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brookghaib-blog · 4 days ago

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High on Her Love

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the perfect, in love couple, until Thanos successed. Years after the blip, Bob is still coping with the loss of his late girlfriend, Y/N L/N. Alone in a world that he hated, he finds ways and paths to find her everyday, not caring about the consequences. Even if it creates his void.

Word Count: 7,3k

Warning: before the thunderbolts events!, substance abuse and addiction, mental health struggles, including psychosis and hallucinations, emotional and psychological trauma, suicidal ideation and overdose, violence and arrest scenes, intense grief and loss, themes of despair and emotional distress

The mattress underneath him was damp again. He didn’t know if it was sweat, a spilled drink, or the piss from the guy passed out in the corner, whose name he never bothered to learn. The springs groaned every time he shifted, a metallic whine that always reminded him of the old bed frame they used to have in Gainesville — the one Y/N said squeaked like a guilty conscience. He used to laugh at that. Now it sounded like mockery. The room stank of chemical residue and desperation, the walls yellowed by smoke that curled endlessly from half-lit blunts and broken dreams. Time didn’t pass here, not really. The sun didn’t touch this part of the house anymore, not through the grime-caked blinds or the plastic tarp they’d duct-taped over the broken window. Just shadows and smoke. And her.

She always came in the haze.

Bob lay on his back, pupils blown wide, a crust of dried blood beneath one nostril, his lips cracked and trembling as the drug took hold — something synthetic, something stronger than memory, something that made the edges of his guilt soft enough to survive. His fingertips twitched, unconsciously reaching for her, even though she wasn’t there. Never really was. But that didn’t matter. The high brought her anyway. Not the way she looked the day she vanished — not the wind-swept confusion on her face when the Blip took her mid-lecture, mid-sentence, mid-breath — no, the drug didn’t give him trauma. It gave him lies. Mercy.

She stood in the doorway now, barefoot, wearing his old U2 shirt — the one so faded you could barely read the tour dates. Her hair glowed gold in the dusty light that didn’t exist, and her smile was soft, slow, like warm honey pooling behind his ribs. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she whispered, crouching beside him, her hand feather-light against his cheek. Bob exhaled a shaking breath, tears streaking silently into his unshaven beard.

“I missed you,” he choked. His voice cracked like old paint. “I — I didn’t know what to do without you, Y/N. I swear I looked for you. I waited…”

“I know,” she said, kissing his forehead. Her lips were cold. She always said his forehead got sweaty in his sleep. He laughed once, a dead sound, and closed his eyes. She was here. That’s all that mattered. Her fingers ran through his matted hair, scratching gently, lovingly. “You did your best, baby.”

But he hadn’t. That was the truth the drug couldn’t quite smother. The needle beside the bed, still sticky, told the truth. The eviction notice, crumpled under the mattress, told the truth. The calls he never returned from his old boss at the mechanic’s shop. The voicemail from Y/N’s mom — he never listened to it all the way. Her voice broke too early.

He’d fallen so fast. The first few weeks after the Blip, he’d stayed strong. Convinced himself she’d come back. That it was a mistake. That maybe the Avengers would figure it out. But then months passed. Then a year. He started forgetting the sound of her voice. Started wondering if he made her up. The worst part wasn’t that she was gone. It was that the world moved on like she never mattered. People forgot her. Professors scrubbed her name from the roster. Roommates sold her stuff. Bob kept her toothbrush, even when he had nowhere to keep it. He held it like it might summon her.

And now, four years later, he had nothing left but poison and delusion.

She pulled him into a sitting position now, straddling his lap like she used to when they'd talk for hours after midnight. Her arms wrapped around him, grounding him in unreality. “You’re so tired,” she whispered, rocking him. “You don’t have to keep hurting.”

“I’m not strong without you,” Bob muttered. “I tried to be. I tried to work. I tried to stop.”

Her head tilted. Her eyes glinted — not with malice, but with something close to pity. The kind of pity that makes you hate yourself. “But you didn’t,” she said, and for a moment the room dimmed, and her voice warped, low and distant, like underwater sound.

Bob shook his head. “Don’t leave me again. Please.”

She smiled. “Then don’t wake up.”

The room throbbed. The walls pulsed like a heartbeat. In the corner, the other addict — Sam or Sal or something — stirred in his sleep, groaning. But Bob didn’t hear it anymore. The drug surged again, fresh warmth flooding his veins. He leaned into the hallucination, letting it swallow him whole. Y/N’s lips found his, gentle and ghostly. Her hands dug into his chest like she could unzip him, crawl inside, stitch herself into the gaps. She murmured nonsense now, lullabies from old days, half-remembered jokes, love letters etched in smoke. He wept into her shoulder.

Outside, the world spun on. Cars passed. Families ate dinner. Heroes rebuilt cities. But Bob Reynolds lay rotting in a dark room, surrounded by ash and chemical lies, whispering to someone who no longer existed — or maybe never had — and begging her to stay just a little longer.

She always did.

Until the high wore off.

The line between dreaming and dying was thin now — a breath, a needle, a prayer mumbled into burnt fingertips. Bob didn’t know which side he was on anymore. Maybe he never really knew. He used to measure time by sunrises through the cracked kitchen blinds, by the sound of her laugh echoing from the shower, by the clink of her keys when she came home late from the lab. Now, he measured it by doses. How many did it take to hear her voice again? How far under did he need to go before she felt real enough to hold?

The drug — whatever it was — had changed since he started mixing. He no longer bothered keeping track of the names. Heroin. Fentanyl. Crushed pills from nameless bags bought with the last scrap of pawned memory. Some of it was tainted. Some of it should’ve killed him. He almost wished it would. But he’d built a tolerance to death. Not love.

And love was the thing that clawed him open every time she appeared.

He injected again. No hesitation. His hands moved like ritual — vein, draw, press, release. He leaned back against the wall, the paint cold against his spine, and waited. It came faster now. The drug didn’t waste time. His body knew what it wanted. So did his mind.

The room changed.

It wasn’t the piss-soaked mattress anymore, not the cracked drywall or the mildew stink. No — suddenly he was on their old couch. The blue one she insisted on buying even though it clashed with everything else in the apartment. The sun poured through the windows like it used to. She sat beside him, barefoot, her legs tucked under her, an open textbook in her lap.

“You’re late,” she said, without looking up.

Bob stared at her. His throat constricted. He couldn’t speak. She was too perfect.

She glanced up, her smile bright, beautiful, wrong. “I made you coffee,” she added, nodding toward the table. There was a mug. It steamed. It smelled like cinnamon — the way she used to brew it for him in winter.

He reached for it with trembling hands, but when his fingers touched the ceramic, it dissolved into ash. The hallucination cracked, only slightly — a jagged edge in the illusion. He gasped.

“You’re breaking it,” she whispered suddenly. Her face had changed. Her smile was still there, but her eyes had gone too wide. Too fixed. She wasn’t blinking.

“Don’t do that,” she said. Her voice had flattened. She reached forward, touched his face. Her fingers were cold again. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not,” he croaked. “I’m trying to stay. I—”

Her hand closed around his wrist — hard. Too strong. Her nails dug into his skin. “Then take more.”

The room shimmered. Shifted. He was back in the college courtyard now. She stood under a tree, waving at him like she used to. He remembered this day. She wore a yellow dress. She was laughing at something he’d said.

But the dress was soaked with blood. He didn’t know why. She didn’t seem to notice.

He stumbled forward, but the ground beneath his feet became water, then glass, then needles. The illusion was unstable, like a dream fighting to stay alive. He needed another hit.

His hands scrambled for the syringe. He found one, not knowing if it was clean, not caring. He pushed it in with practiced ease. His blood sang.

The world solidified.

Now she was in bed beside him again. They were tangled in sheets, her breath on his neck, her heartbeat thudding against his chest. “I love you,” she murmured. “You’re the only thing that ever made me feel safe.”

Bob clung to her like a man drowning. “I need you,” he said. “I can’t do this alone. Please don’t go. Please.”

“I never left,” she said. Her voice was inside his skull now, vibrating in his bones. “You brought me back. You made me real again.”

Her hand ran along his chest. His skin sizzled under the touch — too hot, too cold, too wrong. But he didn’t care. He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, trying to find the warmth she used to have. But her skin was like marble now. Like a corpse. He ignored it. He could pretend.

He always pretended.

“You’re dying,” she whispered suddenly. Her voice was both hers and not — like a hundred voices in one. “You’re choosing this. You know that, right?”

He didn’t answer.

Outside, someone was pounding on the door. Maybe the landlord. Maybe the cops. Maybe the Thunderbolts. Maybe God. He didn’t care.

“I love you,” he said again, but this time the words felt like lies. Like parroted noise. Like desperation in a man who couldn’t remember what real love felt like, only the shape it left behind.

And as she smiled again — too wide, too sharp — he realized something.

She wasn’t her anymore.

She hadn’t been for a long, long time.

But he’d given up too much to admit it.

So he kissed her anyway.

And reached for the next needle.

It had rained that night. One of those sticky Florida thunderstorms that shook the windows and soaked the sidewalks in steam. Bob remembered it not because of the lightning or the sirens, but because of the way Y/N danced in it — barefoot in the parking lot, arms out, mouth open like she was trying to drink the whole sky.

“You’re gonna get struck,” he called from the doorway, laughing through a cigarette he hadn’t lit yet.

She turned, eyes bright, drenched and radiant and alive, water dripping from her lashes. “Then come save me, hero,” she teased, her voice echoing between the apartment buildings. Bob dropped the cigarette and ran out after her, grabbing her by the waist and spinning her in the rain. Her laughter clung to him like the thunder never could.

Later, they lay tangled on the floor, too wet for the bed, wrapped in old towels and each other’s arms. The apartment smelled like lavender and mildew and cheap takeout. A lab manual lay forgotten on the coffee table. Her hair was still damp as it spread across his chest, rising and falling with his breath.

“You ever think about the future?” she asked.

Bob blinked at the ceiling. “Sometimes.”

“I mean really think about it. Where we’ll be in ten years. If we’ll still be here.” Her finger traced small circles against his ribs. “I think about it all the time.”

“Terrifies me,” he admitted. “Future feels like this... wall I can’t see past. Like it’s there, and I know I’m supposed to climb it, but I’ve got no rope. No idea how high it goes.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. “But you’re trying. You always try.”

He shook his head. “Feels like I’m dragging you down sometimes.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. You’re getting your degree, curing the world or whatever it is biomedical engineers do. And I’m... what? Fixing cars on a good week, taking odd jobs on the bad ones. Hustling rent money and hoping I don’t get fired.”

“I don’t care about that,” she whispered fiercely, like she was telling him a secret. “I didn’t fall in love with your resume, Bob. I fell in love with the guy who gave me his last twenty bucks because I was crying over a broken laptop. Who stayed up with me through two all-nighters just so I wouldn’t fall asleep in the middle of my thermodynamics exam. Who—”

He kissed her, quieting the words before they swallowed him whole.

“You’re not dragging me down,” she said against his lips. “You’re the reason I feel like I can keep climbing.”

For a moment, the world stilled. The rain outside slowed. The walls glowed with the soft flicker of a candle on the nightstand. Everything was whole. He was whole.

But memory is cruel.

Because as the vision began to fade, as the drug wore off, the warmth turned cold. The rain stopped, and the ceiling above him cracked back into yellow-stained plaster. The candles vanished. The towel on his chest became a filthy hoodie. The body beside him dissolved into nothing.

She was gone again.

And this time, her absence hurt worse — because now he remembered.

Bob sat up, his breath shallow, clawing at his scalp, trying to tear the memory out before it turned to grief. His face twisted in a soundless scream, one hand slamming into the floor, over and over, until his knuckles split.

There had been love. There had been laughter. There had been life.

And now he traded all of it for a high that lasted thirty minutes if he was lucky.

“Come back,” he rasped, blood mixing with spit as he fell sideways, curling in on himself like a dying thing. “I swear I’ll be better. Just... come back.”

The Florida sun was a bastard. It didn’t warm — it punished. Beamed down like a god with a grudge, baking the pavement, warping the air into heat-shimmering waves. And inside the oversized chicken suit, Bob Reynolds was sweating through his skin, through the layers of tattered polyester, through the meth chewing its way through his blood like termites.

He was high again. Of course he was. Being sober in a suit like this — spinning a sign that read “FINGER-LICKIN’ FRIDAYS – $5 BUCKETS” while cars honked and teenagers filmed him for TikTok — was its own kind of hell. So yeah, he hit the pipe hard this morning. Twice. Maybe three times. He couldn’t remember. He didn’t really need to.

The meth made everything move a little too fast. Colors popped. Shapes jittered at the edges. The sign he was spinning seemed to echo as it flipped in front of him, hypnotic and ridiculous. The chicken head — oversized, comically round, and stupidly grinning — swallowed all sound except his own breath. Sweat poured into his eyes. He couldn’t feel his legs. He was floating and burning and alive, but also barely there.

And Y/N — fuck, she’d been with him all day. Sitting on the curb while he danced like a joke. Laughing in that soft, tilted way she used to when he did something dumb but harmless. Her arms crossed. Her eyes always on him. God, he loved when she watched him. Even if she was just a drug shadow now.

He did a spin for her. The sign clattered against the wind, and he almost tripped over the curb. She giggled. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, voice like honey over broken glass.

“I do it for you,” he muttered under the chicken mask. “All of this. It’s all for you.”

Cars rushed past. Horns blared. A few people shouted things — mostly unintelligible. But one stopped. A blue Honda Civic, low to the ground, with music thudding loud enough to shake Bob’s ribs.

The window rolled down.

“Hey, freakshow!” the guy in the driver’s seat barked. “You forget your dignity in the damn meth bin?”

Bob froze. The sign faltered in his grip. The meth buzz twitched behind his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” the guy continued. He had sunglasses on. Flashy. Fake. “You too cooked to even dance right? Jesus, you look like a walking mental breakdown.”

Bob stared at him. The chicken head made it hard to see clearly, but he didn’t need to see. He felt the insult like it landed with fists.

The guy laughed and reached out of the window — flicked a crumpled napkin at him. “Here, clean yourself up, Tweaker Nugget.”

And something inside Bob snapped.

He dropped the sign. No warning. No shout. Just pure movement.

In a single blur of sun-drenched rage, he tore the chicken head off — sweat and hair sticking to his forehead — and hurled it into the street. His eyes were wild. Glassy. Animal. He crossed the sidewalk in three steps and slammed his fist onto the Civic’s hood.

“Say it again,” he growled.

The guy in the car jolted. “Whoa, man—”

“I SAID SAY IT AGAIN!” Bob screamed, spittle flying, veins throbbing in his neck like ropes. “YOU THINK I’M A FUCKING JOKE?”

Meth made his vision double. Triple. The guy’s face twisted like a funhouse mirror. Bob slammed the hood again. Then the windshield. A crack spiderwebbed beneath his fist. The driver panicked, threw the car into gear, and peeled off with a screech — almost running over Bob’s foot.

He stood there, shaking, chest heaving, fists bloody. Onlookers gawked from the gas station. One woman whispered into a phone. A manager shouted something from inside the chicken shack.

But Bob didn’t hear any of it.

Because in the thick, electric silence after the outburst — a silence only rage can create — he heard a voice. Deep. Velvet-smooth. Familiar like a forgotten scream.

“I love how calm you are.”

It wasn’t Y/N.

It wasn’t even himself.

It was the other.

The Void.

Bob blinked. His knuckles stung. His heart rattled against his ribs like a dying engine. The sign lay in the road, broken in two. The chicken head was crushed under a truck’s tire, feathers scattered like roadkill.

And Y/N? She was gone again. No curb. No laughter. No smile. Just sun, sweat, and the rising nausea of comedown.

He stumbled backward, dropped to his knees beside the costume wreckage. His hands shook violently — not from fear, but withdrawal. Rage. Memory. A lifetime of being almost enough.

People whispered around him.

But the only thing he could hear was that voice again.

“You were always going to break. I’m just the one who caught you.”

Bob didn’t cry, he laughed. Slowly he felt how his head was slowly giving up, turning into madness.

