Chapter Text
John doesn’t remember falling asleep that close, but somehow he always wakes up like this.
The quiet of early morning filters through the room—dim light seeping in between the blinds, a soft hush like the world is still holding its breath. He stirs under the covers, slow and heavy-limbed, already knowing before he opens his eyes that he isn’t alone.
There’s a warm arm draped across his middle, palm splayed flat over his chest like it belongs there. A leg hooked lazily over his, toes brushing against his calf with casual intimacy. And a body, all gentle curves and steady breathing, curled up behind him like a living shield. Ava.
And then the kisses start.
Soft lips press against the back of his neck—just once at first. Then again. And again. Not rushed, not demanding, just... persistent. Teasing. Barely-there brushes of warmth and breath that tug him gently out of sleep.
He blinks groggily into the pillow, his cheek smooshed against the edge in protest. “Mmgh,” he mutters, somewhere between a complaint and a plea for mercy.
Ava only hums behind him, the sound low and amused. Her breath stirs the short hairs at his nape as she shifts closer, pressing a longer, lingering kiss right at the base of his hairline. Her fingers slide into his hair next, combing through the strands with a lazy rhythm that makes his eyelids droop again.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she murmurs, her voice still heavy with sleep—raspy, smug, familiar.
“You’re relentless,” he mumbles, though his voice is soft around the edges, betraying the comfort in his chest. Even as he says it, he turns his head slightly, just enough to lean into her touch.
“Mhm. And you’re warm,” she counters, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Her arm tightens around him instinctively, holding him there like she always does—like she needs the contact, not just wants it. Like some part of her won’t exhale properly until she’s sure he’s real and still here.
He can feel her smile against his skin. That tiny, unguarded curve of her lips when she thinks he’s still too sleepy to notice.
John doesn’t say it out loud—he never does—but it’s his favorite way to wake up too.
No noise. No chaos. Just this. Her. The press of a steady heartbeat against his back. The warmth of her thigh tangled with his. The grounding weight of her arm across his chest, fingers twitching gently like she’s still halfway in a dream.
He shifts just slightly, enough to reach down and tangle their fingers together where her arm wraps around him. His thumb brushes over her knuckles, and her grip tightens immediately.
She squeezes once, her lips ghosting across the shell of his ear. “Five more minutes,” she whispers.
He nods into the pillow. “Yeah. Just five.”
But neither of them moves.
There’s no rush in the room, only the quiet creak of the floorboards as the house settles, and the occasional muffled sound of the city waking up somewhere outside. His breathing slows again, syncing with hers. She brushes her thumb across his chest, back and forth, back and forth, and he lets himself drift.
They both know they’ll stay like this until someone comes knocking.
And when that moment inevitably comes—when there’s a knock, a call, a mission—they’ll move. They always do.
But right now, in this sliver of morning where everything is still, they don’t have to be soldiers or spies or ghosts. They can just be this. Quiet. Close. Tangled up in each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like it’s home.
-
By the time John finally makes it to the common room—hoodie rumpled, hair suspiciously tousled, and a faint smile he’s absolutely trying to hide—the rest of the team is already up.
Bob’s sprawled on the couch with a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, watching a muted cartoon on the TV that he’s definitely not actually paying attention to.
Yelena’s upside-down in the armchair, legs thrown over the back, head dangling toward the floor as she scrolls her phone with the casual grace of someone who’s absolutely been waiting for this moment.
Bucky’s by the counter, sipping his coffee in grim silence. His face is blank. Too blank. Which is how everyone knows he knows —because Bucky never tries this hard not to smirk unless he’s about five seconds from stirring the pot.
Nobody says anything.
John shuffles toward the kitchen like nothing’s weird. Like he didn’t just sneak out of someone else’s bed. Like his hoodie doesn’t look suspiciously familiar—because, well. It’s not technically his . It’s Ava’s. A fact the team is absolutely clocking in real time.
He reaches for a mug from the rack. There’s already one waiting.
