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gyugraphy · 3 months ago

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psyche (1)

— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."

— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader

— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression

— word count. 5.1k

masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6

⋆˙⟡

“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.

You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.

In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.

You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.

Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”

That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.

“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”

Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”

“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”

Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.

“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”

“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”

You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.

“They just sent me this.”

Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.

Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.

Robert Reynolds.

You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.

You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”

Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”

You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.

“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”

But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.

“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.

Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.

“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

⋆˙⟡

The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.

Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.

Bob Reynolds.

You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.

He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.

That was what the message had said.

But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.

They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.

You had no intention of being that someone.

Not anymore.

It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.

The hallway was quiet. Empty.

And then, something shifted.

You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.

You looked up.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.

Your fingers hovered over the tablet.

“Subtle,” you said dryly.

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to make a scene.”

“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”

“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”

Of course he did.

You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”

“You would’ve ignored it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”

“No,” he said. “I want you.”

That gave you pause. He saw it.

“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”

You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”

“It saved people.”

“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”

He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”

“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”

“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.

“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”

“He’s not just the Void.”

“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”

You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.

“You care about him.”

His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”

You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”

He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”

That stopped you.

Your throat went dry.

“You think he wants me?”

“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”

You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.

The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.

Robert Reynolds.

You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.

"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.

Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."

You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.

"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."

Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”

You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.

But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.

"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.

"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."

You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.

“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."

The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”

Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”

You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”

You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.

“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”

You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.

"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."

You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”

Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”

You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.

And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.

⋆˙⟡

The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.

"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."

You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”

Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”

The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.

Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.

“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”

You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.

“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.

Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”

Bob. That nickname.

You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.

Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”

At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.

“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”

You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.

Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”

You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.

“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.

Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”

You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”

Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.

“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.

You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.

With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.

The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.

When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.

“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”

Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.

“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.

You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”

Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.

The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.

“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”

Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.

You closed your eyes.

At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.

And then—

You were in.

It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.

And then you felt it.

Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.

The Void.

It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.

Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.

“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”

And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.

He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.

You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.

Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”

You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”

You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.

“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”

Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.

Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”

Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.

For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.

You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.

You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.

Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”

You turned to him, surprised.

He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”

Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”

You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”

His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”

You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.

“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”

You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you—lazy and far too entertained.

“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”

Bob muttered something unintelligible.

Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.

Tomorrow was going to be something.

⋆˙⟡

The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.

Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.

“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.

Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”

“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”

Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.

“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”

He nodded, gently. “I know.”

Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”

“She’s not like us,” Strange said.

Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”

He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”

Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”

“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”

“And the worst?”

Strange was quiet for a long moment.

“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”

Wanda looked down.

“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.

Strange gave a faint, unreadable smile.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: :)

#bob reynolds x y/n #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #thunderbolts au #thunderbolts x reader #bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #sentry x y/n #sentry x reader #lewis pullman #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts imagine #mcu fanfic #mcu au #mcu oc #mcu x reader #yelena belova #bucky barnes

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gayandbasic · 14 days ago

Text

Silhouette part 8: Reunited

Bob Reynolds X Female!reader || WC: 3K

Summary: You’re trapped in some never ending loop of your first kill but soon another joins you.

TW: mentions of abuse and trauma, child abuse, human experimentation, canon typical violence

This chapter diverges from the canonical storyline and there will be POV shifts going forward.

~ marks a shift in POV or time.

Prologue ✼ Part 1 ✼ Part 2 ✼ Part 3 ✼ Part 4 ✼ Part 5 ✼ Part 6 ✼ Part 7 ✼ __✼ Part 9

Silhouette Character concept

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ ✧༺🩶༻∞ ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

You don’t know how long you’ve been here.

Time doesn’t flow in this place. It festers. Like a wound. Like the room of light. Another cage.

You were getting tired of losing time to cages.

The little girl—you—still stands in the center of the room. The blood hasn’t dried. The shadows haven’t stopped writhing. You’ve seen her kill him a dozen times now. A hundred. Over and over you hear her bones break and she pleads and begs before shifting form. Your eyes meeting with that same hollow, exhausted ache.

You don’t speak to her.

Because what would you say?

That she was justified?

That you would do it again?

That the monster in the dark saved you?

You know that those words that you tell yourself over and over so that you can sleep at night are nothing but sweet lies. Lies to cover up that you are nothing more than a murderer and a monster.

