John, who convinced everyone to keep quiet so his early return would be a surprise.

“Hey, baby.”

A grin broke on Bob’s face the second John spoke. Bob was too lethargic to run but he walked right to the bottom of the ramp; met John just in time to sink into his arms when he dropped his bag beside his feet.

John tried to go for just a hug, but Bob decided it wasn’t enough. He tossed the last of his iced cappuccino on the ground, grabbed John’s face with both hands, and pulled his face down into a deep, desperate kiss.

The taste of coffee and whipped cream was quickly overwhelmed by salt and musk. Bob slipped his tongue between John’s teeth, fingers curling around the back of his ears. He was exactly as sweaty as he’d promised, and Bob didn’t care one bit.

They didn’t break apart when Yelena playfully shoved John’s shoulder, didn’t break apart when Ava told them to get a room. Not until everyone had gone inside, left them alone. Then John leaned back, kissed Bob’s lips one last time before adding one to the tip of his nose.

“I missed you,” Bob mumbled. He dropped his arms to John’s back, clung to him tight, ignoring the sweat soaked through his suit.

“Missed you too.” John smiled as he kissed Bob’s forehead. He dragged a hand through Bob’s hair then lowered both to his shoulders to steady him when he stumbled. “You all right, Bobby?”

“Yeah. Tired.” Bob leaned into John’s shoulder, exhaustion intensified by how much calmer he felt in John’s arms. “Never letting you go again.”

“Oh, really?” John, apparently unable to keep his lips off, kissed Bob’s temple with a chuckle. “Not even so I can take a shower?”

“Nope.”

“Guess you’ll have to come with me, then.”

“Are you complaining?”

John smirked and nudged Bob toward the door. “Never.”