Two minutes later, Ava—Ghost—glides in from the hallway like a breeze slipping under the door. Her hair’s pulled back neatly, tactical and sharp, like she’s been up for hours. Her clothes are crisp. Her face is neutral. She's the picture of poise, holding a mug with both hands like it’s just another debrief.
She moves like smoke. Controlled. Careful. Untouchable.
“Morning,” she says, cool and effortless, like she didn’t just kiss someone awake with her nose buried in their neck.
John grunts a quiet, “Hey,” in return.
She sets down the second mug—his—without looking at him, without saying a word. Sits beside him on the couch. Not close close. But close enough that her knee brushes his. Close enough to pretend it’s casual.
They don’t look at each other. They don’t need to.
Yelena raises an eyebrow, lowering her phone slightly. “Sleep well?”
Ava doesn’t blink. “Perfectly.”
Bob inhales like he’s about to say something.
Bucky kicks the couch with a sharp thunk .
“Nope,” Bucky says flatly. “Don’t even try it.”
Bob blinks. “What? I wasn’t gonna—”
“You were.” Bucky sips his coffee. “And we’re not doing this before 9 a.m.”
There’s a long pause. Ava sips her coffee like it’s the most interesting thing in the room. John has suddenly become deeply fascinated by the grain of the tabletop.
Yelena hums. “You know,” she says casually, “if you are gonna keep using each other for body heat, you could at least share with the rest of the class. I get cold too.”
John chokes quietly on his coffee.
Ava doesn’t flinch. “Get a boyfriend,” she replies, without missing a beat.
Bob wheezes. “Oh my god.”
Yelena cackles from the armchair, flipping herself upright with impressive speed. “Didn’t deny it, though!”
John mutters something unintelligible and pulls the hood further over his head like it might protect him from this conversation. It does not.
It’s not the first time Ava’s done this—ghosting her way back to her own room at sunrise, silent as ever. She always acts like she’s been up all along. The team never calls her out.
Not directly, anyway.
They know. She knows they know. He definitely knows they know.
But no one says it outright.
It’s practically a ritual at this point. Ava slips out like smoke. John shows up pretending he’s not glowing. The team silently adjusts their betting pool. And nobody ever calls it what it is.
Which is exactly why they all keep doing it.
That, and the fact that Ava sets his coffee down just the way he likes it. No sugar. One cream. Steam still rising.
And when she thinks no one’s looking, her hand drifts just slightly—resting against his knee under the table. Just for a second. Just enough.
Yeah. They’re not fooling anyone .
-
She almost made it.
Ava’s timing is usually flawless—every exit calculated to the second, every movement silent as mist. She slips out of John’s bed before the light ever shifts, returns to her own quarters like she’s been there the whole time. No footprints. No witnesses. No evidence.
Except this morning.
This morning, for the first time in forever, she oversleeps.
By seven minutes.
Which wouldn’t be a problem—except Yelena is already in the hallway. Hair twisted in a chaotic braid, oversized sweatshirt reading PROPERTY OF NO ONE with a mystery stain near the hem, coffee mug clutched in one hand.
And unfortunately, she's standing directly between Ava and her door.
Ava freezes mid-step. One bare foot hovering over cold floor, hoodie sleeves tugged down to her wrists, John’s scent still clinging to the cotton. The hallway is quiet. Too quiet.
Yelena looks up. Blinks once. Her expression doesn’t change at first—but then her eyes widen, and her mouth stretches into the slowest, smuggest grin the universe has ever seen.
“Well, well, well,” she says, voice warm with malicious glee. “Look who’s joining us from the land of post-mission cuddles .”
Ava doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Her face is perfectly neutral—sharp lines and cool calm—but there’s a barely perceptible shift in her shoulders. Like a cat caught mid-prowl.
“I was checking on him,” she says smoothly.
Yelena tilts her head. “With your hair like that?”
Ava reaches up before she can stop herself, fingers running through her sleep-ruffled hair. It's still faintly tangled from where John had carded his own fingers through it a few hours earlier.
Yelena’s eyes light up. “ You slept in. ” Her voice pitches higher, delighted. “You slept in! That’s adorable !”