You can’t refute that now. Not while you’re trapped here.

Not in the room where it all started.

But then—everything trembles.

It’s not the walls rippling this time. It’s the foundation. The ceiling groans like something ancient just shifted overhead. The light spasms in its flickering and then—

BOOM.

The wall behind you explodes inward, tile and steel shrieking as it buckles. Smoke and plaster clouds the air. You throw an arm over your face, heart in your throat—and then you hear it:

A grunt. Heavy boots on tile. A choked cough and a voice, raw and familiar.

“Goddamn it, this place is hell.”

You lower your arm. Your pulse stutters.

Bucky Barnes steps through the ruin, blood streaked across his temple, a gash in his side. He looks exhausted and twice as pissed off.

You stare at him, stunned. “How—?”

But your voice dies in your throat when you see his face. He hasn’t noticed ‘you’ yet. Just the child version as she stands there in the aftermath of her kill.

He’s not just in pain, not even afraid. He looks devastated.

Because you realize as he continues to stare, he’s not just crashing into one of your most shameful memories.

This is one of his too.

And sure enough, behind him—where the wall once stood—is another room. Another memory. His.

A man strapped into a chair wires and metal pressing into him, his face compressed between two metal devices and you see him flinch before Bucky, the real Bucky blocks your vision of his room.

The wall behind him sealing shut with a ripple of shadow and he looks up finally eyes meeting yours, he freezes.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

You and Bucky stand in the space between, older, broken, breathing hard.

And not for the first time since this nightmare began, you aren’t alone in it.

His jaw tightens. His metal fist flexes once, twice.

“Jesus…” he mutters. “This really—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Can’t. He clears his throat before switching to a light jab “you’re getting pretty hard to find you know that?”

You’re not sure if you want to cry or punch him.

Bucky looks you up and down, shoulders tense, like he’s preparing for impact. From whatever awful thing you’re about to tell him happened in your time apart.

When you don’t say anything worry pools in his gut, it’s like you were back to that cold woman made of stone the first time he met you in that underground bunker cell.

“I shouldn’t have sent you in alone,” he says finally, voice low and hard, like it hurts to admit. “Thought you could handle it. You always do.”

He shifts on his feet. Like if he stands still too long, he’ll shatter.

“I didn’t think they’d get to you. That’s on me.”

You scoff under your breath and look away. That’s the first thing he’s going to say? Not glad to see you seven happy you're alive. It’s all too familiar—men making decisions for you, not with you.

He hears it. Doesn’t argue.

“I didn’t forget about you,” he says, a little sharper now. “I have been working with the others to get you and Bob out.”

The mention of Bob sends a wave of despair through you and you look away, arms crossing, fists clenched.

When you still don’t respond, his tone softens just barely—gravel wearing down to guilt.

“I told myself you’d find a way out. ’Cause you’re strong. Smarter than me. Meaner than me, sometimes.”

That almost gets a ghost of a smile out of you. Almost.

“But I should’ve come. Sooner. Should’ve kicked down every goddamn door between us.”

He exhales harshly through his nose, shakes his head. “Valentina—she wanted me looking the other way. And I let her. Thought I was doin good keeping the focus on taking Valentina down. All I did was leave you behind.”

His voice dips, raw and quiet: “I’m sorry. I should have come sooner.”

It hangs in the air. You look at him. Really look.

He’s rougher than you remember. Thinner. Tired around the eyes. But those eyes—

They haven’t stopped watching you.

“I thought you gave up on me,” you say finally, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s face twists like that hurt worse than a bullet.

“I don’t give up on family.”

And after a beat—

He steps closer. Hesitates.

The scene behind you resets and you hear your bones break once more.

You flinch and he steps forward pacing a comforting hand on your shoulder. And something in you shifts, not the darkness but this fragile connection, the feeling of being wanted, of being called family. It has you wrapping your arms around Bucky in a forceful and awkward hug.

He lets out a soft oof and awkwardly pats you on the back and you step back from him a weight lifted off your shoulders and in your heart.

Before you can continue you hear the scene behind you reset, the sound of your whimpers as bones stretch and snap.

The scene changed for the first time where it was originally just you and the nameless scientist you killed, now stood the winter soldier eerily still off to the side. Watching expressionless as he awaited his next orders before leaving the room without a second glance.

His face pales.

“This is… This is yours, isn’t it?” he asks quietly.

