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dude-the-best-names-are-taken · 29 days ago

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Is this what perfection looks like?

Secondary school & Sixth Form with the Starks

a/n: pure chaos, secondary school and sixth form iconic moments but its robb, Jon, and theon causing problems. Ages of the character may change during this oneshot and when they do it is stated. Also this is super long. sorry. also mostly centred around robb, Jon and theon (my faves)

SSLT: Senior Student Leadership Team

contains 18k words of pure crack (not proofread)

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Sansa: Year 7 (11-12) Stark Boys: Year 9 (13-14)

The morning air smelled of burnt toast and desperation. Sansa Stark stood frozen in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting her tie for the twelfth time. Her skirt sat exactly at knee-length, regulation perfect, and her brand new blazer still had the starchy stiffness of something untouched by human hands. The massive planner tucked under her arm (leather-bound, with gold embossed initials because Mother had standards) weighed approximately the same as a small dog.

Behind her, Theon Greyjoy snorted into his cereal. "Christ, Stark, you look like a tiny headmistress."

"Shut up, Theon," Robb said automatically, shoving past him to grab his own bag. He shot Sansa an encouraging grin. "You'll be fine. Just stick with me and Jon." Jon, currently attempting to inhale an entire piece of toast in one bite, gave a half-hearted thumbs up.

Catelyn appeared in the doorway, wielding a damp cloth like a weapon. "Robb, you're to walk Sansa to her form room. Jon, make sure she knows where the lunch hall is. Theon—"

"—Behave, yeah, yeah," Theon finished, rolling his eyes. He leaned in towards Sansa as they headed out the door. "Pro tip: the disabled toilets near the science block are the best place to hide if you want to skip assembly." Robb smacked him upside the head.

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Sansa clutched her planner like a lifeline, eyes darting nervously at the older students streaming past them, giants in blazers with frayed hems. Robb marched ahead like a man on a mission, occasionally glancing back to make sure she hadn't been swallowed by the crowd. Jon trudged beside her, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Right," Robb said, stopping abruptly outside a classroom door. "This is you. Form room 7B. Mr. Luwin's sound, just don't let him catch you on your phone."

Sansa swallowed hard. "What if I get lost?"

"You won't," Jon muttered. "Just follow the herd at break."

Theon smirked. "Or scream really loud. Robb'll come running." Robb shot him a glare.

By third period, Sansa had learned three things, first, her maths teacher, Mr. Baratheon, had a voice like a foghorn and zero patience for "dithering." Second, the girls' toilets smelled vaguely of cheap body spray. Third, a boy named Joffrey in her history class had already earned a detention for "being a prick" (direct quote from the girl sitting next to her).

Meanwhile, across the school, Robb was rapidly losing his grip on sanity. "Would you two knuckleheads stop—"

Too late, Theon's rubber band hit Jon square in the back of the neck, Jon retaliated by tipping Theon's chair backwards with his foot. The resulting crash sent their science teacher's coffee flying.

"STARK," Mr. Mormont bellowed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Control your idiots."

Robb, wedged between them like a beleaguered UN peacekeeper, groaned.

Lunch was historic, Talisa found them almost immediately, sliding into the seat next to Robb with the effortless grace of someone who knew they were the most interesting person in the room. "Babe," she said, flicking her hair over one shoulder. "You have to help me with the debate club flyers later."

Jon made a noise like a deflating balloon, Sansa, nibbling delicately on a sandwich, wrinkled her nose. Talisa had called Robb babe three times in five minutes. It was gross.

Theon, ever helpful, leaned in. "Bet you five quid she dumps him before Halloween." Robb threw a cafeteria chip at his head.

The final bell couldn't come soon enough. Sansa emerged from the school gates, her planner slightly worse for wear, her blazer now bearing an unfortunate pen mark on the sleeve, and her soul permanently scarred by the horrors of Year 7 PE.

"Well?" Robb asked, falling into step beside her. "Survive?"