“I was tired,” Ava replies, brushing past her like nothing’s out of the ordinary.
“You were spooning. ” Yelena spins around to walk backward, coffee sloshing in her mug, eyes never leaving Ava’s face. “You were the big spoon, weren’t you? You’ve got that smug ‘I held a man like a teddy bear’ look.”
Ava exhales through her nose. “No comment.”
“Oh my god,” Yelena gasps. “You kissed his neck, didn’t you?! You totally did—look at your face. That is neck-kissing energy. ”
Ava says nothing.
Yelena howls. “ I knew it. I’m telling Bucky.”
“No, you’re not,” Ava replies, cool as ever, though her ears are turning the faintest shade of pink.
“You’re right,” Yelena says, already turning on her heel. “I’m telling Bob. He’ll cry. ”
“You do, and I’ll disable your comms mid-mission.”
“I hope you do. Then I’ll fake an injury and scream ‘SHE’S ABANDONING ME FOR LOVE’ into the void.”
Ava stops at her own door, one hand on the panel, jaw clenched like she’s weighing the logistics of a kidnapping.
Yelena beams, completely unfazed. “ Worth it. ”
Ava opens her door without a word and steps inside.
“You know this means I win the pool, right?” Yelena calls through the closing door. “Bucky said you wouldn’t accidentally sleep in until next month. He owes me twenty.”
The door slides shut.
Inside, Ava sets her coffee mug down with clinical precision, exhales slowly, and finally, finally lets the tiniest smile tug at the corner of her mouth.
She’ll deny everything later.
But for now—she knows she’s been caught.
And part of her doesn’t mind one bit.
-
By the time Ava makes it to lunch, she’s composed again—hair immaculate, sleeves rolled neatly, posture straight as a blade. Not a hint of hesitation in her step, not a flicker of emotion on her face. Back in full Ghost mode. Silent. Cool. Untouchable.
Exactly like she wasn’t just caught sneaking out of John’s room with sleep-creased cheeks and hoodie strings tangled around her wrist.
John’s already at the table, hunched slightly over his tray and quietly demolishing a plate of chicken and mashed potatoes like a man trying very, very hard to look casual. He doesn’t glance up when Ava sits across from him—but his shoulders shift just enough to say he notices.
And if his ears are still a little pink?
Nobody mentions it.
Bob is mid-story—something about a holiday event gone wrong and a child with projectile tinsel—when Ava sets her tray down with surgical precision and folds herself into the seat across from him like nothing happened. Like she hasn’t just detonated a silent social landmine in the hallway.
Bucky glances up from his own lunch—some kind of high-protein hell mix involving boiled eggs, black coffee, and precisely seven almonds.
“Good nap?” he says mildly.
Ava narrows her eyes across the table. “Fine.”
Bob, who has paused mid-chew, blinks innocently. “You seemed well-rested when you passed Yelena in the hall.”
John, mid-sip of water, chokes violently.
Coughing. Sputtering. A hand against his chest.
Ava doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But her jaw flexes just slightly.
Yelena, who has somehow managed to drape herself sideways over a chair like a bored cat, sips her soda with all the satisfaction of someone who lit the match and sat back to watch the blaze.
“She was glowing,” she says with a wicked grin.
“I don’t glow,” Ava mutters.
Bucky hums. “Neck kisses’ll do that.”
That shuts the table up for a full two seconds.
Ava freezes.
John’s entire face turns red.
Bob drops his fork. “ You did kiss his neck?! ”
Bucky shrugs like this is obvious. “Called it.”
John slaps a hand over his face. “You were eavesdropping ?”
“We were in the kitchen,” Bucky says, deadpan. “Walls are thin. Ghost is not as ghostly as she thinks.”
“I am literally a trained operative,” Ava hisses, voice low but sharp.
“Not trained for Yelena’s mouth ,” Bob says cheerfully.
He gets smacked in the shoulder—hard—by both John and Ava in perfect, synchronized precision.
“Ow,” Bob says brightly, rubbing his arm. “Worth it.”
