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For how stubbornly guarded she was, Ava Starr was actually fairly easy to read. Unlike all the heavily redacted files that barely prepped John for just how much of a handful the Infamous Ghost Wanted by Fifteen Nations would turn out to be in his life. Her face gave away more than she apparently realized, like it was the one thing SHIELD forgot to train her how to control. They concealed her identity behind that robotic mask, like their most covert asset might accidentally give away all the agency's secrets with a badly timed blink. From the scrunch of her nose to the twist of her mouth, her dangerously variable moods flitted so openly across her expressions.
He knew when she was annoyed at him, and if it was more the teasing way that was trying to provoke him to play along, or when she really did need her space and for him to back off. When she was bored during meetings, and her eyes glazed over as if she were making a grocery list or more likely a hit list. When she felt nervous during the scrutiny of press conferences, eyeing each corner of her surroundings for the nearest escape route while Yelena took over answering the more probing questions. And how frustrated Ava got when she lost at team poker night yet again, never understanding how her bluff was called every single time.
If not for the sharp precision of her eyeliner, sometimes John thinks she's never even bothered to look in the mirror because surely she'd notice how plainly visible her emotions played across her features. Because the moment he tries to call her out on any of them, she's just as quick to deflect and evade. She's either deep in denial, or a very bad fake.
Because he catches the way Ava looks at him, with those intense stormy eyes that track his every move. And sure, he knows part of it is his ego that insists she so clearly wants him even as she gets in another jab. Decreasingly harsh over the months, clearly she still enjoys trying to get under his skin. And even though he knows what she's doing, he allows her to get that rise out of him again and again. The tension thickens as he verbally pushes back the way that gets her further worked up, wanting to see how far she'll take this, where the escalation might lead.
Except she inevitably swerves before they can collide in their game of chicken, leaving him more frustrated than ever. Each of their teammates by now have commented something along the lines of them needing to get a room, so he's confident it's not just his wishful delusions.
He knows he can't get her to admit to anything directly, that calling attention to her thinly veiled innuendo and habit of getting right up into his space seems to push her even further away, more avoidant in the week following before she inevitably starts circling right back around for more. She's like that skittish stray dumpster cat that Bucky dragged back to the tower, whenever somebody's making a bologna sandwich and a desire for a nibble overrides its distrust. He's certainly ended up with scratches from both.
John was raised to respect the golden rule of romantic pursuit, of no means no. But over the months of living together, he's come to the conclusion that Ava really doesn't know how to express what she wants. In how she always waits for somebody to offer, and she'll still shake her head, waiting for insistence before she caves in. Hardly ever a 'please' or a 'thank you' uttered, but as always the sentiment of such is easily read so he'll take what he can get.
'I was raised in a lab,' is her repetitive go-to justification for all the ways she's socially inept, for all the mundane things she's never experienced. Sometimes it feels like an empty excuse she clings to, but John has no idea what exactly went on in that lab that made her so clearly avoidant of indulging in anything that made her happy.
He doesn't feel like being the creep that takes advantage. And both of them should know better anyway.
Except. John's not really the one doing the creeping.
His room isn't right next to hers, not directly to share a wall. But it is positioned between hers and the way to the kitchen. It's the second time that he catches her passing back through, too surprised by the suddenness of the first, that John calls her out.
"You can't keep invading my private space as a shortcut," John argues. Isn't that the reasoning she used to keep everyone out of her own room? He's allowed boundaries too.
"I'm not snooping around and going through your stuff," Ava defends, clutching to a mug. She's worked as a spy, so he knows she has a very hypocritical and skewed view of privacy rights that makes her feel entitled to everyone else's secrets without revealing her own. He's caught her listening in on their teammates multiple occasions, lurking around corners for whatever reason. Probably habit.
"That's not the point," he huffs out. "I could be busy doing things!"
"Like what?" Ava's head tilts, her nose scrunched slightly as she considers. "Looking at porn?" And what seems like an attempt at mocking takes on an edge of intrigue by the time she considers the implication of her words.
He meant changing, or having a very serious phone conversation with his divorce lawyer, or… but his face reddens, because yeah. That too. "I don't need to hear you bitching and moaning because you saw my ass. I know you were 'raised in a lab' and they didn't bother to teach you basic manners, but you're supposed to knock at doors before barging through."
Ava rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, your pasty arse is safe from me."
And then she's gone again, before he can even make fun of her for 'arse.' He repeats it a few times, and shakes his head in reluctant amusement.
Despite the warning, she doesn't stop using his room as her personal transportation hub. Not just through to the kitchen, but a few times she's dropped straight through his ceiling, down through to the floor below. He's pretty sure she's fucking with him, because by the floor plans he's meticulously studied of the tower's layout in case of an emergency, directly below his room is the laundry facility. He knows she doesn't change outfits often enough for that. (He's pretty sure her suit can't go through the wash anyway.)
Despite the warning, or maybe because of it, she does eventually catch him in the middle of changing. He doesn't see her, with his back turned while he's halfway stripped down to his boxers, but he does hear the sudden inhale of breath. She might be an expert in stealth, but his enhanced hearing doesn't allow her to completely escape his notice. He pretends not to, though, slowly removing the rest of his clothing, waiting for her reaction to the impromptu show.