Sansa sighed. "It was… educational."

Behind them, Jon snorted. Theon slung an arm around her shoulders. "Wait till you hear about the Year 11 parties." Robb promptly tackled him into a hedge.

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Sansa: Year 9 (13-14) Stark Boys: Year 11 (15-16)

The Number 17 bus shuddered to a stop, exhaling a cloud of diesel fumes as its doors wheezed open, Robb led the charge up the stairs, his school shoes sticking slightly to the wornout steps. The upper deck smelled of wet wool as the back seats calling to them like a sanctuary of misrule.

Theon collapsed into the corner seat with the practiced ease of someone who'd claimed this exact spot every morning for years. His fingers were already dipping into his blazer pocket when Robb elbowed him sharply. "Don't be a twat," Robb muttered, nodding toward the security cam blinking its red eye above them.

Theon rolled his eyes but waited until the bus lurched forward before palming his vape. He'd perfected the art of stealth vaping, exhaling into his rolled-up sleeve, timing his puffs between camera sweeps, keeping the sickly-sweet watermelon clouds contained. Not that it stopped him looking like an absolute melt, face half-buried in his elbow like he was mourning some tragic loss.

Jon smirked. "You look like a muppet."

"Piss off, Snow," Theon hissed, right as an elderly woman across the aisle glared. He coughed conspicuously, waving a hand like he was just clearing his throat.

By some miracle, they made it to school unscathed. The bus driver remained oblivious, the judgmental old woman disembarked without reporting them, and Theon's vape stayed hidden before first bell. A small victory, but in the grand scheme of Year 11, they would take what he could get.

Robb spotted her in the library during third period free study, Roslin Frey sat bathed in dusty sunlight, her cardigan sleeves slipping over her wrists as she stamped books for the SSLT. There was something about the way she bit her lip when concentrating that made Robb's stomach do odd things. "Just talk to her," Jon said without looking up from his geography essay.

"I am talking," Robb hissed. "To you."

Theon, stretched across the study table like a cat, grinned. "Our boy's gone soft for a prefect. How tragic."

Sansa materialized beside them, arms full of returned books. "Roslin's nice, she works with me at SSLT!" she said calm before looking pointedly at Robb. "Unlike some of your choices."

Robb's ears burned. "We're not talking about Talisa."

Theon sat bolt upright. "Oh, we absolutely are. Remember when she—" A sharp kick under the table shut him up.

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Theon had only meant to skip PE. That was the whole plan, hide in the disabled loo near the changing rooms, smoke a spliff, and emerge forty minutes later pretending he'd had stomach issues. No one questioned stomach issues.

But then he saw it. The big red emergency alarm. "Pull in case of danger," Theon read aloud to the empty bathroom, the spliff between his fingers burned lazily as he considered the shiny lever. It practically begged to be touched, five seconds later, the entire school was evacuating onto the field, Mr. Baratheon (and like 5 other teachers) found him still holding the spliff, the alarm wailing like a banshee overhead. The look on his face would haunt Theon's dreams.

Ned Stark's silence in the car ride home was worse than shouting. "You pulled a fire alarm," he said finally, hands tight on the wheel.

Theon slouched lower. "Emergency alarm, technically." In the backseat, Robb pressed his forehead against his hands while Jon tried his best not to laugh.

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The library was silent except for the occasional rustle of pages and the distant hum of the heating system, the kind of heavy quiet that made even breathing feel too loud. Robb sat hunched over his biology notes, his forehead creased in concentration as he underlined a diagram of the heart for what might have been the tenth time. His revision timetable was a thing of beauty, colour-coded, meticulously scheduled, and pinned to his bedroom wall with the kind of devotion usually reserved for religious artefacts. All 9s. That was the goal, anything less would be unacceptable, not just to his parents but to himself, across the table, Jon was employing a rather different strategy, he had his geography textbook open, but his highlighter hadn't moved in at least fifteen minutes, his gaze instead drifting toward the window where rain streaked the glass in uneven patterns. He wasn't aiming for perfection, just solid 7s, enough to keep Uncle Ned off his back but not so much that it interfered with his aura of detached indifference. Then there was Theon, who had somehow managed to turn revision into an art form of avoidance, his science workbook was open, yes, but the margins were filled with increasingly elaborate doodles of what appeared to be penises.