His lips were split from the sun, his eyes glassy with the aftershock of methamphetamine fury. He was laughing — high-pitched, wet, hollow — the kind of laugh you only hear from people who have nothing left to burn but themselves.

The feathers from the chicken suit fluttered around him in lazy spirals.

Then the red and blue lights arrived.

Two cruisers. Lights swirling. Sirens a lazy afterthought.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move until the first officer approached with that cautious, squared-shoulder walk — the one they’re trained to use when dealing with the twitchy and the cracked.

“Sir,” the cop said. “Put the sign down.”

Bob looked up, eyes wide with something far from reason. “He said I looked like a joke,” he said, voice flat and almost dreamy. “So I showed him funny.”

The second cop came in behind the first, already reaching for cuffs. “You’re done for the day, buddy.”

Bob dropped the sign.

And then something inside him dropped.

He launched forward without warning, his shoulder colliding with the first officer’s chest. The two went sprawling onto the pavement. Bob’s fists flew fast, wild — no rhythm, no sense, just noise and teeth and flailing. He wasn’t fighting them. Not really.

He was fighting it. The silence. The guilt. The goddamn absence.

The second officer grabbed him by the arm, but Bob spun, elbowed him in the temple, snarling like a wounded animal. They both wrestled him to the ground. A knee pressed into his back. He didn’t care. He was screaming now — not words, just sound. Rage made flesh. Blood smeared across the pavement from his busted lip, his nose, from somewhere else he didn’t feel yet. He bit the curb. Cursed the sky. Screamed her name.

“Y/N!”

The cops were shouting too. Calling for backup. Threatening tasers. One of them punched him in the side of the head.

That’s when it really started.

The hallucinations.

Everything went soft — blurred at the edges like watercolor running under rain. The heat became cold. The hands on him became hers — soft, smooth, trembling. She was above him, straddling his waist, weeping as she tried to hold him down.

“Stop,” she begged, her hands on his shoulders. “Baby, stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

His breath hitched. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to be enough. For you. For everything.”

“You were,” she said, but her voice cracked mid-sentence. She was crying harder now, blood running from her eyes like tears. “You were enough.”

And then — from the shadows of the hallucination, standing just behind her — came him.

The Void.

Or maybe not the Void. Maybe just the part of Bob that had been rotting in silence all these years. A man-shaped silhouette, eyes like tar, voice as smooth as silk and rot.

“I love how calm you are.”

The ground beneath him split. Not literally — but to Bob, it might as well have. The sky tore open. Sirens warped into laughter. His body jerked. The officers had finally tased him.

Electricity snapped through his spine, but he barely noticed. He was too deep. Too far down. His screams turned to sobs. His sobs turned to gasps. He couldn’t tell if he was being dragged or buried.

When the cuffs finally snapped around his wrists, he was muttering into the pavement:

“She was just here. She was just here…”

They threw him in the back seat. The doors slammed like coffin lids.

The hallucinations flickered — static now. Y/N sitting beside him, one moment whispering his name, the next silent, her face blurred and melting like wax.

The Void sat across from them both.

Smiling.

“You’re finally letting go.”

Bob rested his forehead against the window, tears smearing into snot and spit and blood. The cop up front radioed something in calm tones. Battery. Disorderly conduct. Possibly resisting. Possibly high. Definitely lost.

And in the reflection of the glass, Bob saw her again.

Y/N.

Looking right at him.

But her eyes were hollow now.

The cell was gray. Not the kind of gray that hinted at blue or silver or even shadow — just flat, dull, dead gray. Concrete poured without care, smeared with forgotten fingerprints and old gum stuck between the cracks. The metal bench was bolted into the wall like a punishment, its surface cold and sticky with sweat from whoever came before. Fluorescent lights buzzed above like dying insects, flickering every so often in a rhythm that didn’t sync with anything except madness. There was no clock. No window. Just the thrum of air conditioning, the occasional shout from another room, and the sour scent of bleach that never quite covered the piss.

They’d stripped him of everything. His belt. His shoes. Even the frayed bracelet she once made him — red thread and a stupid plastic heart she’d knotted on after their one-year anniversary, now long stained and half-torn. He’d worn it even through the worst of the years. Through the drugs. Through the stink. Through the rain and cracked lips and eviction notices. They took it without ceremony and dropped it in a plastic bag along with his wallet and a note in his file: "Meth psychosis likely. Violent. Monitor."

He sat in the corner of the cell, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking like he was freezing though his skin was burning hot. His face was still swollen where the officer had clocked him. A cut near his brow leaked blood in lazy, crusted trails. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt like a dead slug in his mouth. He couldn’t stop trembling.

And then she appeared.

Y/N was on the other side of the bars, standing with her fingers wrapped around the cold steel like they could hold her upright. Her face was hollow, pale, drenched in something between grief and disbelief. Her eyes searched his like she’d just found him in a war zone. He blinked and she didn’t fade. No flicker. No shimmer. No sign of chemical illusion. She was just there.

“I’m sorry,” Bob whispered. His voice cracked in his throat, rough with dehydration and smoke and shame. “I didn’t mean to — I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

She said nothing. Just looked at him with something worse than disappointment — hurt. Real hurt. The kind you only see in people who truly loved you.

He crawled forward, knees scraping the concrete, hands outstretched. “They said you were gone,” he said. “But I always knew you’d come back. I kept the apartment for a while. Did you know that? Slept on the floor after they took the furniture. I talked to your toothbrush like it was your ghost. I lit candles on your birthday. I remembered your scent. God, I— I remember the way you said my name when you were tired. I kept everything. I kept everything, Y/N.”

Still, she said nothing. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but no words came out. A tear slid down her cheek.

He gripped the bars, his head resting between them, his forehead pressed to the metal like it might transmit his agony into the earth. “I ruined it. I ruined us. I should’ve gone with you. When it happened — when you disappeared — I should’ve just gone too.”

Her image blinked.

He recoiled. “No. No, stay. Don’t—”

But she was gone.

Just air.

Just steel.

Just the reek of his own sweat and the hollow beat of blood rushing behind his eyes.

He screamed then. Not words. Just a raw, unfiltered sound, scraped from the bottom of his soul and hurled at the ceiling like a curse. He clawed at his face, dug his nails into the flesh behind his ears as if he could reach the wires in his brain and yank them loose. He tore at his shirt, biting the collar, pulling until the fabric split beneath his teeth. He banged his head against the wall. Once. Twice. Harder the third time.

The guards didn’t come. They were watching through the cameras, probably. Waiting it out. Letting the animal wear himself down. Letting the freak break himself open so they didn’t have to.

He collapsed onto the floor, breath heaving, vision spinning. A soft whimper escaped his throat. His hands twitched, seeking something that wasn’t there. Something warm. Something real. But there was nothing in this place. No comfort. No silence. Not even pain — just the dull echo of it. The kind that never screams, only whispers in circles until it eats your name.

And then she was behind him.

Y/N knelt at his side, pressing her hand gently to his temple, whispering nonsense into his hair. Her fingers were warm. Her voice like water. She cradled him against her chest, and he sobbed like a child, curling into her lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You were hurting,” she said, stroking his face. “You just wanted to stop the hurting.”

“I can’t stop. Even when I try, I—” He choked on a sob, clutching her shirt. “I think I broke something. In me. I think it’s gone.”

“No,” she said. “It’s still there. You just forgot where it lives.”

“I just wanted you back.”

“I know.”

He looked up at her. “Are you real this time?”

She didn’t answer.

And slowly, as the tremors settled and the sweat cooled on his skin, as the hallucination frayed at the seams, she vanished — not with violence or sound, but the way breath leaves a body. Quiet. Inevitable.

Bob was alone again.

The concrete had no warmth. The walls had no echo.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, blinking against the light that buzzed and pulsed and offered no forgiveness.

"I think I might join you soon."

The theatre was modest — not one of those grand velvet-curtain places with chandeliers and marble foyers. Just a small, old building on the edge of town, nestled between a thrift store and a tax office, with peeling blue paint on the outside and rows of secondhand seats that creaked when you sat down too fast. Bob chose one near the middle, second row, just off-center — not too close, not too far — the same spot he always used to sit in when Y/N performed.

He had come sober. Or, at least, as close to sober as he could get now. Three hours without anything in his system but bitter coffee and a slice of bread from the halfway house. His hands still trembled slightly, and the inside of his mouth tasted like metal and regret, but his eyes were clear. And that was enough for today.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Not really. It started as a walk, something to keep his feet moving and his cravings at bay. But then he passed the old theatre and saw the faded poster taped to the glass: “Evening of Ballet – Youth Conservatory Performance – Free Admission.” And something in his chest cracked. He didn't think. He just went in.

Now the lights dimmed, and the stage glowed soft gold.

The curtain rose slowly, without fanfare, revealing a line of dancers poised in their first positions, backs straight, arms curved, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the footlights. A soft piano began to play — not grand or sweeping, just delicate and aching, like fingertips brushing over water.

Bob leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his breath caught halfway up his throat.

She wasn’t there. Not even in his mind.

And that hurt more than he expected.

Because usually she came to him in moments like this — during music, or silence, or sleep — a ghost wrapped in softness and memory, in perfume and long sleeves and laughter behind closed doors. But not tonight. Tonight the chair beside him remained empty, and the only scent he caught was the theater’s old velvet mustiness.

Still, he watched. Every movement on that stage pulled him deeper, not into fantasy, but into remembrance. He remembered the way Y/N used to stretch in the kitchen, one leg on the counter while she made tea, humming absentmindedly to herself. He remembered the sound of her pointe shoes knocking gently together in her duffel bag, and how she always laced them slowly, precisely, like a ritual she never rushed. He remembered the way her face lit up after the show, when she ran into his arms backstage, sweat on her forehead, eyes glowing with that childlike joy that made her glow from the inside out.

“I know it’s not practical,” she once told him, sprawled across the couch in her leotard, feet in his lap, hair still pinned and wild. “But I don’t care. I love it. When I’m dancing, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. It’s just me and the music and this... this weightlessness.”

He had nodded then, smiling softly, fingers rubbing her aching calves like he was memorizing them. “You look like you’re floating,” he whispered. “Like you don’t belong to gravity.”

“And you,” she grinned, eyes sleepy but sure, “you always show up. Even when no one else does.”

“Of course I do,” he said. “You’re the only thing I believe in.”

And she had looked at him like she knew — knew that he was trying, knew how hard it was for him to love cleanly, to show up for himself, let alone someone else. She never shamed the pieces of him that were cracked. She just... held them. Like porcelain. Like they were still worth something.

Back in the present, Bob wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his jacket, not even realizing he was crying until he tasted the salt at the corner of his lips. The stage blurred. The dancers moved in slow, elegant circles, arms outstretched like they were reaching for something — a memory, a dream, a person who never came back.

He didn’t cry hard. It wasn’t a sobbing, broken thing. It was quieter than that. Softer. Like a sigh that had traveled a long, long way before finally slipping free. His chest ached, but not in the desperate, gnawing way it usually did. This pain was... still. Old. Like it had been there all along, waiting for him to be sober enough to feel it.

She would have loved this show. She would’ve praised every dancer afterward, told them how luminous they were. She would’ve hugged the shy ones too tightly and told the nervous ones they were enough.

Bob watched a girl in the center of the stage, maybe nineteen, maybe younger, rise onto her toes and hold a pose with such precision that it stilled the air around her. For a split second, Bob swore he saw her in the curve of that girl’s spine, in the upward tilt of her chin, in the sheer conviction of her movement.

His breath caught again.

But no.

It wasn’t her.

It would never be her.

And maybe — maybe that was okay.

Because for just a moment, watching these strangers move with grace and light and something close to freedom, Bob felt what he hadn’t in years:

Peace.

Not joy. Not hope. Just... stillness.

A moment without craving. Without hallucination. Without noise.

He stayed seated long after the final bow, the lights rising again as the audience clapped politely and filtered toward the exits. He didn’t stand. He didn’t clap. He just stared at the empty stage, tears drying on his face, hands quiet in his lap.

Eventually, someone asked him if he was alright.

He nodded.

“I was just remembering something,” he said.

And for once, it didn’t hurt to say it.

The walk home was quiet.

No sirens. No dogs barking. No cars roaring past with music loud enough to shake the street. Just the soft sound of Bob’s sneakers dragging against the cracked sidewalk and the crunch of dead leaves beneath his feet. The air was thick with the kind of heat that stuck to your skin — Florida in late summer — but he barely felt it. He didn’t feel much of anything anymore. His body moved like a puppet on slack strings, hollow and distant, a vessel following a plan long made in secret.

The ballet had stirred something in him. Not hope. Not peace, not really — not anything lasting. Just a memory. A fragile flame in a long-dark hallway. And the glow of that memory had made the shadow afterward even deeper.

She hadn’t come.

Not even in his mind.

No hallucination. No ghost of her sitting beside him in the theater, no whispered laugh behind his ear, no phantom warmth brushing his shoulder. Just an empty chair. Just his hands. Just the stillness.

And for Bob Reynolds, that was the worst kind of silence. Because it meant she was fading — not just from the world, but from him. From the one place she’d lived the longest after the Blip: his head.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So when he reached the halfway house — the broken duplex they crammed six men into, all of them dancing on the edge of one kind of ruin or another — he didn’t take off his shoes. He didn’t stop in the kitchen to drink water or say hi to the new guy who always smelled like bleach and coughed like he was dying. He went straight to the back bedroom, the one with the rusted bunk bed frame and the mattress that sank in the middle like a collapsed lung. He shut the door gently. Not slamming it, not drawing attention. Just... closing it.

Everything was already laid out. He’d done it last week, when he first decided. Folded a towel. Cleaned a spoon. Found a fresh needle — harder to come by than you'd think. Set the glass of water down beside it all, as if he were preparing tea instead of preparing to die. The ritual was strange in its neatness. Like he owed this ending a kind of respect.

He sat on the bed, ran a hand over his face. He hadn’t shaved in days. His stubble scratched against his palms. His eyes were red — not just from tears, but from the strain of trying to stay clean long enough to go to the show. He had lasted. Four hours. That was all he had in him.

Now came the part he’d been thinking about in fragments — while staring at ceilings, while listening to other people snore, while sitting alone in rooms that smelled like sweat and mildew.

He knew the dose. He’d calculated it carefully. Not the kind that brought euphoria or dreams. The kind that silenced the body. The kind that stopped hearts.

And yet, when his hand hovered over the syringe, it trembled.

He wasn’t afraid of dying. Not really. Not in the dramatic sense. He was afraid of something smaller: that it wouldn’t work. That he’d wake up alone again, sick and shaking, with nothing left to try. That someone would find him too early, resuscitate him, put him back on the treadmill of half-hearted rehabs and group homes and urine tests.

Or worse — that he’d go too far and feel nothing at all. That death would be just another silence, darker than this one. No Y/N. No warmth. Just the black. A mistake with no undo button.

He sighed, almost laughed. "I’m pathetic," he whispered to no one.

Then he reached for the photo — the only one he had left. Folded into quarters, edges curled and yellowing. Y/N sitting on a bench outside their old apartment, hair in a messy bun, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, laughing at something he said. She didn’t even know he’d taken the picture. Her head was tilted back, eyes squeezed shut from joy. Real joy.

He touched her face with his thumb. “I’m so tired, baby.”

His voice cracked. That was all it took. The tears came suddenly, harder than he expected, shaking his shoulders. It wasn’t dramatic or loud. Just broken. Deep. From the chest. A sound like something being scraped out from the inside.

He held the photo to his lips. “I’m not running anymore. I just... I can’t do this without you.”

And then, slowly — not out of haste, but out of deliberate, heartbreaking certainty — he tied the tourniquet around his arm. Watched the vein rise. Drew in the liquid, the fatal cocktail, precise and cruel and still strangely beautiful in its clarity. He had prepared this with the same care she used to prepare her makeup before a show. Ritual. Repetition. Reverence.

The needle slid in smooth. No pain. He exhaled. Closed his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.

And pressed the plunger.