You nod, but something in his face shifts—some deeper recognition settling into place.

He’s looking past you now.

His gaze lands on the far wall—and you turn, realizing what he sees.

A window. A warped pane of memory-glass showing a reflection not from your past, but his.

And in it: the Winter Soldier.

Still-faced. Cold-eyed. Dragging a body behind him. Leaving the facility that held you.

There’s no emotion there. No hesitation. Just the brutal precision of a weapon following orders.

The sight makes your stomach turn—but it’s Bucky who seems to stop breathing entirely.

“…I remember this,” he says quietly. “It was one of the hundreds of times they sent me out. Hydra handlers said it’d be clean. Controlled. Just one man.”

His voice drops to a near-whisper.

“They didn’t mention the kid.”

You glance back at the child-you—still as a statue, watching him with unreadable eyes.

“I saw her there strapped to that table,” he says. “Barely even acknowledged it when she started to cry. I just stood there. I didn’t even react. Didn’t question it. Didn’t think.”

His hands flex at his sides, like he’s trying to wring the blood out of them.

“I didn’t feel anything. I just walked out.”

The words hang between you, raw and cracked.

He meets your eyes.

“I know I wasn’t me. I know that. But God—if I’d just hesitated, if I’d just looked around—maybe I would’ve seen her..you. Maybe I could’ve pulled you out. Maybe…”

His voice breaks off, hard with restraint.

“I didn’t save you,” he says finally. “I should’ve. And I didn’t.”

“I should’ve helped you,” Bucky says, voice breaking quietly. Rough like sandpaper. His gaze locked on the child-you strapped down like an animal.

“I didn’t even know you existed back then. But I saw it. What they did to you. What they made you become. And I just watched.” You can hear the shame and guilt he carries.

You know about the brainwashing they put him through to create the Winter Soldier, you know if he had any autonomy at all he would have torn the place down to save you and all the other children being held there. Bucky was a just and good man, haunted sure, but a good man none the less.

You swallow. Your voice feels like gravel. “You weren’t you Buck I don’t blame you. ”

“I know,” he says. “That’s the part that kills me.”

You both go quiet. The shame doesn’t leave—it never really does—but something cracks. Just a little.

Because now, it’s shared.

“So wait—how are you even here? A-and where is here, exactly?” you ask, your voice hoarse, trying to ignore the muffled screams echoing from behind the walls—your screams, old ones, from a time you’d buried deep and hoped to forget.

Bucky frowns, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud. “Uh… so, this Bob guy? Kinda went full dark-side demigod and turned half of New York into some kinda shadow… nightmare… hellscape. It’s like… stitched together from the worst parts of your brain.”

You freeze.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

The last thing you remember is cradling Bob’s body in your arms—cold, still, his golden eyes glassy and unblinking as your shadow wrapped around you both. And then… that flicker. That pull. Something inside him had reached back.

“He’s alive?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, trembling with something too raw to be called hope. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. He’s alive,” Bucky replies, scratching the back of his neck, voice dry. “And like… super depressing?”

A breath escapes you—a bitter laugh, half-sob. At this point, you’re not even sure Bob can stay dead. The universe keeps dragging him back whether he wants it or not.

You shake your head. “Valentina—she had some kind of kill switch. Hit a button and he just… dropped. I lost it. Couldn’t hold back. The void answered, but… so did he. He reached back, Buck. There’s something in him. Something dark. Like me.”

Bucky’s quiet. He’s looking around the room now, pacing slowly along the warped walls, eyes scanning the seams for a way out—because he can’t stand still too long in places like this. It makes him remember things he’d rather not.

You continue, quieter now. “Valentina said she took the research from Sokovia before it fell. All those twisted Hydra experiments—what they did to make me into this thing—I think they used some of it on Bob. Project Sentry wasn’t born clean.”

You glance over at Bucky. “And now all that power? All that grief? It’s in his hands. Someone gentle. Kind. But …troubled. I can see how this happened.”

Bucky doesn’t argue. He just exhales hard through his nose, that old edge of guilt slicing through him like a rusted knife.

“Well,” he mutters, running a hand down his face, “we better figure out how to get you out of your own head before the next horror show rolls in.”

His eyes flicker to the far wall—where blood pools at the base of a door that didn’t used to be there.

You swallow thickly. The air shifts again, colder now, heavier.

The past isn’t done with you yet.