Robb reached across the table and snatched the workbook away, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline as he took in the carnage. "You're literally drawn dicks all over the book," he said, voice low but dripping with disbelief. Theon grinned, entirely unrepentant, and leaned back in his chair until it balanced precariously on two legs. "It's a visual learning aid," he said, as if that explained anything at all. Robb sighed, rubbing at his temples. "You could get 7s in your sleep if you just tried," he muttered, shoving the book back toward Theon. "You're smarter than this." Theon opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver some entirely unhelpful retort, but whatever he was about to say died abruptly when the library doors swung open with a soft creak.

Roslin Frey stepped inside, her arms full of sheet music, followed closely by Daenerys Targaryen, whose silver hair seemed to catch every bit of the dim library light. Behind them came Missandei and Greyworm, their fingers intertwined in a way that suggested they were physically incapable of being more than three inches apart, and a small group of choir kids Robb recognized vaguely from the last disastrous school concert. Robb's head came up so fast his neck gave an audible pop, his pencil rolling off the table and onto the floor with a clatter that sounded, in the silence of the library, like a gunshot. Theon's smirk was instantaneous, his chair legs thumping back onto the ground as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Down, boy," he said, voice dripping with amusement. Jon, who had been in a near-catatonic state of revision-induced boredom, suddenly looked alarmingly alert, his gaze tracking Daenerys as she moved toward the poetry section.

Roslin and her friends settled at a table near the window, their quiet chatter a soft counterpoint to the otherwise oppressive silence of the library. Robb tried, and failed, not to stare. He told himself he was just admiring the way the sunlight caught the brown in Roslin's hair, or the way she tucked a loose strand behind her ear when she laughed at something Daenerys said, but the truth was far more pathetic. He was utterly, hopelessly gone on her, and the worst part was that everyone knew it. The giggling started almost immediately, Roslin's friends kept glancing between her and Robb, whispering behind their hands, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Roslin herself wasn't much better; she kept ducking her head, her cheeks pink, but every few seconds her eyes would flick toward Robb's table like she couldn't help herself.

Robb, meanwhile, was rapidly approaching critical levels of embarrassment, his ears burning so hot he was surprised they hadn't started smoking, Theon, who had been watching this entire disaster unfold with the glee of someone who lived for chaos, finally had enough. Without warning, he reached over and smacked the back of Robb's head hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "Focus, you fool," he said, loud enough that several nearby students turned to stare. Robb yelped, an undignified sound that echoed far too loudly in the quiet library, and Jon, who had been watching the whole thing with growing amusement, completely lost it, his laugh was sudden and explosive, loud enough to startle a group of Year 9s at the next table, and before any of them could react, Mrs. Mordane was on her feet, her finger pointing toward the door like the sword of Damocles. "OUT!" she barked, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. Theon looking unbearably smug, and Robb so red he could have powered a small village with the sheer heat of his embarrassment.

He risked one last glance back as they were herded toward the door, just in time to see Roslin smiling at him, her eyes bright with amusement. Robb promptly turned an even deeper shade of crimson, which only made Jon laugh harder.