It was raining the first time Bob saw her. Not a storm — just one of those soft, indecisive Florida rains that came and went like passing moods. The laundromat buzzed with fluorescent lights and the faint rhythm of dryers spinning tired socks. It smelled like detergent and burned lint. He liked that smell. It was the smell of people trying, even if it was just to have clean clothes for the week.

Bob was sitting on one of those molded plastic chairs, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at a dryer that kept stopping mid-cycle. It was his third load, and the damn thing kept eating quarters. He was down to three bucks, and the last one he’d jammed in might as well have vanished into space.

His hoodie was damp from the walk. His eyes were red, not from crying, but from sheer, unrelenting exhaustion. He’d just been turned down for a warehouse job he was sure he’d nailed — second rejection this month. The city was loud, the future louder, and the silence in his apartment louder still. He hadn’t smiled in days.

That’s when she walked in.

She looked like someone who didn’t know how beautiful she was. Her hair was up in a clip, wild curls escaping around her face, and she was carrying a red plastic laundry basket so overloaded it looked like it might burst. She kicked the door shut with her foot, rain speckled across her forehead like dew. A textbook was tucked under her arm, headphones around her neck, phone clutched between her teeth as she tried to navigate her way toward an open machine.

He didn’t know why he stood up. He just did.

"Here, let me help—"

Her basket slipped. A pair of underwear — pink, unfortunately — flopped out and landed right in front of him like the universe was in on a joke. She muttered, “Jesus,” and knelt to grab it, laughing under her breath.

He handed it to her without a word.

“Thanks,” she said, tucking it back into the mountain. “I swear I always pick the worst nights for this.”

“You and me both.”

Her eyes flicked up. Brown, but not dull — warm and alert and kind. “Your dryer hate you too?”

“Yeah. I think it’s trying to steal my socks out of spite.”

She gave him a grin, the kind that showed just a sliver of tooth. “Socks are the first to go. It’s in the handbook.”

Bob chuckled — really chuckled — for the first time in days. “You read the laundromat handbook?”

“I’m a student. Biomedical engineering,” she said as if it were a confession. “I read everything. Especially when I’m avoiding the real stuff.”

He watched her begin to load a washer. Her movements were careful but unpolished, like she was used to doing a lot of things by herself. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

“You avoiding something tonight?” he asked.

She glanced at him. There was no flirtation in her look. Just curiosity. “What gave it away?”

He shrugged. “It’s either that or you’re doing laundry for a family of seven.”

A pause. Then she smiled again. A little softer.

“What about you?” she asked. “What are you avoiding?”

Bob hesitated. He thought about lying — saying something clever or self-contained — but for some reason, in the buzz of that broken fluorescent world, honesty felt easier. Like it might actually be allowed.

“Everything,” he said.

She nodded. “Fair enough.”

They sat side by side on the chairs after that. She had homework spread across her lap — equations he didn’t understand but admired. He watched his dryer limp through another cycle. She offered him a piece of gum. They didn’t exchange names.

When she left, she said, “Hope the dryer works next time.”

He almost let her go. He almost said nothing.

But then she looked back — just once — and said, “I come here most Thursdays. You know. If your dryer’s still a jerk.”

And that was it.

No grand moment. No music swelling. Just a slow warmth in his chest. Like maybe — maybe — the world hadn’t finished with him yet.

He would come back the next Thursday. And the one after that. Sometimes he’d bring books she liked. Sometimes she’d bring him cookies. Once, she kissed his cheek without warning and said, “You always look like you’re trying to disappear. I like that you don’t.”

Bob never told her how much that meant.

464 notes · View notes

brookghaib-blog · 4 days ago

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I remembered a request talking about writing about Bob dealing with the blip that erased the Reader. And I wrote it! Finally!

#robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts

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brookghaib-blog · 5 days ago

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Illegal

MASTERLIST POST

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! CONTAINS SPOILERS; angst, smut (specifics will be listed in each chapter), curse words, gore, dirty talk, violence, mafia, gangsters, mob, drugs, fbi, police, guns, knifes, weapons, money laundering, illegal stuff, manipulation, toxic relationship, alcohol usage, family trauma, pregnancy, parenthood, deaths, blood, injuries, panic attacks, hospitals (may add more later as I write).

playlist | pinterest board

A/N: Obviously I do not work for fbi, i have no idea how exactly they work so please keep in mind that this is a fanfiction 😭 take with a grain of salt!! i got inspired by playing gta v online so that’s kinda the vibes i am going for with this series—los angeles, heists, illegal businesses and yk… all of that. also this fic is very self-indulgent ngl.

Chapter One — „Sinker”

Chapter Two — „Feelings”

Chapter Three — „Breakdown”

Chapter Four — „Bruises”

Chapter Five — „Liars”

Chapter Six — „Mess”

Chapter Seven — „Hope”

Chapter Eight — „Years”

Chapter Nine — “Home”

Chapter Ten (Series Finale) coming soon…

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

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brookghaib-blog · 6 days ago

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Sweet On The Job

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 9.9k words

summary | when newly-appointed congressman bucky barnes reluctantly hires the sweetest, most radiant assistant imaginable, he doubts your place in the cutthroat world of politics—until you prove you can run it and melt his guard all at once.

tags | slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, office romance, unspoken feelings, miscommunication, overhearing a conversation, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, bucky is bad at feelings but good at kissing, reader cries a lot, it’s fine, sensitive!reader

a/n | reader’s based on our amaya papayas personality, we love our sensitive gangsta. based on this request

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

Congress. Of all places. The marble halls, the high ceilings, the egos inflated enough to float over the Capitol dome. And then there was him—James Buchanan Barnes—who could barely make it through a two-minute speech without sounding like a half-defrosted android.

His suit itched. The tie choked. And don’t even get him started on the shoes.

He sat behind his too-polished desk in his too-expensive office, staring blankly at an inbox full of emails with subject lines that made his eyes twitch. Urgent: Appropriations Strategy. Reminder: Agriculture Committee Briefing. Lunch with Donor—Move to Friday?

Lunch with a donor. Christ.

He rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to lay his forehead flat on the desk. This wasn't him. He was a soldier, not a politician. He gave speeches like he gave orders—short, dry, and with zero charisma.

Every time he opened his mouth in public, he could see reporters wince. His team had tried coaching him. “Smile more.” “Loosen up.” “Try not to look like you're about to gut someone with a bayonet.”

So far, the best he'd managed was a half-smirk that came off more like a nervous tick.

Bucky sighed. Deep, soul-weary sigh. He looked at the framed picture on the wall—him shaking hands with someone he was pretty sure hated him. That was politics, apparently. Pretending to enjoy small talk with people who could and would stab you in the back with a regulation-sized American flag pin.

His phone buzzed again.

Another email.

Subject: Staff Assistant Interviews – You Still Haven’t Picked Anyone

Bucky groaned. That damn assistant position. He’d pushed the interviews for three weeks now, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting through a dozen conversations with people who’d use phrases like “synergize the legislative workflow” without flinching.

He didn’t want someone who talked like a press release. He just wanted someone who would show up, get shit done, and not ask too many questions when he had to disappear for an afternoon to punch a wall in private.

But apparently, you couldn’t say that in a job posting.

He glanced at the stack of printed resumes on his desk. He’d skimmed a few. Too polished. Too eager. Too… not him. None of them had that quality he couldn’t quite define—something real. Something normal. Someone who wouldn’t blink if he came into the office looking like he’d fought a raccoon on the metro.

The door creaked open slightly. It was Sam. Again.

“Still haven’t picked anyone?” Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Bucky didn’t look up. “They all talk like LinkedIn threw up on a resume template.”

Sam chuckled. “Want me to just find you someone?”

“God, yes.”

And just like that, he handed off the decision. Delegated. Efficient. Which, ironically, made him feel even more like he didn’t belong here.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling like a man twice his age. He looked at the ceiling. It stared back.

Congress. Jesus.

────────────────────────

Some Days Later

Bucky didn’t look up when the door opened.

He figured it was Brenda. Maybe Sam again. Hopefully not another reporter asking for a quote he’d regret later. He was mid-email—something about committee assignments and a lunch reschedule—when he heard it.

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I’m a tiny bit early—traffic was a dream, can you believe that?”

Not Brenda.

The voice was too bright, too chipper, and far too comfortable for someone stepping into a federal office for the first time.

Bucky looked up slowly, pen still in his hand, and there you were—framed in his doorway like a damn Hallmark commercial. Floral dress under a structured blazer, hair bouncing, smile like you’d just walked into brunch, not a congressional office. You carried a leather bag and a clipboard and somehow radiated the scent of confidence and cinnamon.

He blinked.

You didn’t flinch. Just walked right in like you’d been doing it your whole life.

“Congressman Barnes, right?” You extended your hand, polished nails and all. “I’m the assistant Sam recommended. So nice to meet you.”

He didn’t take your hand right away. He was still trying to process the human sunbeam in front of him. You looked like someone who hosted charity galas and had a Pinterest board for every holiday.

Eventually, he stood. Shook your hand. Warm grip. Firm. No hesitation.

“Right,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sam said you’d be coming by.”

You smiled even wider. “I brought a printed copy of my resume, just in case. I know Sam already sent it over, but you never know. Oh! And I made you a little overview—color-coded—of what your schedule might look like if we streamline some of the overlapping committee times. Brenda said Wednesdays are chaos.”

You placed the papers on his desk like you’d done this a hundred times.

Bucky glanced at the overview. It was in soft pastel shades, each block of time cleanly labeled, with footnotes. Actual footnotes.

He looked back up at you. Still smiling. Still sparkling, somehow.

“You always this organized?” he muttered.

Your laugh was soft but definite. “Only when I’m awake.”

Christ.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really do… interviews.”

“Good,” you said, cheerful as hell. “I don’t really do bad interviews.”

He had no idea what to do with that.

“I work hard,” you went on, tone bright but grounded now. “I don’t miss deadlines. I know how to read people. I’ve handled CEOs, campaign donors, and one very angry florist. And I’m from New York, so I’m nice—but only as long as you need me to be.”

That part made him pause.

Your smile stayed sweet, but your eyes—sharp. That flicker of edge.

He exhaled. “You’re hired.”

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

The thing was—Sam hadn’t exaggerated.

You were, somehow, even better than advertised.

You had shown up the next morning with a personalized planner, a labeled filing system, and two different cold brews—one for him, one “just in case he preferred oat milk.” Within three days, his inbox was tamed, his schedule was tight, and his meetings started and ended on time.

You smiled your way through logistical nightmares. You turned budget briefings into organized, annotated packets. You once managed to reschedule an entire committee meeting without pissing anyone off. That alone should’ve won you a medal.

And the worst part?

Everyone adored you.

Brenda now referred to you as her “angel girl.” The intern, Emily, had started mimicking your outfit choices. Even grumpy old Greg from Finance smiled when you passed him in the hall, and Bucky hadn’t seen Greg smile since the start of his term as Congressman.

Meanwhile, Bucky… didn’t know how to talk to you.

You were polite, always. Sweet. Occasionally too sweet—offering him snacks mid-meeting, asking if he needed a moment to breathe after intense calls. Once, you said “You’re doing amazing, by the way,” after a disastrous media interview.

He’d stared at you like you’d spoken another language.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of warmth. He knew how to handle tension, confrontation, icy professionalism. He could navigate sharp words and sharp eyes. But compliments? Softness? Your sunny little “good morning!” every day before you sat down to absolutely decimate his workload?

It threw him off.

And you never tried to throw him off. That was what made it worse. You weren’t fake. You didn’t flirt or suck up. You were just… like this. Bouncy and competent. Bubblegum and brute force. Warmth wrapped in weaponized organization.

He wasn’t sure if it made him uncomfortable or impressed. Maybe both.

He heard you laugh in the hallway one afternoon. Loud. Joyful. Brenda was giggling too. Probably over that dumb plant someone brought in. You’d named it. Called it Marvin. Marvin the Money Tree. Bucky didn’t understand why that made everyone so happy.

He sipped his coffee. It was oat milk. He hadn’t asked for that.

You’d just noticed.

One month in, Bucky realized you might actually be magic.

You handled press requests like a PR veteran, fielded donors with the grace of a diplomat, and had somehow convinced the coffee cart guy downstairs to give the staff a “Capitol Crew” discount.

Bucky didn’t know how you did it—maybe you smiled at the guy too nicely, or maybe you just offered to reorganize his inventory out of the goodness of your glittery heart.

You never stopped smiling.

Even when the job sucked. Even when schedules collapsed, or the media spun things sideways, or the office printer jammed for the fourth time in a single day—you smiled. Not in a fake, corporate way. In a real way. Like the chaos never got to you.

It made him suspicious.

He watched you from behind his desk more often than he meant to. You always moved like you were dancing to some rhythm he couldn’t hear. Laughing with interns, giving Brenda a shoulder squeeze on a bad day, complimenting someone’s shoes before dropping a twenty-slide briefing deck into their inbox.

And every time you turned that blinding kindness on him, Bucky froze like you’d aimed a spotlight at a feral cat.

He didn’t know how to respond when you handed him color-coded notes for a hearing and said, “I highlighted your speaking points—if you want to wing it, I backed up the quotes with data so you sound casual but still super smart.”

Or when you brought him soup from that one hole-in-the-wall deli because he coughed once and you “just had a feeling.”

He grunted. He nodded. He said “Thanks,” but it always came out dry, stiff, like someone had to wring it out of him.

You didn’t seem to mind.

You never flinched. Never made it awkward. Just smiled and moved on to the next task like your kindness didn’t require a thank you. And that bugged him more than anything.

He was used to people playing politics—smiling with their teeth, angling for favor. But you? You brought him homemade banana bread on a Monday because “Mondays are brutal and I didn’t want you to suffer more than necessary.”

Who does that?

He watched you now, through the glass wall of his office. You were standing in the hallway, coaching the new comms kid on how to navigate a donor event, switching between “babe” and “sweetheart” like it was a dialect, your hands moving as fast as your mouth. You were wearing some lavender thing today. Smelled like citrus and resolve.

Bucky looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t typed in ten minutes.

He hated this.

Not you. Just this feeling.

────────────────────────

Three Months In

It started with a meeting.

A routine one—just a few junior reps and a legislative strategist who looked like he’d swallowed a thesaurus. You had prepped Bucky flawlessly. Briefing notes, talking points, key players—all in a soft yellow folder with a post-it that said, “You’ve got this :)”

He didn’t got this.

The strategist spent the whole meeting throwing jargon like darts. Bucky kept pace, mostly. You even leaned in halfway through to quietly remind him which bill number they were referencing. Still, when the room cleared, Bucky felt like he’d just walked out of a storm.

You stayed behind, re-organizing his desk without being asked. “You did really well,” you said softly. “I know this guy was wordy but you held your ground.”

Bucky nodded.

But something in his chest pulled tight.

You were too kind. Too gentle about it. It made him feel like a child being praised for tying his shoes.

He didn’t say anything then.

But it stuck.

You were good at your job—he knew that. But politics wasn’t just about competence. It was brutal. Ugly. People chewed you up and spat you out for smiling too much, for being too friendly, too soft. And you… you glowed like you didn’t know the world could be mean.

He couldn’t shake the worry. That someday soon, someone was going to say the wrong thing to you in the wrong room, and you’d come undone. Or worse—you wouldn’t. You’d just… leave. Quietly.

So a few days later, when Sam called, Bucky didn’t think twice before stepping into his office, closing the door, and letting the words out.

“She’s not cut out for this,” he said.

Right outside the door, you were balancing two coffees—his preferred dark roast and your own sugar-heavy concoction—and a muffin from the café down the street. You’d been about to knock.

You didn’t.

“She’s good at the job,” Bucky went on, his voice low but firm, “but I don’t know if this is the right setting for her. Politics isn’t about being nice, Sam. She’s too… bright. Too open. That’s not sustainable here.”

Your stomach dropped.

It was the way he said it. Like being who you were wasn’t just a mismatch—it was a liability.

Too bright. Too open. Too much.

You’d heard that before. Too sweet, too emotional, too loud, too bubbly, too soft. Always a smile, always a “thank you,” always a goddamn post-it note. And it was never enough. It never counted. People liked it until they didn’t.