A low creak echoes from behind you.

You and Bucky both spin—

And there she is.

Small. Barefoot. Blood still fresh on her trembling hands.

The child-version of you.

But different this time.

Her eyes aren’t wide with shock anymore. They’re focused. Glinting. Cold. The twitching shadow behind her has grown longer, more solid—stretching across the wall like a beast preparing to pounce.

“Aw, hell,” Bucky mutters, stepping slightly in front of you, his metal arm already raised.

You feel it immediately—the pull. That sick lurch in your stomach. Like the air is bending around her. Like the room itself is afraid.

“She’s not real,” you whisper. “She’s a memory. A projection. She’s not me.” Trying to distance yourself from your past trauma.

The girl tilts her head, lips twitching into something that might’ve once been a smile. “Aren’t I?”

Then she lurches forward—but it’s not just her.

Her shadow erupts from behind her like it’s breaking free of its host—gaining shape and jagged mass, spiraling around her limbs like armor. It wraps her in something monstrous. Skin peeling into shadow. Eyes turning void-black. Bones bending in impossible ways. She lengthens, warps, becomes too many limbs—arms like blades, claws where fingers should be, her hair floating around her like smoke underwater.

The child is gone.

Now there is only the Umbra.

“Get back!” Bucky shouts at you as you stand there in shock.

The thing that was once you crashes into Bucky like a freight train, her claws screeching across his vibranium arm as she tries to rip through it. Her extra limbs slam down around him, pinning him in place with horrible strength.

He snarls and throws her off, hurling her across the room with a heavy thud. “Okay. Definitely not just a memory anymore. Seven a little help here?”

It’s Bucky’s voice that grounds you, shakes you from your state of shock.

You throw out your hand and your own darkness answers. Two shadows collide mid-air with a sickening, oily smack, snarling like animals. The void splinters and howls, the sheer pressure of it making your ears ring.

The Dreadling rises again on four legs and two arms, hunched, twitching, her head tilting at a grotesque angle. Her jaw unhinges just a bit too far, and a voice that is half your own, half a thousand other voices spills out.

“You buried me. You pretended I didn’t exist. But I kept us alive. I’m what’s real.”

You and Bucky circle her slowly, trying to predict her next move—but she’s already moving, crawling across the ceiling like a spider, her shadow trailing like tar. She drops between you in a blink, forcing you both apart.

She lunges at you first—claws raking across your ribs, shadows grabbing at your limbs to hold you still. You scream and shove her back with a blast of your own shadow, but the darkness splinters around her like she belongs inside it. Her form is slippery, ever-changing—eyes opening where there shouldn’t be eyes, mouths whispering threats from her shoulders, from her back.

You fall. And she’s on top of you.

“You let them hurt me,” she whispers. “You let me die down here.”

“I didn’t know how to help us,” you choke out, your hands pressed to her chest, trying to force her off with raw shadow. “I was just a kid—I didn’t know what we were becoming!”

“Liar.”

She opens her mouth—and it’s all jagged teeth and blood.

And then she screams.

Your shadow reacts—slamming into hers with everything you have. For a moment, it’s two monsters tangled mid-air, claws, limbs, shrieking teeth and flickering light. You push harder, drawing on the part of you that regrets. That remembers. That wants to live.

Bucky’s voice cuts through the noise—rough, breathless: “Move!”

He barrels into her from the side with a grunt, pinning her down. “Get yourself under control, kid!”

Your arms tremble. You step forward, shadows rising around you like armor, swirling and writhing.

“Yeah…yeah alright,” you say, voice thick. “I am more than just some experiment in HYDRA’s basement. I have people that care about me.”

The Dreadling stares back. Panting. Twitching. Stuck.

“I’m not the girl they made,” you whisper. “And I’m not the monster they feared.”

You fall to your knees before her, shadow wrapping gently around her lashing limbs, stilling them.

“I’m sorry I left you here,” you whisper, looking into her black-glass eyes. “But I never forgot you.”

Child-you screams. A sound full of rage and sorrow. You thought maybe you could talk her down but you don’t understand how this whole trapped in a memory thing works. The walls around her crack, shadows exploding outward—

—and Bucky tackles her from the side once more.

The two of them crash into the opposite wall as your shadows pin hers down, snarling and writhing in a storm of black limbs. You stagger toward them, forcing control through the void, commanding your own darkness to hold her still.