The lunch queue was, as always, a lawless wasteland where only the strong survived. Jon, who had apparently decided that today was the day he would embrace his inner warlord, was cutting through the crowd with the kind of single-minded determination usually reserved for battlefields. Year 7s scattered before him like startled birds, their tiny faces filled with a mixture of awe and terror, Theon, never one to miss an opportunity to make things worse, immediately started a low chant of "Snow! Snow! Snow!" that rippled through the gathered students like a wave. Robb, who was still recovering from the library incident, was seriously considering transferring schools. Maybe another country. Another continent. He was pretty sure those Asshai had schools. Cold ones, where no one could see him spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

The queue inched forward, the smell of overcooked pasta and questionable meat wafting through the air. Somewhere behind them, Roslin and her friends were giggling again. Robb resolutely did not turn around. He was going to eat his sad, soggy lasagna, and he was going to do it without making eye contact with anyone, ever again. This, of course, was the exact moment Theon decided to throw a French fry at the back of his head, Robb was going to murder him. Slowly.

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Sansa: Year 9 (13-14) Stark Boys: Year 11 (15-16) Arya: Year 7 (11-12) Rickon: Year 2 (6-7)

The blazer incident began like any other Tuesday, with Roslin Frey somehow managing to navigate the school corridors without wearing the required uniform piece for approximately the 187th consecutive day. Mrs. Mordane's hawk-like eyes spotted the infraction immediately as Roslin rummaged through her bag near the library entrance, her cardigan sleeves slipping down to her knuckles in that way Robb found inexplicably endearing. "Miss Frey," came the dreaded voice, sharp enough to make several nearby students flinch, "where precisely is your blazer?" Roslin froze mid-motion, her cheeks flushing that particular shade of pink that meant trouble. The ensuing lecture about school standards and personal responsibility lasted a full three minutes, during which Robb alternated between wanting to defend Roslin and wanting the floor to swallow him whole. Theon, of course, found the entire situation hysterical, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter as Mrs. Mordane finally delivered her verdict "Detention, Thursday after school. And I expect to see that blazer tomorrow."

The fight broke out near the science block during second lunch, an unremarkable occurrence at first glance, Joffrey Baratheon had been picking fights since Year 7 and showed no signs of stopping now. What made this particular altercation noteworthy became apparent when Jon, leaning against the upper floor banister with his usual air of detachment, suddenly stiffened. "Wait," he said, squinting down at the scuffle, "is that…?" Robb followed his gaze and felt his stomach drop. The small figure currently dodging Joffrey's wild swing wasn't some random Year 7, it was Arya, her dark braid flying behind her as she ducked and weaved with terrifying precision. By the time the three boys came thundering down the stairs, Arya had Joffrey in a headlock, her face a picture of grim determination while Joffrey's turned an impressive shade of purple. The arrival of teachers prevented permanent damage, but not before Sansa, ever the dutiful member of SSLT, had inserted herself into the fray, dragging Joffrey away by his collar while shooting Arya a look that promised serious sisterly retribution later. The aftermath saw Arya suspended (though she wore the punishment like a badge of honor), Joffrey miraculously escaping with just a warning (his father's donations to the school sports program undoubtedly helping), and Ned Stark arriving to collect his youngest daughter with that particular weary expression parents reserve for their most challenging offspring.

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Sports Day at Rickon's primary school proved equally chaotic, though in an entirely different way. The Year 2 egg-and-spoon race descended into mild anarchy when Rickon, interpreting the competition's rules with creative liberty, decided the most efficient path to victory involved tackling the frontrunner. "WINTERFELL RULES!" he'd bellowed as teachers rushed to intervene, his wild grin suggesting he found the entire situation immensely satisfying. Robb, having been voluntold to participate in the father's race in Ned's stead (his father's conveniently timed "bad knee" coinciding with an extended conversation with Catelyn near the refreshment table), found himself lining up against Greatjon Umber, a man whose physique suggested he could probably bench press a minivan. The race itself was less a competition and more a demonstration of sheer physical disparity, with Greatjon crossing the finish line while Robb was still working up to a respectable jog. Rickon, at least, seemed impressed by his brother's distant second-place finish, cheering loud enough to startle several nearby parents. Ned, when finally extracted from his conversation with Catelyn, blinked at Robb's disheveled appearance and asked with genuine surprise, "Oh, did you win?" The look Robb gave him in response could have melted steel.