You blinked hard, eyes burning suddenly. You hated how fast the tears welled—hated that he’d never even raised his voice, never said it cruelly. That somehow made it worse. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d just meant it.

You stayed frozen, heart thudding.

Then Sam, through the phone, “You sure this is about her not fitting in… or you not knowing what to do with someone like her?”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You set the coffee and muffin on the side table near his door, the yellow post-it stuck neatly to the lid. It said “You looked tired today. Hope this helps.”

But you didn’t knock.

And for the first time since you’d started, you walked away without smiling.

────────────────────────

It started subtly.

You didn’t stop smiling—but it didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

Bucky told himself he was imagining it at first. That maybe you were just tired, or busy, or maybe it was allergy season. But the longer he watched you—really watched you—the more certain he became that something had shifted.

You still did your job. That was never in question.

Emails answered. Calls returned. Schedules maintained like clockwork. You still handed him briefing packets with neat highlights, still walked him through the day’s chaos each morning.

But the post-its stopped.

No more “You’ve got this!” or “Don’t forget to drink water :)”

Your voice, once full of light and little jokes and endearing asides, had gone quieter. Measured. Professional. Nothing personal. You didn’t ask how his weekend was. Didn’t tease him for frowning at your color coding. You didn’t call him “bossman” anymore.

You just called him Congressman.

That one hit the hardest.

The rest of the office noticed too. Jimmy asked where your “sparkle” went. Brenda had quietly asked Bucky if you were okay. He’d just shrugged, said you were probably busy. But deep down, something pulled at him.

You hadn’t brought him coffee in nearly two weeks.

He hadn’t realized how much he noticed it until it was gone.

You still smiled at other people—still lit up when interns needed help, still made time to compliment someone’s new haircut. But with him, there was a wall now. Polite. Distant. Not cold, exactly. Just… not warm.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t laugh with him anymore. You didn’t look at him like you had before—like he was something worth rooting for.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know why.

He couldn’t remember doing anything—saying anything—that would’ve caused it. But then again, he hadn’t been paying enough attention, had he? You’d been right there, every damn day, and he’d barely looked up. Barely said more than necessary.

He didn’t realize he missed you until the version of you he knew was gone.

And now, sitting at his desk, watching you work across the office with that tight-lipped expression and that perfectly put-together posture, he felt something sharp twist in his chest.

He missed the sunshine.

And somehow, he was sure it was his fault.

────────────────────────

He should’ve canceled everything.

But he didn’t.

Bucky woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, the kind that reversed and hit him twice. Fever high, head pounding, body aching like his joints had finally decided to unionize and strike.

But he had a subcommittee meeting at 10 a.m., and three calls with constituents scheduled after that, and some damn transportation proposal that needed his signature.

He could barely see straight.

He tried emailing Brenda, but it took him ten minutes to type two lines. Gave up. Called you instead.

You picked up on the second ring. “Good morning, Congressman—”

“Hey,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I, uh… I need you to bring some files from the office. And… maybe a laptop. There’s stuff I gotta do.”

You paused. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

“Mr. Barnes?” This time your voice had real concern in it—soft but sharper, like it used to sound before he ruined everything.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a cold. I just… I need the budget report and that meeting brief for the committee.”

There was a pause. Then, “Text me your address. I’m coming over.”

Before he could object, you hung up.

You showed up 40 minutes later.

He didn’t expect you to let yourself in, but you did, like you belonged there—like someone had to keep things running. You had the laptop, the folders, your phone already out and your expression focused.

You were still in your usual outfit—put-together and professional—but there was something else in your eyes when you saw him slumped on the couch, pale, sweaty, and looking every bit like a man who shouldn’t be left alone with political responsibility.

“Jesus, Mr. Barnes,” you said, setting everything down. “You look like death.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” you snapped, and for the first time in months, your voice had bite. “You’re burning up. Go. Bed. Now.”

He blinked. “You’re not my—”

“I said bed, Barnes. Don’t make me speak again.”

That shut him up.

You guided him to the bedroom with surprising gentleness, adjusted the blankets, took his temperature without flinching.

Muttered something about idiots and stubborn men as you set a glass of water on the nightstand. Then you left the door half open and walked straight into his living room like it was your war zone.

And then?

You took over.

Bucky stirred to the sound of your voice. It was steady. Calm. Businesslike. Something about the infrastructure bill and a scheduling conflict.

He blinked at the ceiling, groggy but conscious enough to realize the headache had dulled. The water glass on his nightstand was full again. The thermometer was gone. So were most of the folders.

But your voice remained.

“…no, we’re not pushing it another week. The Congressman already reviewed the amended language,” you said, sharp but not yet rude.

Bucky turned toward the open bedroom door. He could just barely see the edge of you standing in the living room, phone to your ear, one hand on your hip.

A pause.

And then—

“Okay, you know what? You don’t gotta raise your voice at me, sweetheart. That ain’t how this works.”

His eyebrows rose. That tone? That wasn’t the voice he’d grown used to over the last month.

Your next sentence came faster. Smoother. The vowels shortened. The sugar gone.

“You show up late, you miss deadlines, and now you got the audacity to talk down to me? Mm-mm. Uh-uh. Try again.”

The silence on the other end must’ve been long, because your voice dropped lower, firmer.

“You’re an extremely odd individual, and I do not wanna speak to you anymore. So here’s what you’re gonna do: fix your mistake, resubmit the form correctly, and stop wastin’ my damn time.”

There was a beat. Then you scoffed, low and dry. “Don’t get slick with me. I’m bein’ very polite right now.”

Another pause.

Then a final, clipped, “Goodbye.”

Click.

You exhaled hard. There was a rustle of papers. A muttered “weirdo” under your breath. And then the soft tap, tap, tap of you moving to the laptop again, your tone immediately shifting back into something more composed as you started your next call.

Bucky lay there, fully awake now, eyebrows furrowed.

That… wasn’t the version of you he knew.

And yet, it wasn’t jarring. It was seamless. Natural. Like your sweetness wasn’t a mask, but a choice—one you could take off the second someone disrespected you.

And he’d never heard anything so impressive in his life.

You’d gone from high-level strategy to full-on verbal takedown in under five seconds and didn’t even flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften it.

Bucky stared at the ceiling, half in awe, half in… something else he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe fever wasn’t the only reason his chest felt tight.

────────────────────────

By the time the sun had dipped low and the apartment took on that soft, golden hue, the chaos of the day had fully subsided.

You were back to yourself—at least, the version Bucky knew. Sweet. Bubbly. Moving around his apartment like it wasn’t the least bit strange that you’d just taken over a congressman’s workload in a knit cardigan and a cloud-patterned scrunchie.

He stood in the doorway now, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a reluctant ghost, watching you tidy up the living room while humming under your breath.

You turned before he could say anything, your face lighting up like it always did when you saw him—even now, even after the day you’d had.

“Hey, sunshine,” you said softly, like he was the one who needed reassuring. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, throat still raw.

You gave him a look that was very not convinced but didn’t press it. Instead, you stepped forward with a little tablet and a closed folder in hand.

“I wrapped everything up,” you said, tone gentle, like you didn’t want to overwhelm him. “Sorted the subcommittee notes, handled the calls, pushed your morning meetings. Everything’s in here, just in case.”

You held it out to him with both hands, like it was fragile.

“It should all run smooth when you’re back in the office,” you added. “No big hassle, I promise.”

He took it slowly, fingers brushing yours.

Then your eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “Oh! And I made soup.”

Bucky blinked. “Soup?”

You nodded, looking proud. “Chicken. With orzo. Little bit of lemon. It’s an old recipe from my ma. Helps with stomach stuff, and it’s good for fevers.”

You paused, like maybe you were worried you’d overstepped. Your hands twitched slightly in front of you.

“I mean—you don’t have to eat it now,” you said quickly, “but I left it in the fridge. Labeled it with a little sticky so you know which one it is. Not that there’s a lot of stuff in your fridge, I just… y’know. Thought it might help.”

Your voice trailed off, but your smile stayed.

Soft. Open. So completely you.

And all Bucky could do was stand there, wrapped in his stupid blanket, and wonder how the hell you’d spent the whole day being terrifyingly competent, and still ended it with soup and a nervous little glance like you weren’t sure if he’d like it.

You hesitated at the edge of the living room, hands fidgeting with something behind your back.

Bucky noticed the shift immediately.

The glow you’d carried all day—while juggling Congress from his couch and checking his temperature without breaking stride—had dimmed. Not gone. Just… pulled inward, like you were trying to protect something small and fragile inside yourself.

You stepped forward, arms unfolding to reveal a neatly sealed envelope.

Your smile this time was softer. Smaller. Like a flickering candle. “Before I forget,” you said lightly, “I meant to give this to you earlier.”

You held it out.

He didn’t take it at first. Just stared. “What is it?”

Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head slightly, voice still calm—almost apologetic. “It’s just my formal letter of resignation. Two weeks’ notice.”

The room went still.

Like even the hum of his ancient fridge paused to register the words.

Bucky took the envelope slowly, like it might explode in his hands. His stomach dropped, even lower than it had that morning when he first woke up sweating through his sheets.

“You’re leaving,” he said, flatly, like maybe saying it again would change the shape of it in the air. “Why?”

You hesitated, and for a second, he thought you weren’t going to say anything at all.

But then your gaze lifted—slow, reluctant—and something behind your eyes dimmed. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just a sadness so quiet it made his chest ache.

“I heard you,” you said, voice small but even. “That day on the phone. When you were talking to Sam.”

The words sank into him with slow, merciless weight.

Shit.

He opened his mouth, panic rising. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know,” you cut in gently, holding up a hand. “It’s alright.”

That made it worse.

You smiled, the kind of smile that tried so hard to be kind it hurt to look at. “It’s okay,” you repeated. “I get that a lot, honestly. People sayin' I’m too soft. Too nice. Too… whatever.”

He shook his head. “That’s not—”

“I know you didn’t mean it to be cruel.” Your voice was airy, almost thoughtful. “It didn’t even sound mean. You were just being honest. And you’re right, in a way. I am sweet. I care a lot. I get excited over little things. I bring baked goods to meetings and I probably hug too much and I call people sweetheart even when they’re mean to me.”

Bucky’s throat was dry. “I didn’t—”

“But I’m not naïve,” you said, and this time there was steel under the softness. Not sharp—but unbending. “I’m not stupid. I know how this world works. I just… don’t want to become like it.”

Your eyes met his fully then, warm and steady. “I like who I am. I don’t want to lose that just to survive a place that tells me kindness is a weakness.”

He opened his mouth again—anything, something—but you beat him to it, words tumbling now with gentle finality.

“I’m a big-hearted person, Mr. Barnes. I love hard. I care hard. I will go to war for the people I believe in, and I’ll still make them soup afterward. That’s who I am.”

You gave a small shrug, and your smile this time was a little sad, a little tired. “But I know not everyone wants that. Not everyone likes their coffee sweet.”

He looked at you, mouth parted, heart twisting tighter with every breath.

You tilted your head, a soft laugh escaping. “And that’s okay. Really. I don’t need everyone to like me. I just want to work somewhere I don’t feel like I have to apologize for existing.”

Bucky tried—he really tried—to find the words to take it back. To undo it. But they stuck in his throat like gravel.

All he managed was a strangled, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

You nodded gently, like you already knew that.

But the hurt was still there, just under the surface, quietly humming like a bruise.

────────────────────────

It’d been three days since you handed him that letter.

Three days since you smiled with that soft resignation and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind bowl of soup and a hollow ache in his chest.

And now you were in the office—laughing.

Bucky watched you through the slats of his office shutters like a goddamn surveillance drone. Brenda was telling some story that clearly wasn’t funny, but you were laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week. Head tilted back, hand on her shoulder, the kind of laugh that made the people around you lean in like flowers toward sunlight.

He hated how familiar that laugh felt now.

And how far away it sounded.

You’d gone back to being sweet, professional, helpful. You hadn’t missed a single beat in your work. But with him, you were still distant. Polite. You hadn’t brought him coffee. Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t touched his arm in passing the way you used to.

He was losing you.

And the worst part? It wasn’t dramatic. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry.

You were just… quietly leaving.

So now he sat at his desk, glaring at his screen, not reading a damn word. His mind was a storm of useless questions and even more useless ideas.

Could he offer a raise? A promotion? Make the job more creative? Incentivize something?

He rubbed his hand down his face. No, that sounded like bribery.

Maybe he could ask her to stay just until the end of the quarter. Emphasize her value. Play the logistics angle. Remind her how much smoother things have been with her here.

He leaned back in his chair. That sounded desperate.

What if—

‘Jesus,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t about keeping her.’

A beat.

Then he corrected himself instantly. ‘Keeping her as an assistant. I mean. Not— Not like—’

He groaned, scrubbing at his eyes like he could rub the feelings away.

She was just efficient. That’s all. Stable. Predictable in a way he relied on. She was good at her job and the office ran smoother with her in it and that’s why this mattered.

Not because she smelled like lemons and comfort. Not because she looked at everyone like they were worth loving. Not because he’d started measuring his mornings by whether she smiled at him.

No. No, no, no. Just work.

Strictly professional.

He glanced back out through the blinds.

You were organizing a folder stack with the intern, gently fixing the label tabs, still smiling.

Still leaving.

And Bucky felt like the office was already colder without you—even though you hadn’t gone yet.

────────────────────────

Bucky liked to think he was a decent boss.

Not fun, sure. Not particularly approachable. Maybe a little gruff. And socially awkward, definitely. But fair. Honest. He let people take their lunch breaks. He remembered birthdays when he could. He even once approved an impromptu office donut day.

So it surprised him—no, perturbed him—when he found out about your going away party… from Brenda.

Brenda, who was sixty-eight and had once said she considered EDM “an acronym for something immoral.” Brenda, who referred to clubbing as “light alcoholism with extra steps.” Brenda, who had received an invitation.

He had not.

He found out over coffee. His coffee. The one he’d fetched himself because you no longer brought it to him.

Brenda had mentioned it casually, in that unassuming way older women do when they know they’re about to light a match and walk away from a very dry haystack.

“They’re doing a little sendoff for her Friday night. At that club downtown—the neon one with the ridiculous name. Something with vowels missing.”

He’d blinked. “What sendoff?”

“The one for your assistant, dear.” Sip. “The one who’s leaving.”

The words sank in slowly. Your assistant. Leaving. Right. That was happening. Somehow he kept forgetting it was real. Or maybe refusing to process it.

Then came the kicker: “Jimmy’s organizing the whole thing. Should be fun.”

Bucky had stared. “Jimmy?”

Brenda nodded, as if it were perfectly normal that the chillest, most easygoing staffer in his entire office had turned into a party planner on your behalf. “He booked a VIP booth. Very thoughtful.”

VIP booth? Bucky didn’t even know Jimmy knew how to book things. The guy wore mismatched socks and said “vibe check” unironically.

“So… they didn’t think to tell me?”

Brenda hesitated, just for a second, which was all the answer Bucky needed.

Later, he cornered Jimmy in the hallway, trying to sound casual and not like a man deeply offended by club logistics.

Jimmy had shrugged, wide-eyed and harmless. “We just figured it wasn’t really your scene, you know?”

Bucky blinked. “It’s not Brenda’s scene either.”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, Brenda knows the DJ.”

Of course she did.

Bucky didn’t say anything else. Just walked back to his office, each step echoing a little louder in his chest than it should have.

They didn’t think he’d want to come. Or maybe they didn’t think he deserved to.

And maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy you threw parties for. Maybe people just did their jobs around him and left. No post-its. No coffee. No soup.

But still… the fact that you were going to be out on a dance floor, surrounded by people who adored you, celebrating your last day—without him—hit harder than it should’ve.

Because he’d hurt you. He knew that now. And they all knew it too.

And no one invited him to say goodbye.

────────────────────────

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He told himself that, at least, on the way over. This wasn’t some grand gesture. He wasn’t planning a speech, wasn’t going to make a scene. He’d accepted it—you were leaving. And maybe he didn’t deserve a chance to change that.

So he’d come to do the one thing he could do.