Yelena lifts her soda like it’s a toast. “To neck kisses.”
Bob raises his orange Vitamin Water. “To slipping up! ”
Bucky smirks and tips his coffee. “To pretending we didn’t notice… for the last six months. ”
Ava sighs through her nose. John groans audibly.
Yelena beams. “Aw. Look at them. So soft. ”
John stares down at his plate like maybe if he focuses hard enough, he can become one with the mashed potatoes. “I should’ve stayed asleep.”
Ava doesn’t deny it.
But under the table, where no one can see, her hand is still wrapped around his.
And she doesn’t pull away.
-
Later that night, the compound is mostly quiet.
The kind of quiet that settles deep—soft and heavy. Like the building itself is finally breathing out.
Bob’s passed out on the couch, snoring lightly beneath a throw blanket he definitely didn’t start with. Someone (probably Yelena) must’ve draped it over him in an uncharacteristically gentle moment. One hand is still loosely holding the TV remote, thumb twitching now and then like he's dreaming of channel surfing.
Somewhere deeper in the compound, a faint metallic clang echoes—probably Yelena in her room, watching old spy movies or browsing knife reviews with ruthless commentary. The overhead lights have dimmed to their default night mode, casting everything in that soft bluish glow that turns steel into shadow.
Ava’s nowhere to be seen.
Which is not unusual. When she needs to recharge, she vanishes—into the dark corners, into silence. She’s smoke and silence and space, always has been.
John’s outside.
He leans against the back deck railing, hoodie pulled up tight around his shoulders, one hand curled around the edge of the wood like he’s anchoring himself there. The cold air cuts clean against his skin, but he doesn’t mind it. The chill is grounding. The stars are faint, blurred slightly by light pollution, but still—he watches them anyway. Eyes half-lidded. Breathing slow.
The door creaks open behind him.
He doesn’t look.
“Figured you’d still be brooding,” Bucky says, stepping out with two mugs in hand.
John smirks as he accepts one. “Thanks. Just… needed air.”
They stand together for a while. Quiet.
The kind of silence that doesn’t need explaining. Crickets chirp faintly in the grass. Somewhere in the distance, a low hum from the perimeter grid buzzes like a sleeping giant. The steam curls up from their mugs, briefly catching in the pale light above the deck before vanishing into the dark.
Then, Bucky says—easy, like they’ve been circling the conversation all night—“She doesn’t let people in, you know.”
John glances at him, mug halfway to his mouth. “Yeah. I figured.”
“Took her months to say more than three words to me,” Bucky continues. “And one of them was a threat. Pretty creative one, too. Involved a toothbrush and a locked supply closet.”
John huffs a low laugh. “Sounds like her.”
“She’s steady,” Bucky says, “but she’s sharp. She calculates everything. Always watching. Looking for when someone’s gonna flinch. Or turn. Or disappear.”
He doesn’t say it accusingly. Just as a fact. A quiet, lived-in truth.
John exhales slowly, watching the steam drift up past his face. “She’s… I dunno. She doesn’t always say what she’s feeling. But she always shows it.”
Bucky nods. “Yeah. And that’s rare, coming from someone like her.”
He shifts to lean beside John, shoulder to shoulder, both of them facing the sky now. The stars shimmer faintly overhead, cool and distant.
“You’re good for her,” Bucky says simply. “So don’t screw it up.”
John blinks. “Wow. That’s… really touching. You got a Hallmark card that says the same thing?”
Bucky raises a brow. “I did, actually. Yelena used it as a dartboard.”
They both snort.
Then Bucky adds, more serious now, voice low, “Seriously. You’ve been through hell. So has she. You find something real in the middle of all this chaos? That’s not nothing. That’s rare.”
John nods slowly. “Yeah. I know.”
He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s solid. Warm. A space to rest in.
Behind them, the door creaks open again.
Soft footsteps. Bare against the wood. A whisper of fabric moving.
“Hey,” Ava says quietly.
John straightens, already turning toward her. “Hey.”