The week's events left the Stark siblings in varying states of disarray, Arya smug despite her suspension, Sansa exasperated with everyone's behaviour, Rickon basking in his newfound notoriety, and Robb torn between amusement and exhaustion. As they piled into the family car at the end of sports day, Ned glanced at his brood in the rearview mirror and sighed, the sound of a man who loved his children dearly but sometimes questioned the universe's sense of humor. Catelyn, ever the pragmatist, broke the silence with a simple, "No one's bleeding, no one's expelled, I'm calling this a win." The resulting laughter carried them home. Earlier, Rickon sat rested on his brother's (Robb's) shoulders, Arya ripping grass out of the soil, Bran copying his older sister while his other, Sansa was busy manicuring her nails. This was Stark bliss.

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Sansa: Year 11 (15-16) Stark Boys: Year 13 (17-18) Arya: Year 9 (14-15) Bran: Year 6 (10-11) Rickon: Year 4 (8-9)

The GCSE results had arrived on a sweltering August morning, the kind of oppressive heat that made the school hall feel like a sauna. Robb Stark stood frozen in front of the notice board, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the envelope bearing his name. The paper inside revealed a perfect row of 9s, each one meticulously printed in crisp black ink. A wave of relief washed over him so intense he nearly sagged against the wall. All those sleepless nights, the endless revision sessions, the panic attacks before exams, it had all been worth it. The weight of expectation that had settled on his shoulders years ago finally lifted, if only for a moment.

Beside him, Jon Snow tore open his own envelope with significantly less ceremony. His results were solid, a collection of 7s and 8s with a single 6 in Valyrian that he barely glanced at before stuffing the paper in his back pocket. "Could've been worse," he muttered, though the slight relaxation around his eyes betrayed his relief. Across the hall, Theon Greyjoy was making a spectacle of himself as usual, whooping loudly as he brandished his results slip at anyone within earshot. "Sixes and sevens, baby!" he crowed, slinging an arm around Robb's shoulders. "Told you I didn't need to revise for Biology." Robb snatched the paper from him, scanning it in disbelief. "You got a 6 in Chemistry? How?" Theon just grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Multiple choice, my friend. When in doubt, pick C."

The transition to Sixth Form had been more jarring than any of them anticipated. Gone were the structured days of GCSE years, replaced by a strange limbo of free periods and overwhelming workloads. The common room became their unofficial headquarters, a chaotic space where textbooks competed for table space with empty energy drink cans and Theon's ever-growing collection of questionable snacks. Robb had thrown himself into his studies with characteristic intensity, his desk at home buried under color-coded revision timetables and annotated past papers. The dark circles under his eyes became permanent fixtures, matching the ink stains on his fingers from countless hours of note-taking.

Robb's ambitious course load quickly proved to be his undoing. Five A-Levels, Chemistry, Maths, Business, History, and Further Maths - had seemed manageable in theory. The reality was a different story entirely. The first Further Maths mock exam results had been a wake-up call he couldn't ignore. "A C?" he'd whispered, staring at the paper in horror. Jon, sitting beside him in the near empty classroom, didn't even look up from his own paper. "Told you not to take it," he said mildly. "That subject exists solely to destroy egos." Robb had spent the rest of the lesson in a daze, the red ink on his paper blurring before his eyes. By the next morning, he'd officially dropped the subject, though the decision left a bitter taste in his mouth. Failure wasn't something the Stark heir was accustomed to, and the sting of it lingered longer than he cared to admit.

Jon had approached A-Levels with significantly more pragmatism. Maths came easily to him, Business was tolerable, and Geography, as he put it, "was basically colouring in with extra steps." His study habits were erratic at best; some days he'd disappear into the library for hours, others he'd spend entire free periods napping on the common room sofa. The only constant was his quiet determination to avoid drawing attention to himself, a skill he'd perfected over years of living in Robb's academic shadow. Theon, naturally, had taken an entirely different approach. His Psychology textbooks remained suspiciously pristine, their pages uncracked despite the looming exams. "Why bother reading when the class is full of girls who take perfect notes?" he'd quipped when Robb called him out on it. Business Studies he tolerated, Citizenship he ignored entirely, and Psychology…well, Psychology was just an excuse to flirt with the entire class under the guise of "group study."