Say goodbye.

He clutched the small, carefully wrapped box in his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the corners. It wasn’t much. But it was personal. Thoughtful. Something that reminded him of you—sweet, strange, specific.

But he remembered.

The music hit him first. The bass vibrating through the walls as soon as he stepped into the club. It was too loud, too crowded, too young. Neon lights pulsed off the walls, everything warm and blurred. He stood near the entrance, eyes scanning—feeling wildly out of place in his plain clothes and clenched jaw—until he saw you.

And then his lungs just… stopped working.

There you were.

It took one second. One.

You were standing near the booth, laughing—God, always laughing—wearing a pale blue outfit that looked like moonlight wrapped in fabric. Halter top hugging your curves, skirt tied at your hip, legs long and bare under the shifting lights. Gold hoops in your ears, bangles on your wrist, that familiar dreamy look in your eyes as you leaned into Jimmy mid-laugh.

Bucky’s feet stopped moving.

You were stunning. Effortlessly so. But it wasn’t just that. It was the freedom—the way you stood like nothing in the world could touch you here. Like you weren’t his assistant or part of a machine or tethered to other people’s expectations. You were you—unfiltered, unbothered, alive.

And he’d never seen you like this before.

Not in your pastels and blazers. Not behind your desk with your clipboard and schedule.

This version of you—this—was what he was losing.

He swallowed hard.

She’s just your assistant, he told himself. Or had been. That’s all this was. You were good at your job. That’s all.

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

You were mid-sip of your drink when you caught sight of him, standing near the edge of the club like he was trying to melt into the wall.

Your breath caught.

And then your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside you.

“Oh my gosh, you came!”

You pushed past two people without thinking, grinning, already reaching for his arm like you couldn’t help yourself. Your bangles clinked as you tugged him gently into the glow of the booth’s lights.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” you laughed, almost breathless. “You hate places like this.”

Bucky looked at you—really looked at you—and it took him a second too long to answer.

Your eyes were sparkling, cheeks flushed, hair tousled and falling perfectly over one shoulder. You looked like the kind of girl who had the whole room on a string and didn’t even realize she was holding it.

He murmured under his breath, just low enough that it got swallowed by the music, “Maybe ‘cause I wasn’t invited.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking it off with a stiff half-shrug. “Just thought I’d… say goodbye.”

Your expression softened. Just a bit.

“Oh,” you said, the word light and airy, but touched with something else. “That’s sweet.”

Bucky nodded once. Awkward. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

He should’ve left it at that.

But instead, he held out the little box he’d been carrying all night—plain black wrapping, a thin ribbon tied unevenly, like he’d done it with too much concentration and not enough skill.

You blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Just a gift,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

You took it carefully, reverently, like it might break in your hands. “Oh, you shouldn't have…”

“It’s not a bribe,” he added quickly, before you could say anything more. “I know you’re leaving. I just… thought you should have something.”

You didn’t wait.

Right there in the middle of the club, music thumping, lights flashing, you carefully tugged the ribbon free and opened the box with that bright, childlike excitement you always had when someone gave you something—even if it was small. Even if it wasn’t wrapped perfectly.

And when you saw what was inside, your breath hitched.

A delicate gold necklace. Thin, simple chain. At the center, your birthstone—tiny, gleaming, perfectly cut. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just right.

You stared down at it, brows pulling together, mouth parting slightly.

And then, to Bucky’s horror, your eyes started to well.

“Wait… this is my—this is my birthstone,” you said softly, voice already wobbling. “How did you even know?”

You looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, and Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“I—I never told you my birthday.”

He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remembered. You mentioned it once. In passing.”

That did it.

You blinked quickly, but the tears came anyway, slipping free with no real warning. “Oh God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth, eyes going glassy. “That’s actually… really sweet. Why would you…?”

Your voice cracked. Right in the middle of a sentence. Just folded in on itself.

And Bucky panicked.

“Hey—” he murmured, stepping closer, voice low and careful, like you were a fragile object he might accidentally break with the wrong tone. “Hey, don’t cry. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, brushing at your cheeks. “Sorry, I just—this is so thoughtful. And you remembered. And now I’m crying in a club like a weirdo—”

“You’re not a weirdo,” he said quickly, awkwardly, like he was saying it on instinct and didn’t even believe he was qualified to offer emotional reassurance.

Still, he reached out—tentatively—and touched your elbow. Just barely. Like he was scared of overstepping.

You were sniffling now, trying to dab at your eyes with the corner of a cocktail napkin that immediately disintegrated. “I’m just—God, I’m such a mess—”

“You’re not,” he muttered, more firmly this time. “It’s just… a lot. I get it.”

You nodded, wiping at your nose with the back of your hand in a way that made his heart twist in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he added, a little helplessly. “I was just… trying to say goodbye.”

That last word came out rougher than he meant it to.

Bucky didn’t know what to do with the way your face crumpled again.

The tears came back—hot and fast—and though you were trying to smile through it, you clearly weren’t managing. You swiped at your cheeks with both hands now, uselessly, still holding the jewelry box in one.

He hesitated. Then stepped in a little closer, hand hovering awkwardly near your back.

“Hey,” he said gently, “come on. Let’s get some air.”

You nodded, a hiccuped little sound catching in your throat, and let him guide you with a light touch on your back. You were too busy trying not to sniff too loudly, muttering something about God, I probably look insane right now, as he led you carefully past the crowd and toward the door.

The outside air hit cool and sharp. The street was quiet in comparison—just the low hum of traffic and the faint pulse of music through the walls behind you.

You sniffled again, eyes still glassy as you blinked up at him, half apologetic. “Ugh, my makeup is definitely ruined,” you mumbled. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this mascara. But it was waterproof! It was supposed to be—why do they even say that if it’s a lie?”

Bucky gave a short breath—almost a laugh, almost not. He looked at you, really looked.

Your cheeks were a little streaked, sure. Lip gloss a bit smudged. But your eyes were shining. And that necklace—the one he’d spent way too long choosing—sat against your skin like it had always belonged there.

“You look fine,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You look like… you.”

You smiled weakly. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No. That good.”

You looked down at your heels, a soft little laugh escaping from behind your hand.

Then, a little quieter: “You really didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I wanted to.”

You sniffled once more and tilted your head back, resting it gently against the brick wall behind you. The chill of it made your skin rise in little goosebumps, but you didn’t mind. It helped ground you.

Bucky stood a step in front of you, hands in his pockets, close but not quite touching. He looked like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in this light—the heated cheeks, the still-damp lashes, the faint shimmer of highlighter on your collarbone.

You smiled at him, a little shy now, still damp-eyed but back to your usual, airy self. The kind of smile that could make someone forget everything they were angry about.

“You’re gonna miss me, huh?”

You meant it like a joke. Playful. Light.

But he didn’t laugh.

He looked at you like the weight of that sentence had knocked the wind out of him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I am.”

That stopped you. Just for a second. Like you hadn’t expected honesty from him—not that much, not here.

The smile on your lips faltered.

He stepped a little closer. Just a half-step. Just enough to feel his presence around you. He wasn’t touching you, but he didn’t need to. You could feel it anyway. Could feel him—his stillness, his warmth, his quiet restraint.

And then he said it.

“Are you sure,” he asked, voice barely audible, “there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The question hung in the air between you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there.

You looked up at him, blinking too fast again. “Bucky…”

But you didn’t finish the sentence.

Because it was already happening again—your eyes glassing over, that familiar sting building behind your nose.

You sucked in a shaky breath, the cool air burning your lungs. You looked away from him, blinking rapidly, willing the tears not to spill—but it was already too late. Again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “God, I’m sorry, I don't wanna cry again—this is so embarrassing.”

Bucky said nothing.

Just stood there in front of you, still as stone. But his eyes… they were softer than you’d ever seen them. And it hurt.

“I would stay,” you choked, voice trembling with the weight of the truth you’d kept tucked away for weeks. “I want to stay. Of course I want to stay.”

You were crying now, tears falling hot down your cheeks as your chest tightened. “But it wouldn’t work. It can’t. It’s unethical now. It’s inappropriate. Because I—”

Your throat clenched, but you pushed through.

“—because I have this stupid crush on you, okay?”

You didn’t dare look at him.

“I have this dumb, awful, unprofessional, completely humiliating crush on my boss. I think about you way too much, and it makes it hard to do my job. I bring you coffee I know you like and highlight your notes so you won’t panic during speeches and I try to make you smile because when you do it’s like—it’s like the world gets quiet for a second.”

Your hands fluttered uselessly as you spoke, as if your body could catch your words and stuff them back in your mouth.

“And I know it’s one-sided, okay? I’m not stupid. I know you don’t feel that way, but I—”

He kissed you.

Just like that. No warning.

A sudden, quiet press of lips that silenced your breath, your words, your panic.

His hands didn’t even touch you. Not yet. He just leaned in and kissed you—firm, sure, warm—like it was the only way he knew to make it all stop.

You froze, heart crashing into your ribs, eyes wide for just a moment.

And then you melted.

Mouth softening into his, breath catching in your throat. Tears still clinging to your lashes, your hand clutching the front of his jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

He pulled back slowly—barely an inch—his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s not one-sided.”

Your lips parted to speak—to say something, anything, maybe to ask if this was real—but you didn’t get the chance.

Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper, firmer, more certain. His hand found the side of your jaw, fingers brushing just behind your ear, grounding you in the moment like he couldn’t stand to be any farther away. Your back pressed gently against the wall behind you, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

It wasn’t careful now.

It was warm and urgent and real, and it made your head spin, your knees wobble. You let out a tiny noise against his mouth, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket again, clinging like you couldn’t bear to stop.

When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—his breath mingled with yours, foreheads still close.

“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he spoke.

Your heart stuttered. Your brain, still floating somewhere behind your eyes, couldn’t string thoughts together fast enough.

You blinked up at him, eyes hazy, lips still parted. Then, barely above a whisper, you murmured against his mouth,

“I think it’s ‘cause of my strawberry daiquiri.”

That made him smile.

Small, crooked, and stupidly tender.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you smiled too—real and a little dazed, like you couldn’t believe this was happening.

Bucky looked like he was about to say something else.

His mouth opened, barely.

And you didn’t let him.

You moved fast—tipping forward and throwing your arms around his neck before he could even breathe, your body colliding into his with enough force to make him stumble half a step back. His hands shot out instinctively, catching you by the waist, holding you steady.

Then you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Messier. Mouth opening against his, tongue slipping past his lips like it had been building in you for months.

He grunted softly into the kiss, grip tightening at your sides like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening—but wasn’t about to let go, either.

You pressed into him, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him closer like it wasn’t close enough. His hand slid up your spine, the other anchoring at your hip, both of you half-pinned against the brick wall and completely lost in the feel of each other.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was heat and tension and all the things you’d both been swallowing back for too long.

Your mouth moved against his like you’d been waiting for this exact angle, this exact pressure. He kissed you back with equal weight, tongue meeting yours, breath shallow, one of his hands fisting lightly in the fabric at your lower back like he needed something to hold onto.

You pulled back for half a second—just enough to breathe—then dragged him right back in, catching his lower lip between yours before deepening it again, another sweep of your tongue making him tighten his hold on you.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads were still touching, your fingers still curled at the nape of his neck. His hands were warm against your waist, thumbs absently brushing your sides like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Your lips hovered against his—still wet, swollen, parted.

“My heart is going tachycardic right now,” you mumbled, voice breathy and half-delirious.

Bucky blinked, a slow exhale brushing over your cheek as he gave a short, low laugh. It was half a huff, half a genuine what are you even saying, but there was nothing mocking in it.

He had no idea what that meant. Not really.

But still, without missing a beat, he murmured against your lips, “Yeah. Me too.”

Then he kissed you again.

Soft this time. Lingering. Then again, just below your mouth. And again, near the corner. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to taste more.

Your breath hitched, arms tightening briefly around his neck as his mouth found yours again—more lazy now, indulgent, like you had all the time in the world to learn each other one kiss at a time.

You smiled into it. Couldn’t help it.

And he didn’t stop kissing you.

Didn’t want to.

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

The Watchtower.

New York.

Leader—unofficially—of the most emotionally unstable group of enhanced individuals the government could dig up. He didn’t want the job. Didn’t ask for it. But somehow, it was always his name they called when something needed handling.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes heavy from a sleepless night. Not that anyone here noticed. Ava phased through walls at 3 a.m., Walker trained like rage was cardio, and Yelena had made it her personal mission to ignore authority unless she gave it to herself.

He sighed, long and low, ready to go back to pretending he didn’t exist.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out instinctively, screen lighting up.

Finally—cleared my schedule. I’m coming to New York this weekend. Hope you’re ready for excessive cuddling and making out and me refusing to let go of you for like 48 hours. ❤️

Bucky’s lips pulled into the faintest smile as he read your text, thumb tapping the screen just once in response.

Can’t wait.

And of course, that’s when Yelena walked in.

She stopped mid-stride, immediately squinting at him like she’d spotted a security breach.

“What the hell is that?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What?”

“That thing on your face.” She tilted her head, arms crossed. “Are you… smiling?”

He pocketed the phone quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“No, no, no.” She was already circling him like a predator. “You look—God, what’s the word—pleasant. That’s not your baseline.”

He sighed, already regretting not hiding in the gym.

“Who texted you?”

“None of your business,” he muttered.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to buy it. She crossed her arms, watching him like he was a broken vending machine she intended to fix with violence.

“You smiled. I’ve never seen you smile. Not like that. It was very suspicious.”

Bucky took a slow sip of coffee. “Wasn’t smiling.”

“Your face moved, Bucky,” she said flatly. “It was unsettling.”

He turned away, walked over to the fridge like it held answers.

Yelena followed.

“Was it a dog video?” she asked. “No. You’re not soft enough for dogs. A meme? A mission update with someone dying? No—wait. It was a person. You smiled like someone flirted with you.”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it serious? Is it secret? Is it dangerous?“ Yelena asked, suddenly in front of him, leaning slightly into his space, “I will find out. I am very good at finding things. And people.”

Bucky just sighed, long and tired, and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

Yelena stared after him for half a beat before turning sharply and locking eyes on the next available target.

Walker.

He’d just wandered in, hoodie half-zipped, chewing on a protein bar like he hadn’t had a thought in days.

“You,” Yelena said, pointing at him. “You’ve known him longest. Does Bucky have a girlfriend?”

Walker blinked. “What?”

“A girlfriend,” she repeated, slower. “A woman. He dates her. Romantic?”

He squinted slightly. “Bucky? Uh… I mean… I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I mean, maybe? He’s quiet. One time he left early and said he had ‘plans.’ That could mean anything though. Like… groceries. Or laundry.”

Yelena stared at him, unblinking. “You are completely useless.”

Walker nodded, still chewing. “That’s fair.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had just settled onto the couch, bowl of something vaguely edible in hand, eyes on the muted television where an old war documentary flickered across the screen. It wasn’t exactly entertainment—it was just quiet.

He barely got through three bites before he felt it.

The shift in the air.

Then the voices.

Yelena entered first, of course—arms crossed, wearing the face of someone who’d appointed herself lead investigator in a murder case that didn’t exist.

She was followed by Bob, Alexei, Ava, and Walker, who trailed in like a herd of very uncoordinated cats.

Bucky didn’t even look at them. “No.”

“We haven’t said anything yet,” Bob offered, smiling too nicely.

“Still no.”

Yelena dropped onto the armrest beside him, eyes sharp. “We’ve been talking.”

Bucky stared straight ahead. “Tragic.”

“And we’ve decided,” she continued, ignoring him completely, “that we don’t know anything about your personal life.”

“That’s because it’s personal,” he said dryly.

Alexei huffed, already pacing. “This is concerning. You are team leader. We need to know if you are emotionally stable.”

“I’m not. None of us are.”

Walker plopped into a chair. “He did smile the other day. That was weird.”

“That’s what started all this,” Yelena snapped. “He smiled. At a text. And now he won’t tell us who sent it.”

Bucky turned up the volume on the TV. Barely.

Ava appeared on the other side of the couch, silent as usual, but she arched a brow that said she was equally invested.