She’s wrapped in one of the compound’s oversized blankets, swaddled in folds of soft gray like she stepped right out of a dream. Hair loose. Eyes soft. She moves with that same quiet grace she always has, but it’s gentler now. Less guarded.
John sets his mug down and meets her halfway without a word.
She lifts the edge of the blanket in silent invitation. He steps into the warmth of it—of her—and wraps his arms around her waist as she folds into his side. They don’t kiss. Don’t need to. They just stand there, two halves of a whole, the kind of closeness that doesn’t ask for permission.
Bucky watches from the railing. Leaning back. Mug in hand.
He doesn’t say a word.
He just shakes his head, slow and amused, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like he’s seeing something good that snuck up on them all. Something earned.
And then he turns back toward the stars, lifts his coffee, and lets them have the night.
-
She doesn’t say much as they walk.
The blanket’s still draped over her shoulders, one edge pulled around John’s back as he walks beside her. Their arms brush. His fingers find hers eventually, slow and unsure at first, then confident when she doesn’t pull away.
The cold doesn't bite as hard when he's near.
They don’t go far—just to the end of the deck, past the railing, where the trees begin to blur the edges of the night. A few more steps and they’d be in the dark, but here... here there’s moonlight. Enough to see. Enough to feel real.
John stops first, his hand squeezing hers once. Ava glances up at him, sees the way he looks at the sky like it might give him answers. He’s quieter tonight. Softer.
She knows why.
She turns her face slightly, letting the night air cool her skin. Letting the silence stretch. John doesn’t push it. He never does.
And that’s the thing.
He doesn’t demand anything from her. Doesn’t try to drag words out of her mouth like others used to. He just shows up . And stays.
That’s what gets her, more than anything.
Because she’s spent years with people who vanished the second they couldn’t unravel her. Years watching backs walk away when she didn’t bend. But John?
John stays—even when she’s quiet. Especially then.
Her hand tightens in his.
She doesn't need to say thank you. He can read it in the way she leans into his side, in the way she lets her head tip gently against his shoulder. In the way she stays out here longer than she usually would. No exit. No retreat.
She doesn’t need to disappear tonight.
And that means something.
Behind them, she hears the faint clink of ceramic against wood. A shuffle of boots on deck boards. She glances over her shoulder and sees Bucky still standing by the railing, silhouetted by the faint light spilling from the kitchen window. He hasn’t moved.
He doesn’t speak.
Just meets her gaze across the distance and gives the smallest nod.
Ava holds his eyes for half a second. Nods back.
No words. Just understanding.
She turns back toward John. He looks down at her when he feels the shift, a question in his eyes. She doesn’t answer it aloud. Instead, she lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss—barely there—to the back of his knuckles.
Then leans her head back against his shoulder.
Here.
Still here.
And for once, that’s more than enough.
-
He’s never really known how to do quiet right.
Silence used to mean waiting for the next hit. The next order. The next explosion. It was the breath-before—the stillness before things got worse. He never liked it.
But this?
This is different.
He walks beside her with the blanket tugged around both of them, Ava’s fingers looped through his like they’ve done it a thousand times. She hasn’t said much since she came out—just that soft hey that knocked the wind out of him more than he’ll admit.
She always does that.
Hits him hardest with the gentlest things.
He wants to ask her if she’s okay. If she’s cold. If she wants to go back inside. But something about her expression—relaxed but alert, that half-shielded softness he’s learned to read—tells him not to fill the space. Not tonight.
So he doesn’t.
They walk to the end of the deck, where the lights fade and the trees begin to hush the air. He stops there, not wanting to break whatever’s holding this together. Her hand stays in his.
And that’s when it hits him.
She’s still here.
Not just physically. Not just standing next to him. But with him. After all the teasing, after the awkwardness, after getting caught, after the kind of vulnerability he’s still not used to showing anyone—she’s here. Wrapped in a blanket that still smells like the both of them, shoulders relaxed, steps easy.
No mask. No walls. Not right now.
And maybe that shouldn’t mean everything.
But it does.