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Roslin found him having a quiet panic attack behind the science block before mocks. She hadn't laughed or teased, just sat beside him, helped him calm down.

"You're going to burn out before uni at this rate," she'd said, plucking a leaf from his hair with those delicate artist's fingers. The words had lodged in his chest and stayed there.

He asked her out three days later in the most Robb Stark way possible, by blurting it out mid-conversation about the cafeteria's questionable lasagna, then immediately turning approximately the same shade as the school's emergency fire alarms.

Roslin had blinked those big doe eyes of hers, then smiled. "Took you long enough."

Now, six months into dating, Robb had come to two realisations,

1) Roslin Frey was the best thing that had ever happened to him. 2) He was ridiculously jealous of her.

It wasn't her fault. She couldn't help that her A-Levels (English Lit, Music, and Art) sounded like a vacation compared to his grueling schedule. She wasn't to blame that her parents, overwhelmed by the sheer number of Frey offspring, had zero academic expectations beyond "try not to drop out." While Robb's weekends were consumed by mock exams and university applications, Roslin spent hers painting watercolors of the riverbank or composing songs on her old harp.

"You're staring again," Jon pointed out one afternoon as Robb watched Roslin laugh with her friends across the sixth form common room.

Robb jerked his gaze away. "I'm not staring."

"You're always staring," Theon chimed in, kicking his feet up on the table. "It's pathetic."

Robb flipped him off, but the truth was undeniable, there was something infuriatingly alluring about how unbothered Roslin was by the pressures that were slowly crushing him.

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The first time Robb visited Roslin's house, he'd made plans. Big plans. Adult plans. He'd even, mortifyingly, confided in Theon, who had whooped so loudly that Jon had thrown a textbook at him from across the room. "Finally!" Theon had crowed, slapping Robb on the back hard enough to bruise. "Our boy's becoming a man!"

Robb had spent the entire bus ride to the Frey residence sweating through his shirt, the condom in his wallet feeling approximately the size of a dinner plate. His nerves only worsened when Roslin greeted him at the door with a soft smile, her hair piled messily atop her head, paint smudged on her cheekbone.Then she'd led him upstairs. To her bedroom.

Where three of her younger sisters were having a sleepover. Robb had stood frozen in the doorway, his grand romantic fantasy evaporating as a nine-year-old Frey waved at him from Roslin's shared bed.

"You okay?" Roslin had whispered, squeezing his hand. "You look like you're going to be sick." The condom in his wallet had never felt heavier.

They'd ended up watching The Little Mermaid with the girls, Roslin tucked against his side, her fingers absently playing with his own. When her youngest sister had fallen asleep against his shoulder, Roslin had pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered, "You're such a good baby," like it was the highest compliment she could give.

Theon's subsequent ridicule had been brutal. "So," he'd drawled the next day, leaning across the lunch table with a shit-eating grin. "How was the orgy?" Robb had seriously considered throwing his tray at him.

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The university stress reached its peak one rainy Thursday in the library. Robb had been staring at the same personal statement draft for forty-five minutes, the words blurring together into meaningless sludge. Across the table, Roslin was sketching something in her notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"I'm not going to get in anywhere," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Roslin glanced up, her pencil stilling. "What?"

"Look at this." Robb shoved the paper toward her. "It's garbage. My grades are garbage. My entire life is—"

Roslin caught his face between her hands, cutting him off mid-spiral. Her palms were warm against his cheeks, her thumbs brushing the dark circles under his eyes. "Robb Stark," she said, her voice firm. "You're getting into every university you apply to and B's and A's aren't garbage, even if they aren't the A* you are used to." He wanted to argue, but the certainty in her tone left no room for doubt.