The child-you—no longer a child, not really—has twisted into something monstrous. A living silhouette, all writhing limbs and snapping teeth, oozing darkness that claws across the floor like oil with intent. Her scream isn’t a sound—it’s a shattering. A pulse of grief, of rage, of wrongness.

Bucky’s trying to restrain the thing your younger self has become—gritting his teeth, digging his metal arm into its shadowed shoulder as it howls and thrashes.

“You okay?” he barks, not looking at you.

“No!” you shout. “Are you?!”

He grunts, adjusting his grip. “Been worse.”

And then he freezes.

You see his eyes go wide, just a beat too late.

A metal hand slams into the side of your head.

CRACK.

You stumble back—ears ringing, a warm liquid trickling down the side of your face. You shake your head to clear the fog and look up and are face to face with him.

The Winter Soldier.

Expression blank. Hair long, unkept. Eyes devoid of anything resembling mercy.

A ghost. A mirror.

He moves fast.

Before you can even lift an arm to defend yourself Bucky, your Bucky, is in front of you.

Metal arm meeting metal arm as he lunges, driving the winter soldier into the nearest wall. The impact knocks a grunt out of him. His boots scrape against blood-slick tile.

“Shit—! Are you ok?” Bucky growls over his shoulder.

He ducks under a follow-up strike, barely avoiding the next blow.

You watch, stunned, as Bucky goes toe-to-toe with his past self. His form is raw, scrappy—where the Soldier is precision incarnate. Every movement like it was rehearsed in a lab.

They collide like mirror shards—one honed from memory, the other from regret.

The Winter Soldier moves first, all ghost-quiet violence. He’s a machine in motion: no hesitation, no fear. His strike is a clean arc of his metal arm, aimed straight for Bucky’s throat.

Bucky twists just in time, the edge of the blow grazing his jaw. He stumbles back, boots skidding across cracked tile, and counters with a low elbow to the gut. It lands—but it’s like hitting steel. The Soldier doesn’t flinch.

The second strike comes faster. A jab to the ribs, a spin, and then a rising knee that slams into Bucky’s chest, lifting him off the ground. He lands hard, breath punched from his lungs, bones rattling with impact.

They struggle, muscles trembling, arms locked. Face to face. Breath mingling. The Soldier’s eyes are empty. Hollow. Not human.

Bucky shifts his weight and uses his momentum to roll them over, slamming the Soldier down with a crash that sends dust and memory scattering like ash. His fist comes down—once, twice—each punch echoing with fury.

But the Soldier moves like water, liquid and deadly. He catches the third strike and wrenches Bucky’s shoulder out of place with a sickening pop. Bucky snarls, rolls away, resets it with a brutal jerk.

Blood trickles from his lip. His brow is split. But he stands.

The Soldier charges.

This time Bucky doesn’t dodge. He meets him.

Metal strikes metal with a thunderclap, sparks flying. They move in a vicious rhythm—identical forms dancing the steps of a deadly ballet. One a relic of conditioning, the other scarred but free.

They break apart and circle. Breathing hard. One of them alive.

“You’re not messing with my head this time,” Bucky mutters between blows. “And I’m done letting you run it.”

The Winter Soldier doesn’t respond. Just keeps fighting. Silent. Efficient.

You look to the side to see your younger self locked back into that moment of your past, that nameless scientist ripped apart and you look away eyes back on Bucky.

Bucky blocks another strike with his prosthetic and finally slams his double into the ground, panting hard.

Bucky pants beside you. “That… that all of it?”

The room flickers.

The blood drains from the floor.

The lights above buzz like dying insects.

The child-you dissolves, gently—into mist. Into shadow.

And the scene resets.

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ ✧༺🩶༻∞ ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

Next Part

A/N: No Bob in this one sorry pals but soon! This one is a little bit shorter but I wanted to just have a moment between Seven and Bucky. The following chapters are going to be longer with the rest of the thunderbolts together at last.

Tag List: @otometo @katiemrty @hyperfixations-go-brrr @gmmsos @blackcats-and-witchcraft @disillusionary @Euphrosyn3 @writeoffside

#bob x reader #silhouette #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #fanfic #thunderbolts #thunderbolts fic #bob x you #bucky barnes #marvel mcu #mcu fanfiction #silhouette fic #Mcu oc #thunderbolts of #found family #angst #trauma

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