Bob, cheerful as ever, leaned forward with a grin. “We’re just saying… if there’s a special someone, you can tell us. We’re fun. We’re emotionally safe.”

“You’re emotionally nosy,” Bucky muttered.

“We are team,” Alexei boomed. “And you—our glorious yet emotionally constipated leader—should share with group!”

Yelena leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes. “Is it serious? Like, does she know you have zero social skills? Does she like that? Is she in therapy?”

Walker nodded. “Is she hot?”

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” he said. “It’s a valid question.”

Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check it right away—not with five pairs of eyes watching him like he was the last episode of a series they weren’t supposed to binge but did anyway.

But then he did glance. Just one look at the screen.

And something shifted in his posture. Barely.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite—but something loosened in his shoulders. He stood up, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said simply.

“Go where?” Yelena asked instantly, sliding off the couch and following with military-grade suspicion. “Where is Winter Soldier going all dressed up in… black?”

“I’m always dressed in black.“

But it didn’t matter.

They were already following him.

Bob was at his side with his usual skip in his step, Walker tagging along behind like a golden retriever who wasn’t sure what game they were playing. Alexei caught up quickly, talking to himself about trust and emotional openness. Ava materialized near the elevator, silent but present. And Yelena, of course, was right on Bucky’s heels.

“You’re deflecting,” she said as the elevator doors closed around them. “I can smell secrets. And this smells like a woman.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Not a word.

Just faced the elevator door, arms folded, jaw tight, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.

“Where exactly are you going?” she pressed, arms crossed. “Is she here? Is she real?”

“You’ll see,” Bucky said flatly, not bothering to face them.

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they all spilled into the main lobby of the Watchtower, a wide, sleek expanse of glass and metal and polished silence.

Then a sound cut through the air like a missile.

A high, joyful squeal.

“Bucky baby!”

Everything stopped.

The team froze.

Yelena’s face scrunched in real time. “Bucky baby?”

Before anyone could process that phrase, there was movement.

A blur of color streaked across the marble lobby. Heels clicking, earrings swinging, hair bouncing—you, in full tilt.

And without hesitation, you launched yourself straight at him.

Bucky barely had time to catch you, but he did—one arm wrapping around your waist, the other under your thighs as you jumped up and clung to him like gravity didn’t apply.

And then, right there in front of everyone, your lips were on his.

Not shy. Not sweet.

Mouth open, tongue in, both hands in his hair as you kissed him like you’d been holding your breath for hours and he was the only oxygen you wanted. You tilted his head, deepened it, bit his bottom lip and everything. It was messy and loud and had absolutely zero awareness of space or audience.

Bucky just held you there—like he’d been waiting for this all day. One hand squeezing your hip, the other steady under your thigh, mouth moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough.

Silence behind you.

Long.

Awkward.

Unblinking.

Walker looked physically stunned, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t figure out what dimension he’d fallen into.

Bob had both hands over his eyes. “I feel like I’m watching something x-rated.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear. “Ah, love! Powerful! Raw! Very virile. I respect it.“

Ava stood slightly to the side, arms crossed, expression twisted into something between a wince and a grimace. “This is disgusting.”

Yelena just raised one eyebrow. “What the fuck?”

The kiss finally slowed—just a little. You pulled back to catch your breath, your forehead pressing against Bucky’s as you grinned, lips swollen, eyes dancing.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He huffed out a breath, still catching up. “Hi.”

Then, finally, he turned—still holding you, still slightly dazed—and glanced over at the very silent, very stunned lineup of teammates.

No one said anything.

You blinked, just now noticing the five-person audience.

“Oh,” you said cheerfully, breath still short. “Hi.”

Silence.

The kind that settles like static. Thick, charged, slightly horrified.

The team’s eyes slowly, almost comically, shifted from you to Bucky.

All at once.

Yelena stepped forward half a pace, pointing without subtlety. “This is your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

You were still curled in his arms like you lived there, bright smile lighting up your entire face, makeup slightly smudged from the kissing, lipstick faded along Bucky’s mouth.

You held up your left hand like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Diamond. Simple, perfect, unmistakable.

“Fiancée, actually.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @ozwriterchick @espressopatronum454 @slutforsr @c-grace56 @Tafuller @mencantaleer @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @snake-in-a-flower-crown @honeyhera29 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover @ogoc-19 @person-005 @beemovie123

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

4K notes · View notes

brookghaib-blog · 7 days ago

Text

Golden Arms, and Dark Whispers- II

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob share a deeply passionate relationship, cracks begin to show beneath their perfect facade due to Bob's double life, hoping for a normal loving family life, and her pregnancy. Y/N's mental state deteriorates, making her vulnerable to the sinister influence of the Void, who turns her into a pawn for control.

Word Count: 9,5k

Warning: Angst, emotional distress, hallucinations, conflict relationships, mild violence

Note: I'm sorry for the disappearance, leave your feedback and some love it's always appreciated!

Chapter I

Y/N woke to the kind of warmth that didn’t feel real — soft and golden, like the light in a memory you can never return to. It wrapped around her like a blanket of summer, poured through gauzy curtains that swayed lazily in a wind she couldn’t feel, and brushed her skin with a softness that made her wonder if she was still dreaming. For a moment, the world was gentle. There was no ache in her body, no weight in her belly, no crushing fatigue gnawing at her bones. Her hands were still, her thoughts quiet. She sat up in bed — a bed she didn’t recognize, but that felt like home nonetheless — and realized that her chest didn’t hurt, her breathing wasn’t tight, and her heart, somehow, wasn’t beating in panic.

The bedroom was beautiful. Pale wooden floors, walls the color of cream and early morning fog, the scent of lavender drifting through an open window just barely visible behind fluttering curtains. Somewhere outside, birdsong echoed — not loud, but constant, like background music to peace. It was too perfect. Too quiet. And yet, she didn’t question it at first. She didn’t need to. Everything felt right, like waking from a nightmare and slipping straight into a better dream.

She noticed the change in her body next. The bump — gone. Her belly was flat, soft beneath the oversized sleep shirt she wore, and when she pressed her palm over it, there was no flutter of movement, no warmth from within. It should have made her panic. It didn’t. Instead, her fingers lingered there, as though something in her wanted to believe that maybe — just maybe — it had all been a bad dream. The baby. The doubt. The aching fear that had rooted itself into her every waking breath over the past month. Here, it was quiet. Here, it didn’t follow her.

And then the door creaked open.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Her breath caught, just for a moment. He stood in the doorway, sunlight curling around him like a halo. Bob. But not the version she’d last seen before sleep swallowed her — not the exhausted, distant man who came home with shadows under his eyes and a phone full of secrets. This Bob looked as he did in the beginning — younger, somehow, less burdened, his hair tousled but clean, his smile soft and real. He wore the old shirt she loved, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, and he moved toward her like a man who belonged here, like he had never been anywhere else. And for one long, terrible heartbeat, she let herself believe it.

“You’re awake,” he said again, crossing the room, and she nodded slowly, too stunned to speak as he knelt beside the bed and brushed a hand over her cheek. His skin was warm. His touch was familiar. But something about it didn’t reach all the way inside her.

She sat up straighter, brows beginning to furrow.

“Where… where are we?” she asked, voice quiet.

Bob’s smile didn’t falter, but something flickered behind his eyes.

“Home,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You were tired. Now you’re safe. No more pain, no more weight. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Her fingers gripped the edge of the sheets as she looked around again. It was all too much. Too idyllic. There were no photographs on the walls, no clutter, no sign of the real life they had built together — just vague softness and curated calm, like a magazine spread of a dream no one could actually live in.

Her heart began to pound.

“I don’t feel pregnant,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” he replied gently, and leaned in to kiss her temple. “Not right now. But the baby’s fine. She’s safe too. Somewhere near. You’ll meet her soon.”

She froze. “She…?”

Bob nodded, eyes shining. “A daughter. Beautiful, just like you.”

Her stomach twisted. It didn’t make sense. None of this did. But the way he looked at her — like she was the center of gravity — made her want to stop questioning. Made her want to melt into the lie and forget what the truth had started to feel like. Because if this was a dream, it was better than the reality she’d been living. There, she had been heavy with fear. Here, she could breathe.

“Come outside,” he said, offering his hand. “I want to show you something.”

She took it, hesitantly.

The door led not to a hallway, but to the garden she hadn’t walked through in months. Flowers bloomed in wild, brilliant colors, vines clung lovingly to white lattice archways, and bees danced lazily in the sun. There was no dead patch in the back corner, no weeds overtaking the rosemary. The wind carried jasmine and honeysuckle, and the stone path wound perfectly through it all like something out of a storybook. She blinked, nearly overwhelmed.

“You can stay here,” he said softly, standing behind her with his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “It’s all for you.”

She turned to look at him again, and now — now there was something different in his face.

It was still Bob’s face. But it shimmered, subtly, like heat off pavement. His eyes were too gold. Not just bright — glowing. And when she blinked again, for a second, she thought she saw the edges of something else. A flicker of darkness curling around his frame, like black smoke coiled in a golden shell.

“I don’t understand,” she said, voice shaking.

“I’ve given you what he couldn’t,” the figure said, still smiling. “A world where nothing breaks. Where you never have to hurt again. You can rest here. You can stay.”

Her hands trembled.

“This isn’t real.”

He cupped her face.

“It feels real. That’s what matters. All the pain — the doubt, the silence, the questions he made you carry — they’re gone. Here, I love you without leaving. I love you without lies. You are whole, wanted, seen.”

Tears slid down her cheeks.

“But I do hurt,” she said, “because this isn’t him.”

“It is,” he whispered. “I am the part of him he hides from you. I am what he represses to deserve you. I am his guilt. His rage. His desire. I am the part of him that would burn the world to keep you — and unlike him, I will never pretend you’re not enough.”

Time didn't seem linear inside the garden; the sun stayed pinned in place like a spotlight on a stage that never dimmed, and though Y/N wandered its winding stone paths over and over again, brushing her fingertips across petals that never wilted and breathing in air that tasted like roses and honey, she could no longer tell how many hours or days had passed since the man wearing Bob’s face took her hand and promised her peace, nor how long she had drifted through this dreamscape believing — if only faintly — that it could be real.

At times, her mind tried to resist, whispering that nothing perfect ever came without cost, that love did not exist without friction or fatigue, that peace should not feel this heavy in the chest, but those thoughts faded quickly beneath the weightless ease the Void had layered into every detail: the way her feet never ached when she walked, the way her breath never caught in her throat when she cried, the way even her most painful memories unraveled and disappeared like cobwebs blown from the corners of an old attic, leaving her lighter and emptier with every passing moment.

She may not know how to run away but she never really tried, she would never admit to this man that she was staying to enjoy the little peace this illusion was bringing. She should be more scared, more confused, angrier. Was it God showing her something she's yet to understand? Where's her Bob? Where's her baby? Was this God punishing her for her weakeness? Should she let herself sink into this life where this Bob looked like whom he was in their beginning?

Still, some part of her clung to the idea that something was missing.

It tugged at her quietly when she was alone on the garden swing, when she passed the nursery door that was always ajar but never entered, when she sat beneath the willow tree and stared out at the sky, wondering why it never changed, why the birds never flew higher, why the clouds never moved.

That gnawing returned again today, more forcefully, as she found herself standing in the heart of the garden’s rose circle, where white petals danced around her bare ankles and the silence had grown too thick, too deep — not peaceful now, but waiting.

The wind shifted.

Behind her, the sound of small feet padding across stone made her chest freeze, and slowly, cautiously, she turned.

There she stood.

A child — no older than four, maybe five — her hair curled like dandelion silk, eyes round and familiar, the color of sunlight through amber, her smile unguarded and breathtaking in the way only children can smile, and for a moment Y/N couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could only stare as tears welled in her eyes without warning, lips trembling as the little girl approached.

“Mama,” the child said softly, and Y/N dropped to her knees like her body had been unstrung.

She caught her — held her — arms folding around the tiny frame that fit perfectly against her chest, and the girl giggled, pressed a soft hand to Y/N’s face and whispered again, “You’re here now,” as if she’d been waiting, as if she’d always known her mother would find her.

Y/N’s fingers shook as they clutched the cotton fabric of the girl’s sundress.

Her daughter.

Their daughter.

Real or not — it didn’t matter, not in this moment, not when everything inside her was crying from the sheer force of longing.

“You’re so big,” she whispered brokenly, stroking the girl’s hair, inhaling the scent of something sweet and warm like vanilla and home.

“I missed you,” the girl whispered.

“I missed you too,” Y/N replied, a sob catching behind her ribs.

Then, without warning, the girl pulled back slightly, her smile still soft, her gaze turning slightly behind Y/N’s shoulder.

“He said you’d be scared,” she said. “But he told me to tell you it’s okay now. We can stay.”

The hair on the back of Y/N’s neck rose as she slowly looked over her shoulder.

He stood in the garden’s edge again — the same face, the same golden eyes, but now there was no effort to pretend.

His skin shimmered with threads of black mist, and his presence rippled like an oil slick over calm water, beautiful and terrible, and though his voice came out as smooth as silk, it wrapped itself around her spine like a chain.

“She is yours, Y/N,” the Void said gently, stepping forward. “No pain. No fear. Just love — as it should have been. As he could never give.”

Y/N pulled her daughter closer.

“But she wasn’t here before,” she said hoarsely, eyes narrowing. “You brought her now. You made her.”

“She was always yours,” the Void answered calmly. “I simply gave her shape. What he could not protect, I preserve. What he let slip away in silence, I kept waiting in gold.”

“She’s not real.”

“She is more than real. She’s yours without the grief. Yours without the doubt. Yours in a world that will not break her.”

Y/N stood slowly, holding her daughter’s hand, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

“You keep saying he didn’t love me,” she said, forcing her voice to steady.

“He didn’t,” the Void said, expression unchanged. “He loved the idea of you. The quiet, the sweetness, the caretaker, the calm. But the weight? The exhaustion? The fear in your eyes when you asked him to stay and he left anyway? He turned away. Again. And again. He didn't even tell you that I existed, and he knew. Your Bob also created an illusion, the old one where you used to live in, the one who brought you here.”

“You speak of love, but what have you done to deserve it?”

“I caught you,” he said softly, stepping closer now. “Twice.”

“And I will never let you fall again.”

Y/N’s heart beat painfully in her chest as her daughter’s small fingers curled tighter around hers, grounding her to the moment in a way nothing else could.

“But this isn’t mine,” she whispered. “None of this is mine.”

“It could be,” the Void replied, his voice shifting — deeper now, smoother, almost reverent.

“You don’t need to fight anymore. You don’t need to be tired. Stay. Be a mother without mourning. Be a woman without fear. Be loved not in halves, but completely.”

He reached for her hand, the one not holding her daughter’s.

And for a moment, the stillness was so perfect she nearly said yes.

Nearly gave in.

Nearly forgot what real love felt like — not perfect, not painless, but true.

And then, far in the distance, the faintest shimmer of gold pulsed like a heartbeat behind the trees — a glow, too fragile to be threatening, too soft to be the Void.

Something was coming.

Or someone.

And for the first time, the Void’s voice trembled with urgency.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping forward, “you must choose.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell with ragged breath as her daughter looked up at her, eyes wide and sweet and trusting. Those big blue eyes. The kind of eyes that only her Bob had.

“Mama?” the girl asked quietly. “Don’t leave.”

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now, and she sank to her knees again, holding the child close, burying her face in soft hair.

“I don’t want to,” she whispered. “I never wanted to.”

And behind her, the Void stretched his arms wide.

“Then stay,” he murmured. “And never be hurt again. I would never hurt you, I would never make you doubt. Such a beautiful creature you are.”

The days—or what she perceived as days—bled together in perfect softness, that strange, endless twilight hugging every edge of her false home like dusk made permanent, a dream pressed into the shape of something safer than waking, and Y/N found herself drifting through it in quiet awe, the walls of this reality bending to her unspoken desires, never needing to explain herself, never having to hide her tears, because the world the Void created for her never judged her, never asked more than what she had the strength to give, and slowly, so slowly, her suspicion dulled under the velvet lull of its peace.