"And if you don't?" She shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eye. "We'll run away to Essos and become street performers."

Robb had laughed so hard he'd snorted, the sound echoing through the quiet library and earning them a glare from Mrs. Mordane. But for the first time in weeks, the knot in his chest had loosened.

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Robb could hear the frantic tapping of Sansa's pen against the table, the sharp inhale every time she turned a page in her revision guide, the quiet, distressed whimper when a particularly tricky algebra problem refused to cooperate. Across from her, he watched as his baby sister's carefully constructed composure began to fracture, her neat ponytail now fraying at the edges, her colour-coded notes smudged from being erased too many times, her bottom lip caught between her teeth so hard he worried she might draw blood. "You're spiraling," Robb said gently, nudging her foot under the table.

Sansa's head snapped up, her blue eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I have to get all 9s," she whispered, as if saying it any louder might summon Catelyn's disapproval through sheer force of will. "You did." Robb winced, he'd never regretted his perfect GCSE results more than in this moment.

"Sans," he said, carefully closing her textbook. "An 8 is fine."

"You didn't get any 8s!"

"Yeah, well, I also didn't sleep for three months." Robb leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Remember when I cried over a toaster during mocks?"

Sansa sniffed. "That was because you forgot how to make toast."

"Exactly." He flicked her forehead lightly. "Burnout makes you stupid. And you, Sansa Stark, are not stupid. So breathe."

For a moment, he thought she might actually listen. Then her eyes dropped back to her notes, her shoulders tensing all over again. "I can't. Not until I finish this chapter." Robb sighed, some battles couldn't be won with logic.

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When Robb's mock results came back, a clean sweep of A*s across all four subjects, Roslin reacted with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for championship football goals.

"Yes!" She launched herself at him in the middle of the common room, her arms looping around his neck as she peppered his face with kisses. "I knew you'd smash it!"

Robb, caught between pride and acute embarrassment, turned approximately the same shade as the school's emergency exit signs (again). Over Roslin's shoulder, he saw Theon miming vomiting into a bin while Jon scrolled through his phone, deliberately ignoring them.

"You're disgusting," Theon announced, tossing a scrunched-up crisp packet at them. "Save it for the bedroom."

Roslin, ever unbothered, simply smeared another cherry-flavored kiss on Robb's cheek. "Jealous, Greyjoy?" Theon's responding gag was so dramatic it drew applause from a group of Year 12s nearby.

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The Stark sisters' arguments were legendary, but this one had reached nuclear levels. "At least I don't get detentions like some people," Sansa hissed, her voice carrying down the hallway as Robb rounded the corner.

Arya, leaning against the lockers with her arms crossed, rolled her eyes. "At least I don't roll my skirt up so short that Robb has to yank it down for me like some Victorian governess."

Robb froze. Oh no.

Sansa's face flushed scarlet. "That was one time!"

"Yeah, and it was hilarious." Arya's grin was all teeth. "What was it you screamed? 'Roslin wears hers short too!' Like that was some kind of defense—"

Robb's entire body went hot. "Arya. Shut up."

Too late. Theon, who had materialized out of nowhere like the world's worst ghost, already had his phone out, recording the entire spectacle with glee. "Say that again for the camera, Little Stark," he crowed, zooming in on Robb's rapidly reddening face.

Sansa seized the opportunity like a shark scenting blood. "Roslin's skirt is way shorter than mine ever was!"

"Sansa!"

"What? It's true!"

Arya cackled. "Oh, this is gold."

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The driver's license felt like a holy relic in Robb's wallet. He'd passed on his first try (unlike Theon, who'd failed spectacularly by hitting a traffic cone during his parallel parking test and then arguing with the examiner about it). To commemorate this milestone, Ned had surprised him with a sleek black Audi A3, secondhand, but amazing in condition, with that intoxicating new-car smell still clinging to the leather seats.

For approximately three glorious days, Robb Stark was the coolest guy in Sixth Form.