He stares at the sky for a while. Not really seeing it. Just needing the open space. The cool air. The sound of her breathing next to him.
Then, without warning, she lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss—light, brief, steady—to the back of his knuckles.
And he nearly forgets how to breathe.
It’s not big. It’s not dramatic.
It’s just real .
She leans her head against his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he won’t ruin it. Like she trusts him not to move.
And damn if that doesn’t make him feel more grounded than any medal ever did.
He shifts slightly, pressing his lips to the top of her head. Lets it linger.
Doesn’t say a word.
He doesn’t need to.
Because right now, under the stars, with her beside him and the quiet wrapped around them like armor—it finally feels like enough.
Like maybe, just maybe , he doesn’t have to keep running.
Not from this.
Not from her.
Not from himself.
-
The next morning,
John wakes up on the couch.
Ava’s half-draped over him, one arm across his chest, legs tangled with his, their shared blanket barely clinging to the edge of the cushions. His back hurts, his neck’s a little stiff, but honestly? He doesn’t want to move. The quiet is too good.
Sunlight is just beginning to pool through the window, turning the floor gold.
And then—
FLASH.
Whirrrr–click–CHUNK.
John flinches.
Ava doesn’t even open her eyes. She just groans softly against his shoulder.
“Bob,” John says, voice gravelly with sleep, “was that a Polaroid? ”
There’s a beat.
“...No?”
John peels open one eye.
Bob is crouched a few feet away, grinning like a gremlin, holding a still-developing photo in one hand and the giant vintage Polaroid camera in the other like it’s a newborn child.
“You’re dead, ” Ava mutters without lifting her head.
Bob gasps. “It’s for the team archives! Look at it—look how domestic you are! You could be on a cereal box. ”
The camera whirs again.
This time, Ava’s hand shoots out from under the blanket and smacks the Polaroid clean out of Bob’s grip. It hits the rug with a thud , narrowly missing the developing photo.
“I warned you,” she says flatly.
In the kitchen, Yelena leans on the counter, sipping orange juice straight from the carton.
“Just so we’re clear,” she calls, “I had nothing to do with this. But I am emotionally invested.”
Bucky’s behind her, arms crossed, sipping coffee like he’s watching live theater. “Polaroid was a nice touch,” he says. “Old-school. Bold move.”
John rubs both hands over his face. “We’re gonna pretend none of this happened.”
Yelena raises her toast. “We will absolutely not .”
Bob crawls over to retrieve the photo, holding it up to the light. “Oh my god. Look at you two. You’re so soft. Like... emotionally plush. ”
Ava sits up slowly, hair wild, blanket slipping off one shoulder. “I will throw you off the deck.”
Bob doesn’t even flinch. “Worth it.”
John sits up with her, cracking his neck. “You’re all way too invested in our sleeping arrangements.”
“Technically,” Bucky says dryly, “we’ve all been betting on your sleeping arrangements.”
Ava narrows her eyes. “What.”
Yelena smirks. “Bucky owes me twenty. Bob owes me a back massage. John owes me respect .”
Bob holds up the photo. “Can I at least hang this on the fridge?”
“No,” John and Ava say in unison.
Bob hangs it on the fridge anyway.
Ava stands, blanket now worn like a battle cloak. She stalks toward the kitchen. John follows, hoodie half-off one shoulder, protein bar in hand.
Yelena waves her toast. “Breakfast royalty, coming through.”
Bucky claps John on the shoulder as he passes. “Welcome to the circus, Romeo.”
John just groans. “Do not call me that.”
Behind them, the Polaroid develops fully.
Ava asleep on John’s chest. His arms around her. The blanket tangled. Peaceful. Soft. Real.
Bob sticks a neon pink sticker on the corner.
“FIRST OFFICIAL COUCH CUDDLE: DATE RECORDED.”
He grins proudly.
“Team scrapbook’s gonna destroy them,” he whispers.
And from the hallway—
“I heard that!” Ava shouts.
Bob yelps. Yelena howls. Bucky just smiles into his coffee.
It’s another normal day at the compound.
God help them all.