She would wander from room to room, bare feet brushing against cool marble floors or sinking into thick rugs without ever feeling cold, every window opening to a sky painted in dusk’s quiet pinks and lavenders, and somewhere nearby there was always laughter, a child’s soft voice—her daughter, a little girl with Bob’s eyes and her smile, who ran through the halls with stuffed animals trailing from her arms and whose giggles echoed in every corner, grounding Y/N even when her mind trembled on the edge of recognition, of something lost, of something real.

But she couldn’t remember why it mattered, not when the world here was so gentle with her, not when the Void—never appearing as the shadowed thing she once feared but instead as something closer to light in form and warmth in voice—remained at her side, never quite touching her but always there, whispering words she almost believed, words she might have needed even if they were poison stitched with honey, words like you were always too much for him, and he didn’t deserve the way you loved, and you deserve someone who sees all of you without fear and I do.

And she wanted to believe it, wanted to let go of the ache and betrayal and exhaustion that had hollowed her out, wanted to lay down the sharp edges of herself and dissolve into the illusion, into the arms that promised they wouldn’t flinch away from her darkness, wouldn’t leave when her silence became unbearable, wouldn’t forget to say her name when the world demanded they forget what mattered—she didn’t remember Bob ever saying her name like that, not the way the Void said it now, like a prayer, like a vow, like she was still holy even when broken.

Still, something in her resisted—something small and old, a flickering tether hidden beneath the weightless calm of this place, something that whispered this wasn’t how her daughter was supposed to sound, that Bob would never let go of her without trying to save her, that love didn’t vanish like smoke—but every time that whisper tried to rise, it was met with a mirror of every doubt she ever buried: the texts, the absences, the silence at her side that used to feel like comfort but had turned into a stranger’s breathing, and the Void never needed to lie because he had only ever repeated what she already feared, had only ever said out loud the things she refused to let herself feel in the dark.

“You don’t have to hurt anymore,” he said once, sitting across from her on the living room floor, light dancing behind his eyes that weren’t quite real and yet made her stomach twist with the strange, forbidden recognition of being seen, “You gave and gave and what did he give you back? Empty space. Loneliness. He forgot how to love you the way you needed. I never will.”

Y/N held her daughter’s hand tightly that evening, brushing fingers through her curls while the little girl napped beside her, wondering if she was real, if the warmth in her palm was truth or a trick, and yet even as the questions pressed harder against her chest, she didn’t move, didn’t rise, didn’t reach for the door that might lead back, because she didn’t know anymore what was worse—losing the illusion or returning to the world where she had already been so thoroughly lost.

And when the Void sat behind her later that night, arms not quite touching, but presence like a slow storm, whispering into the shell of her ear that this could be forever if she just stopped wondering, if she just stopped fighting, she almost leaned back into him. Confusion taking over her, questioning herself if her mind was at peace with this being that has brought her all of this reality... or his resembling to her Bob was the factor that pulled her to him.

That night she prayed to anyone who heard her, a small sign, a small prayer that would make her clear, she needed to be heard, she needed something that she could trust to tell her that her final decision would be the right one.

She would finally accept her faith and be with her daughter forever, just like the Void promised her.

Bob's pov

The sky above the Void was not a sky at all but an endless smothering darkness, like black silk soaked in grief, rippling gently as if breathing, and somewhere beneath it — buried in layers of twisted memory and manipulated light — Bob knew she was there, she had to be, and yet every time he tore through a veil, every time he used his power to unravel another thread of unreality, she slipped further from him like mist in his fingers, like she’d never been real to begin with, and the silence that followed each failed breach pressed hard into his chest like an accusation, and he hated the sound of his own voice echoing across nothingness as he screamed her name for the hundredth time — “Y/N!” — his throat raw, his hair clinging to his temple with sweat, the golden energy pulsing from his fists glowing dimmer than it had hours ago, or days, or maybe weeks — he’d lost track of time inside this place where clocks didn’t tick and suns didn’t rise and hearts didn’t beat unless you forced them to.

“Bob—!” Alexei’s voice cut through the black, distant but present, and Bob spun to see the Russian’s figure staggering through a rift he’d barely held open, the man’s armor singed and shoulders heaving, “You’re burning too fast, we have to regroup.”

“I can’t stop,” Bob said without looking, his voice a low rasp full of exhaustion and something close to panic, his eyes glowing faintly but wild with the kind of desperation that didn’t sleep, that didn’t eat, that only looked, and he reached out again with his hands toward another shimmer, pulling at the seams of the illusion like unraveling a memory someone else had stitched together wrong, “She’s here — I know she’s here — she wouldn’t just leave.”

“She didn’t leave,” murmured Bucky, stepping up beside him slowly, his voice quieter, more grounded, but his expression unreadable, “She was taken.”

Bob flinched at the word — taken — because it was the truth he refused to accept but the only truth that made sense, and he knew it, knew what the Void did to people, how it wrapped itself around your pain and whispered everything you wanted to hear until the lie was easier than breathing, until you forgot to come up for air, and he hated himself for ever letting it get that close to her, for letting his guard down even for a second, for not seeing the signs when she looked afraid in the dark, when her fingers trembled against his in bed, when she asked one too many questions about his past, when she smiled a little too carefully like she was afraid of breaking something they couldn’t fix.

“She’s still inside,” Bob muttered, almost to himself, “She’s still herself… somewhere.”

Walker stood further back, arms crossed, looking irritated and unbothered in a way that only half-masked his own unease. “Then we need a way in, not a guessing game. She’s trapped in a fake world — you keep punching holes in the wrong ones.”

Bob turned on him sharply, eyes glowing brighter now, flaring with raw frustration. “You think I don’t know that?! I feel her, I feel when she’s close, I just—” he stopped, breath shaking as he pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, overwhelmed by the static that buzzed through his skull, “I just can’t… I can’t see her, not yet.”

He fell to one knee, the golden light at his back dimming as though even the sun inside him was losing faith.

But he wouldn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

Because in every dream she’d ever shared with him, in every quiet word against his chest, in every promise made half-asleep and still so real, she had been his anchor, his reason, his light, and now — she was fading, he could feel it, as though her heartbeat was moving further away by the hour, pulled into something that wanted her, that was sweet-talking her with a voice that wasn't his, and if he didn’t find her soon, if he didn’t pull her back from whatever hell the Void had created, she wouldn’t just be lost, she’d be gone — not dead, but hollow, erased, rewritten.

“Y/N,” he whispered again, this time almost praying, “Please hold on… please don’t believe him… I’m coming.”

Bob stood at the threshold of a memory and couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or if the Void was dragging him deeper into the labyrinth of his own soul, his glowing form as the Sentry flickering with instability, each step echoing with the low groan of forgotten moments collapsing around him like a dying star trying to reclaim its light, and the team—Walker, Yelena, Alexei, Ava, even Bucky—remained just far enough behind to let him lead but close enough that he could feel their stunned silence growing heavier with each door he opened, each wall he passed through, each memory reborn before their eyes, real but unreachable.

The first was a kitchen, their kitchen.

It was a Saturday morning frozen in time, and sunlight poured in through white curtains like warm honey, a tiny detail that made Bob choke on air because he remembered, vividly, how Y/N used to say that morning light tasted sweeter than afternoon light, and there she was in this memory, wearing one of his shirts, hair still wet from a shower, humming softly while stirring a pot of something on the stove, and even the faint scent of cinnamon was there, real enough to sting his nose, real enough that he reached for her, arm outstretched, whispering her name like a prayer.

"Y/N..."

But she didn’t turn, just kept humming and laughing at something he couldn’t hear anymore, and the moment he tried to step closer, the scene collapsed like glass shattering underwater, distorting and dripping away into the black nothingness that swallowed everything behind it, and the team flinched as a loud ringing echoed through the chamber, like grief taking physical form.

Bob didn’t stop.

The next memory was in a park, late autumn, the leaves gold and red like fire, and Y/N was pushing a stroller—he remembered this too—it wasn’t real, they never had a child, not then, but the Void had taken his fantasy and turned it into torment, showing him the version of life he never got to live, and in the dream his hand held hers, his laugh was loud, her smile was wide, and their baby looked just like her, and Bob’s knees buckled because he’d imagined it so many times, late at night in motel rooms, in empty apartments, in sterile labs when he was pretending not to care anymore.

He fell to the ground, chest heaving, light dimming from his body like his heart was losing its beat.

“These not real..what's he doing? Why is he doing this?” he murmured, half to himself, half to the air, but the images kept coming, one after the other, and each one hit harder—her singing to him when he couldn’t sleep, the way she rubbed circles on his back when he was shaking from withdrawal, the argument they had in the rain the night before his first "work trip" where she nearly asked him if he was cheating, the way she broke when he came back different.

Alexei finally spoke.

“Was all this… really you?”

But Bob didn’t respond.

Because now he was in a bedroom, not one he recognized, yet it felt familiar, warped and dreamlike, and he could see her sleeping in bed, alone, tear tracks on her face, the Void watching her from the ceiling like a specter made of oil and regret, whispering things to her that Bob couldn’t hear, and rage rose inside him like fire igniting in his blood.

“I’m coming for you,” he hissed, voice cracking, “I don’t care what you’ve shown her, I don’t care what lies you put in her mind, she’s mine, she was mine to care for...it was—it was you all this time you...you poisoned her. My wife was taken from me... because you poisoned her with your words, your thoughts... My baby..”

The Void responded not with words but with another memory, this one so sharp it burned: Y/N laughing in a bar, that day they first met, him saving her and immediately falling in lov by her beauty, that stunned moment he felt joy again, when she had looked at him like he wasn’t a disaster, like he wasn’t broken, like he was someone who could still be saved. Like he was an angel.

Walker muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ… he had a whole life.”

Bob gritted his teeth, eyes glowing gold, hair flaring like a storm unraveling, the Void pressing in harder now, memories overlapping, bleeding into each other—Y/N dancing in the rain, her wearing her beautiful wedding dress, Y/N cradling his face after a nightmare, Y/N whispering ‘I love you’ so quietly he’d doubted it was real—every moment a knife, every heartbeat a scream.

“I didn’t leave you,” he said out loud, speaking through the veil in case she could hear him, his voice shaking, “I swear to God I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you—I left because I didn’t think I was allowed to love anything that much and still be what the world needed.”

He moved forward again, breaking through the illusion with sheer will, fists clenched, teeth gritted, tears streaking down his face now, unashamed.

“I’m not afraid of the Void,” he growled, golden veins of light ripping through the air, “but I am fucking terrified of never seeing you again.”

And somewhere, behind the layers of illusions, something cracked.

A shimmer of real memory, a sliver of pain.

He stopped.

“Y/N?” he whispered.

But the Void, amused and ancient and possessive, only whispered back.

“She belongs to me now.”

Bob’s scream shattered the next room entirely.

The air charged with a static that made their teeth ache and their thoughts blur, and before them unfolded a vision of a quiet morning—Y/N at the kitchen counter, her hair mussed from sleep, wrapped in one of Bob’s old flannels, holding a chipped mug that read World’s Okayest Scientist, her smile soft and half-lost in the rising steam of the coffee, and Bob—this Bob—standing behind her, arms around her waist, resting his head against her shoulder like a man who didn’t carry galaxies in his mind; but what stung more was the quiet hum of a lullaby, faint, but there, and when the team turned, stunned, they saw a nursery, sunlit and peaceful, with painted stars on the ceiling and a crib in the corner, a little girl giggling from inside as if she’d always been real—and in that moment, Bob dropped to his knees, not because of what he saw, but because he wanted to believe it so badly.

“You can have this forever,” the Void whispered, his voice leaking through the cracks in the illusion, wrapping around Bob’s spine like a vine, “she’s waiting, not for the man who left her, not for the coward who broke, but for the god who knows how to build a better world—don’t you see, they’ll never understand you like she did.”

Yelena stepped forward, her voice shaking, “This isn’t her, Bob, this isn’t real,” but even she faltered when the illusion turned—Y/N looking at them all with tears in her eyes, whispering, “Let him go, please, he doesn’t belong with you—he belongs here, with me. Just stay with me my love, here.”

And Bucky, jaw clenched, felt it too—the heartbreak of watching a man on the verge of surrender, trapped between the truth of pain and the lie of happiness.

The nursery faded first, then the kitchen light dimmed until it flickered and died, and Y/N’s image dissolved into ash right as Bob reached out for her, his breath catching in his throat, not because she vanished, but because he couldn’t tell anymore if she’d ever been there to begin with. The floor beneath him groaned, rippling into the void’s true form—a formless expanse of shifting shadows and the only thing left standing was him, the Sentry, golden light barely flickering across his armor, barely holding on.

“You’re pathetic,” the voice echoed from the black, deep and layered, like dozens of mouths speaking at once. “You still believe you deserve her. You still think you can save anyone.”

Bob staggered forward, fists clenched, eyes wild and glassy. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

The shadows twisted, forming a humanoid shape tall and terrible, with red eyes glowing like embers inside a cracked skull, no mouth, just endless teeth carved into the void’s form. “I am you,” it hissed, “I know what you wanted to say the last time you saw her. I know the names you never gave your son. I know the lies you tell the team when you say you’re stable. But most of all, I know—” it stepped forward, its very presence sending a shockwave through the veil—“I know how it felt to be happy. And I know how much it killed you to lose it.”

“I didn’t lose it,” Bob snarled, voice rough, cracking with a barely controlled scream, “you took it from me.”

“You are a failed god playing house in a world built for men,” the Void growled, dragging him through another memory, this one twisted—Y/N in a hospital bed, screaming his name, but no one moved, no one heard her but Bob, who was frozen in the doorway, blood on his hands, unable to move forward. “This is what you are. This is the truth.”

“No,” Bob whispered, fists trembling, light dimming as if his conviction were bleeding out. “I won’t let you rewrite her. I won’t let you use her.”

“You don’t have her anymore,” the Void answered, clawing into his chest with something spectral and cold, not made of matter but thought, fear, memory. “And you never will.”

“I will,” Bob breathed, voice barely a thread. “Even if she doesn’t want me. Even if she never forgives me. I will find her. I will remember her right. You’re not the last thing I see. She is.”

He pushed back, every inch of light in him flaring into violent gold, not blinding but sacred, fueled not by power but by love, grief, and failure. The Void screamed, its form unraveling in spirals of smoke and memory, clawing at the fading illusions around them—shards of their life—trying to throw Bob off balance with each fragment. Their first kiss, smeared with tears. Her sleeping beside him in a tiny bed. Her telling him she was proud. Her telling him she was scared. Her voice, her laugh, her anger—all pieces of a world the Void tried to weaponize, but Bob refused to let it become a prison.

“You think you’re me,” Bob whispered, standing over the fading shadow now, shaking, breathless, blood at the corner of his mouth, “but you’re just what’s left of me when I forget who I am.”

The Void lunged once more, all hate and hunger, but Bob caught it—light enveloping the darkness, wrapping it like a shroud—and with a roar that cracked the very fabric of the false reality, he pulled it into himself, fists clenched, body glowing with golden fire.

From outside the veil, the team watched as Bob convulsed mid-air, golden light and black smoke warping around his body, screams echoing like a choir of dying gods. “He’s pulling it back in,” Bucky whispered, horrified. “He’s taking it back inside.”

“He’ll die,” Yelena said, voice hollow, eyes wide.

“He thinks he already did,” whispered someone else.

And in that burning moment, in that bleeding light and darkness, Bob wasn’t just a man or a myth or a god.

He was a husband searching for his wife in the middle of hell, and he was ready to walk through every shadow she’d ever left behind to reach her.