Honestly, he half expects her to throw something at him, make some remark as she feigns shocked and appalled at his indecency and he'd accuse her of bringing this upon herself. And maybe he could finally get her to admit that she wanted it.
Nothing, but a faint creak in the floorboards as if she's shifted her weight. He can feel her invisible gaze burning into his back and the corresponding heat in his face, and that's when he loses the courage to tell her off. Picking up his pajama shirt, John finishes changing.
He's not sure at what point she left, but her absence leaves the room feeling particularly empty.
There's no further protest, no call outs when she starts coming by at the same time every night, the soft fluttering of her phasing through the wall announcing her presence. Her steps are slower now, less hurried on her way to the kitchen. When she comes back through again about five minutes later the air smells faintly of something herbal that lingers as she watches him get ready for bed. Sometimes he thinks she takes a seat in the chair until he's ready to drift off to sleep, but he can't prove it.
One time he does find a strand of her hair on his pillow, though, and he's not sure what to make of that.
He wants to call her out, make her acknowledge whatever this is, but he doesn't want to disrupt this strangely intimate routine either. Because he's been lonely since Olivia left him, doesn't want to send Ava running off too.
But he has to figure out how to make some sort of move. She's driving him mad with dangling her poorly repressed desires just out of reach of his growing sexual frustration. If nothing else, he needs some sort of outlet before he combusts.
During the day she hardly looks at him at all. She chats with Bucky about new security features, spars with Yelena, comes back from the library with Bob with piles of books each in their arms. He even catches her laughing with Alexei at some reality tv show. But she continues to take the seat next to him in meetings, and brews just enough coffee for him to have a still warm cup after his morning workout routine.
This particular evening after giving himself a variety of pep talks, John doesn't politely wait those extra five minutes for her kettle to boil before stripping down ahead of their unspoken schedule. By the time she's passing back through his wall with a faint prismatic disruption of air molecules, John's already in bed, still very much naked atop his covers. Back propped against the headboard, he's got one leg bent at the knee and a tentative hand curled between his legs, not wanting to fully begin until the arrival of his audience. He's coaxed himself to a hardened state, and it wasn't difficult with the anticipation of her catching him like this. No porn required.
Just when he's certain this is about to horrifically backfire and he's about to end up with his dick phased through his own throat, her soft gasp has his skin prickling with awareness. It takes everything to prevent a knowing smirk at imagining Ava's parted lips and widened eyes at what she's stumbled upon. Turns out she's just as easy to read when he can't see her.
Of course she could leave if she really wanted, if she was far too scandalized by her own intrusive actions. But John welcomes her to stay with a few firm strokes and a deep, rumbled groan of pleasure. Normally he practices the art of silent masturbation as courtesy, a skill perfected in the army, but for her… he wants to give the full demonstration of what she's missing out on.
He wonders if she remembers her 'long' remark in the back of the truck, if she feels quite so smug now. Because the gun certainly wasn't compensating for anything.
She confirms her interest with a small needy whimper that washes over his senses, and John's cock twitches in his grasp. Jesus, does she have any idea how effortlessly alluring she is? His hand speeds up, pumping eagerly along his length to the fantasy of her tight body bouncing upon it. Of course he's never seen her even close to naked, always confined to the many layers of her overly complicated suit. But he's seen the way she moves, swift and elegant, and if she fucked with half the energy she fought with…
His eyes close to hold onto that mental image, listening to her careful footsteps approach closer to his bed. His hips lift off it, bucking into his tightening fist and drawing out another moan.
He can hear the clatter of the mug as it's hastily set upon his bedside table and he can only guess why she's freed up her hands. But when he opens his eyes hoping- no, she's still just as invisible. He stares challengingly in the space he knows she occupies, with slower, prolonged strokes in attempt to provoke any reaction. He's willing to wait her out.
Weight presses against the foot of the bed, indents in the sheets where her fingers must be digging in. He can feel a shift, slow rhythmic rocking, and realizes heatedly that she's grinding right against the edge of his mattress. Her breaths are warm against the bare skin of his legs, and he shivers with a rush of excitement. It's not exactly where he wants her, but it's certainly closer than anything he's gotten.
"Ava," he groans out, beckoning. Her whine of protest answers, but there's not much effort put in for either of them to continue the charade she's not there. The muffled sound of her getting off to his one-man show is enough for John to bring himself to completion with a few more expert jerks of his wrist. He comes hot and thick over the expanse of his bare abdomen, and he's not even fully wrung out when he feels the swipe of something wet against his skin.
John nearly startles in surprise, at the sight of a very visible Ava hunched right over him. Her cheeks flushed with exertion, pupils blown wide as she stares back with almost an equal amount of surprise. Her tongue shamelessly flicks again right through the mess, fingers tracing her lips as she takes in the taste. Pleased.
He almost forgets to breathe. She's got a bit in her loose strands of hair that brush between them, that he can't bring himself to point out. He reaches out for her, wanting to pull Ava in.
But she's already dissolved right through the air, leaving him tingling with the static of her absence. Forgetting her tea behind, he's almost tempted to deliver it to her room himself, before deciding better of it.
He'll try again tomorrow.