Y/N's pov

/N kneels beside her slowly, hands gently brushing a curl from her daughter’s forehead, that same unruly golden strand she used to find in Bob’s eyes in the morning, and her heart clenches because no matter how surreal this world has become, no matter how sweet the moments, something inside of her aches with the certainty that she never got to hold this child in the real world, that this little girl born of dreams is a memory that never lived and yet here she is—so real, so warm, so vividly alive it hurts

“Mama,” the girl says suddenly, her wide eyes flicking upward, gleaming oddly in the dusky afternoon light that pours through the window with an amber hue too perfect to be natural, “what’s wrong with Daddy?” and the question sends a jolt through Y/N’s chest, blood running cold, because she hadn’t mentioned him—not in days, not here, not where the Void had built her paradise of forgetting—but now the illusion is splintering again, cracking at the edges, because even the child of her fantasy cannot be fully scrubbed of him

“Why do you ask that, baby?” she manages to whisper, brushing her daughter’s cheek with shaking fingers, trying to stay steady, to keep the mask on, to live in this world without asking too many questions, “Daddy’s… Daddy’s not here”

“Yes he is,” the little girl says with the serene clarity of a dream or a prophet, stacking her blocks with methodical patience, “he’s yelling at someone—he’s sad again, isn’t he?” and for a second Y/N hears something distant, something like thunder, no—something like screaming metal, energy colliding with matter, and her breath catches because it’s not thunder at all, it’s power, and it’s familiar, like the sun roaring too close, like Bob

Tears prick her eyes without warning, and she tries to swallow the sob back but it cracks her open, her arms wrapping around her daughter’s small body as if trying to hold onto something real, something stable, because she suddenly knows she’s slipping, she’s forgetting who she is, and if she forgets then the Void wins

“Why do you look like him?” she asks softly, breath shuddering, rocking her daughter gently as if that motion could ward off the darkness gnawing at the edges of her mind, “your eyes, your voice, the way you smile—it’s all him, and this world wasn’t supposed to have him in it, was it?”

Her daughter turns and looks at her with a gaze that feels too knowing, too sad, like someone else looking through her, and says with a small sigh, “Because you made me, Mama, and you love him too much to ever really leave him behind in your mind.”

And that’s when Y/N breaks, collapsing into herself, burying her face in her daughter’s hair, her sobs raw and wet and choked with the kind of grief that doesn’t come from losing someone, but from forgetting them too well, because now she remembers the feel of Bob’s hand on her spine when she couldn’t sleep, the sound of his voice saying her name like it meant something sacred, the broken way he whispered “I’m sorry” after every fight, the soft things he never said out loud but lived in the quiet spaces between his presence and absence

She rocks back on her heels and stares at her daughter’s face again, cupping it in her hands, whispering through cracked lips, “Is he really out there?” and the child just nods with solemn innocence, like she’s known this all along, and the world around them begins to tremble again—not violently, but like a breath being drawn too deep, like something big is about to wake up

“Don’t go,” the little girl pleads suddenly, her voice small and scared, her hands clutching Y/N’s wrists, “If you go to him, I won’t be real anymore, you and Daddy won't exist if you go.”

And Y/N closes her eyes, trembling, her soul split in two, because it’s true—this place is an illusion but the love she feels here is real, and the thought of losing this child again feels like death, like betrayal, like being emptied of something holy—but the thought of Bob’s voice cracking as he screamed for her, the memory of his arms around her after the void of their worst nights, the way his love had survived even him… that love, it’s still calling

“I have to remember who I am,” she whispers, voice shaking as the air starts to shimmer around them, the false sun dimming, and as the illusion begins to fade in flickering waves, she kisses her daughter’s forehead one last time, “and I have to find my way back to him”

The little girl simply smiles and presses a block into Y/N’s hand—one that reads “B”—and whispers, “I’ll wait for you, Mama…”

And then the floor begins to dissolve beneath them. As if the signs came early, all she could hear was Bob's screams.

-10 months ago-

Dito pelo ChatGPT:

The living room smelled faintly of vanilla and champagne, the sweetness of their wedding cake mingling with the soft citrus scent of the fresh paint on the walls—new beginnings layered atop each other like the slices of cake still sitting on chipped porcelain plates. The air was warm from the summer night, and their laughter danced lazily through the open windows as they sat cross-legged on the floor, her white dress bunched at her thighs, his tie discarded, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of his golden skin beneath. It had been the most perfect day—imperfectly chaotic, laced with awkward kisses during speeches and a teary first dance where she’d buried her face in his chest just to steady herself—but here, now, in their empty living room with their shoes off and cake icing on their fingers, it felt like the kind of real happiness that couldn’t be staged.

Bob looked at her the way a starving man might look at a feast—wide-eyed, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if she was real even now that they were alone, married, tangled together in a life that neither of them thought they’d get to live. She was licking frosting from her thumb, humming the song that had played during their vows, and when she caught him staring, she smiled like she already knew what he was thinking. “I keep wondering if I’m gonna wake up,” she murmured softly, her voice dipping into something tender and fragile, as if too much joy still made her wary. “This day… you… it all feels like a dream that I don’t want to end.”

Bob reached for her hand, tracing the newly placed wedding band with his thumb. “If you’re dreaming, then I hope I’m stuck in it forever.”

She laughed, but it caught slightly in her throat, as if there was something she hadn’t yet said. The silence stretched out, not awkward but expectant, like the house itself was leaning in to listen. Then her eyes softened, and she stared down at the frosting-smudged plate in her lap as though it held the weight of memory. “Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?”

Bob leaned in, nodding, the flicker of the candlelight catching in his eyes like a golden spark. “Always.”

She exhaled, slow and quiet. “About a year ago, when I was still working at that research facility downtown… the one that collapsed after that explosion?”

His whole body tensed subtly, but he said nothing.

“I was in one of the upper floors when it happened,” she continued, voice low now, shaky but steadying with each word. “The ground cracked under me and I fell—almost all the way down. But something caught me. Someone. Just—this blur of gold and blue and light. He was… glowing. I don’t even know if he was real. He flew me down, placed me on the street like I weighed nothing, and by the time I turned around, he was gone.”

She looked up, smiling wistfully, and Bob felt the breath catch in his throat.

“I looked for him for weeks. Scoured news reports. Asked around like some crazy person. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I kept wondering if maybe he was one of those heroes you only hear about once—like a myth or a dream you can’t prove existed.”

Bob’s heart thundered in his chest, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I never told anyone because it didn’t feel real. And maybe I didn’t want to know, if it was. Maybe I just liked thinking there was something… bigger. Some guardian angel watching over me.” She paused, eyes flickering with warmth. “I guess part of me always hoped I’d see him again. But maybe… he only shows up when I’m in danger.”

Bob swallowed, his voice hoarse as he asked, “So why not keep looking for him?”

She smiled and looked at him with that same deep, unshakable affection he still couldn’t believe he deserved. “Because I think I already found the man I was meant to be saved by.”

He couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know. She had no idea that the man who’d caught her that day was sitting in front of her now, cake crumbs on his lap, hands trembling slightly with the weight of it all. The memory burned in his mind—how terrified he’d been when he saw the building falling, how fast he’d flown, how his entire chest had seized when he saw her clinging to a jagged ledge with blood on her brow. He had saved her then, as Sentry, because he couldn’t not save her. And he’d saved himself too, in some way, because he’d never stopped thinking about her after that. He’d watched her from afar, unsure, afraid of what it would mean to bring the darkness inside him close to someone so bright.

And now here she was, wearing his ring, sleeping in the same bed, calling him hers.

Bob reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers gentle, reverent. “Then maybe,” he whispered, his voice barely above the soft crackle of candlelight, “he’s still watching over you.”

She leaned into his touch, her eyes falling shut as a peaceful sigh left her lips. “He doesn’t have to. I have you now.”

Dito pelo ChatGPT:

The world shattered around her like glass dropped in slow motion, every shard a bleeding echo of what once was. The soft golden haze of her dreamworld flickered at the edges, revealing glimpses of chaos—skies turned inside out, thunderclouds made of bone and voidlight, screams carried on the wind like prayers never answered. Her daughter, a perfect reflection of her love and longing, stood silently behind her now, her face blurred by the trembling veil. Y/N’s steps were heavy, the air thick with the taste of burned memories and ash, as if the dream was unraveling with every breath she took. A heartbeat pulsed beneath the ground—louder, closer, his heartbeat—and then she heard him. His voice tore through the sky like a lightning strike, broken and raw and wild with desperation. “Y/N! Where are you?! Please—please, I can’t find you!”

And then she saw him.

A streak of gold and blue, radiant and screaming through the storm, his figure warped and cracking at the edges like stained glass fighting not to break. Sentry—no, Bob—was clawing his way through the storm of nightmares, fighting the monstrous silhouette of the Void who towered above like a god without mercy. Shadows bled from his mouth, and his form twisted unnaturally, the embodiment of every doubt, every fear, every failure Bob ever carried. The other four—she couldn’t name them, strangers, allies perhaps, or enemies bound by necessity—were trying to hold the creature back, their faces strained and frightened, flashes of light and power colliding with the dark.

But none of it mattered.

Because Bob was crying her name like a prayer, voice hoarse, arms reaching through black tendrils that wrapped around his limbs like chains of grief. He wasn’t just fighting a monster—he was being torn apart by it. Not his body, no—the Void was consuming his will, devouring him from the inside, whispering the one truth Bob had always feared: He could not save her. And he was breaking. She could feel it. His strength was waning not because he lacked power, but because he had lost hope. Lost her.

“No—no, please—” she whispered, staggering forward, her feet dragging through the broken dreamworld that tried to pull her back with every step, whispers clawing at her mind, her daughter’s voice calling her name softly, “See you soon Mama.”

Now she understood.

All this time, that man in the blue and gold suit, the one who had saved her when the world was falling apart, the one who had held her with such care and vanished before she could say thank you—he had never left. He had married her, loved her, fallen asleep beside her, and built a life with her, hiding the weight of the sun behind his eyes. Bob had been her guardian angel all along. He had always come when she was falling. And now, he was the one falling.

“No more hiding,” she breathed, the storm tearing at her skin, at her soul, but she didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate as her vision blurred and the Void’s claws reached for Bob’s heart, digging in, dragging him down into the screaming dark. “Bob! I’m here!” she screamed, her voice breaking through the howl of the wind, through the cacophony of destruction. “Don’t let go—don’t you dare!”

His head snapped up, and their eyes met across the battlefield, golden sparks flickering in his gaze as if the sight of her had pulled a breath back into his lungs. “Y/N?” he gasped, disbelief and longing twisted in his tone like a man on the brink of death seeing salvation he thought he’d never touch again.

And she ran.

She ran like the world wasn’t crumbling beneath her, like time hadn’t passed, like nothing else mattered but getting to him. Each step was a prayer, each breath a scream, her arms reaching out even as the ground cracked and the sky bled and the Void shrieked in fury. But she didn’t stop, didn’t look back, because she knew—if she could just reach him, if she could just remind him who he was, they might still make it out. They might still get another chance.

Because love like theirs didn’t die in the dark.

It burned through it. It was a blank in their mind. A bright light.

Curtains fluttered gently in the August breeze, and across the living room, Y/N lay curled on the couch, her swollen belly wrapped in soft cotton, one hand resting atop the life they had almost lost. Bob knelt on the floor in front of her, cradling her tired feet with the gentleness of a man desperate to do penance through the simplest gestures. His thumbs worked careful circles into her skin, and her eyelids fluttered closed, exhausted and full, but not broken—not anymore.

He had barely left her side since they got home, since the Void was banished back into the darkened corners of his mind. They hadn’t said everything, not yet. But he had spoken more in the past few days than in their entire time before—voice trembling, fingers shaking, eyes wide with guilt as he told her everything: the truth of what he was, of what he became, of the burden he carried and the war inside him. He told her how every time he touched her skin he feared he’d tear her world apart. That every kiss, every smile he stole from her was borrowed time he never thought he deserved. She hadn’t said much during that confession, just sat there with her hands cradling her belly, tears slipping down her cheeks like they were falling for the both of them.

Now, her eyes drifted open again, glassy and warm, and they met his. “You’re still scared I’ll leave,” she said softly, as if speaking too loudly might make it true.

Bob didn’t deny it. He reached for the water on the table and brought it to her lips. “Every second you stay feels like a miracle I don’t deserve.”

Her brow furrowed, sadness folding into her features. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “But I need more, Bob. I need your presence. I need to know that I won’t be raising her alone while you battle gods inside your head.” Her hand found his, pressed his palm against the roundness of her stomach. “She’ll need you. Not Sentry. Not the man the world worships. Just… you.”

His breath hitched like her words scraped something deep and raw inside him. He leaned in, kissed her ankle, her knee, her stomach, and finally her lips—fragile but whole. “You have me. All of me. No more lies, no more shadows, I swear. I’m not a god anymore. I’m just yours.”

Bob’s hand lingered on her belly, tracing faint lines over the soft curve as if memorizing every inch of the life growing beneath. The flickering light of the television cast golden shadows across the living room, but neither of them had paid attention to it in hours. Outside, cicadas hummed lazily in the summer dusk. Inside, everything felt still—like the house itself was holding its breath with them.

Bob’s thumb made another gentle pass across her skin before he tilted his head, his voice low and hesitant. “You keep saying she,” he murmured, not accusatory, but curious. “Like you already know. Did they tell you something while I was gone? Did the doctors say it was a girl?”

Y/N blinked slowly, her lips parting as if she hadn’t realized she’d been doing it. For a moment, she said nothing. Just stared at him—at the man she had lost and found and almost lost again. Her eyes brimmed with something distant but warm. Then, she smiled faintly, and her fingers came to rest gently over his.

“No,” she whispered. “Nobody told me. Not in this world, at least.”

Bob blinked, confused. “Then… how?”

Her gaze softened as she looked past him, as though seeing something else entirely, something that existed only in memory and miracle. “When the Void had me. Everything was broken and dark and cruel—he made me believe you were gone. That there was no way out. That I was alone.” She paused, her voice catching, and Bob’s hand stilled on her stomach.

“And then,” she continued, her voice trembling with awe, “I saw her.”

Bob’s brows furrowed. “You saw her?”

Y/N nodded slowly, the faintest smile lifting her lips despite the weight in her chest. “She appeared out of nowhere. A little girl. Golden hair like yours, these impossibly big blue eyes… she couldn’t have been older than four or five. Maybe she was only there for him to give me a reason to stay but...” Her voice cracked at that, and she swallowed hard, her eyes glazing. “She told me you needed me. That you were screaming for me but I couldn’t hear it because I was too far gone. And she begged me to come back. To come home.”

Bob stared at her, his lips parted, expression frozen like stone left in the rain. “She… saved you?”

Y/N let out a soft, shaky breath and nodded again. “She reminded me why I had to fight. Why I couldn’t give in. She said… if I went to him, she wouldn’t be real anymore, me and you won't exist anymore if I went. Like she knew—knew everything, like she a conscious being. Not just what we were facing, but who we are. Who you are.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, jaw tightening as emotion crept up his spine and clawed at his chest. “And you think… you think she was real?”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore, Bob. But I know how it felt. It wasn’t like the other visions. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t twist me. It felt like… peace. Like a thread pulling me out of the dark, back into myself. And when I finally heard your voice again, when you screamed my name—I knew she was right. That we weren’t finished.”

Bob moved up onto the couch beside her, pulling her gently into his lap, as though the proximity might ground him, might help him believe. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know how I survived without you,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I’ve been hollow for so long, I don’t even know what normal feels like anymore. But you—” His hands came to cradle her belly, reverently, trembling. “You and her—you’re everything I ever needed and thought I’d never deserve.”

Y/N brushed her fingers through his hair, letting them trail behind his ear, down his jaw. “Maybe we weren’t meant to be normal. Maybe we’re the chaos that made something soft in the middle of the storm.” She paused, then added with a quiet smile, “She looked like you, you know. Fierce and bright. But she had my stare. That stubbornness you always said could outmatch gods.”

Bob chuckled, breathless. “Then we’re doomed.”

“We’re blessed,” she corrected, resting her forehead back against his. “You may have been made in light, Bob, but this little girl was made in love. That’s what saved me. That’s what always saves us.”

He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he pressed a long kiss to her lips—deep, aching, full of unsaid promises and trembling redemption. Then he kissed her stomach. Once. Twice. A third time for certainty. “Then I can’t wait to meet the miracle who saved you,” he murmured.

Y/N’s hand slid over his, covering it entirely. “She already knows you, Bob. That’s why she brought me back.”

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