He drove to school with the windows down, relishing the way heads turned as he pulled into the student lot. Theon, seething with jealousy, took to calling it Robb's "midlife crisis mobile." Jon, ever practical, just asked if the boot could fit his gym bag. And Roslin, well, Roslin had laughed when he'd tried to impress her by offering her a lift home, only to stall three times trying to reverse out of the parking space.

"Very smooth," she'd teased, leaning over to kiss his cheek as his ears burned. Then reality set in.

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗

Catelyn had handed him a printed schedule by the end of the first week.

"Sansa needs picking up from debate club at 4:30 on Tuesdays," she'd said, tapping the spreadsheet like a general deploying troops. "Arya's boxing training finishes at 5:15 on Wednesdays, but she'll try to sneak off with her friends if you're late. Jon's gym sessions are—"

Robb had stared at the color-coded monstrosity in horror. "I'm not a Uber."

Ned had clapped him on the shoulder. "No. Uber drivers get paid."

By the second month, Robb was running on three hours of sleep and a steady diet of energy drinks, his once-pristine Audi now littered with Sansa's hair ties, Arya's muddy trainers, and Theon's suspiciously sticky gum wrappers. The novelty had well and truly worn off.

"Turn the music up," Arya demanded one morning, kicking the back of his seat.

"No."

"Turn it up or I'll tell Mum about the scratch on the passenger door." Robb cranked the volume so high the mirrors vibrated.

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

Theon leaned back in his chair, grinning like a wolf who’d just spotted a wounded deer. “So, Stark,” he drawled, spinning a pen between his fingers. “When am I taking Sansa out?”

Robb’s head snapped up from his textbook so fast his neck cracked. “What?”

Jon, who had been peacefully eating a sandwich, choked.

Theon’s grin widened. “You heard me. Little Stark’s growing up. Figured I’d get in there before someone else does.”

Robb’s pencil snapped in half. “Over my dead body.”

Jon, still coughing, pointed at Theon. “I’ll—cough—help hide the body.”

Theon just laughed, kicking his feet up on the table. “Relax, you prudes. I’m joking.” Robb didn’t relax.

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

It happened at lunch. Sansa was walking down the corridor, arms full of books, when Theon materialised beside her like a particularly smug ghost. He leaned against the lockers, arms folded, and gave her the kind of slow, deliberate once-over usually reserved for sports cars. “Little Stark,” he purred.

Sansa froze. Blinked. Then, impossibly, blushed.

Jon, who had been mid-sip of his drink, spat it out so violently it sprayed across Robb’s shirt, Robb didn’t even notice. He was too busy seeing red. “THEON—”

But Theon was already cackling, pointing at Jon’s horrified face. “I told you! I told you he’d lose it more than you!”

Jon looked like he was about to commit murder, Sansa looked like she wanted to vanish into the floor, Robb looked like he was seriously considering getting expelled.

Arya, who had witnessed the entire thing from nearby, grinned. “This is the best day of my life.”

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

The car ride home was tense. Robb white-knuckled the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. Jon sat in the passenger seat, radiating silent fury. Theon lounged in the back, utterly unrepentant.

“Oh, come on,” Theon said, kicking Robb’s seat. “It was funny.”Robb’s eye twitched.

Jon finally spoke, his voice dangerously calm. “If you ever look at Sansa like that again, I’m telling Daenerys about the time you cried during Titanic.”

Theon gasped, affronted. “You swore you’d never mention that!”

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

It had been a rare stroke of luck, Ned and Catelyn out for the evening, Bran and Rickon at a friend's sleepover, the house blissfully empty. Robb had seized the opportunity with the desperation of a man who'd been dating Roslin Frey for eight months without ever having a proper moment alone.

Ned's grandmother's antique bedsheets had seemed like a good idea at the time, they were not a good idea.

Catelyn's scream could have shattered glass, Robb had never moved faster in his life, scrambling so violently he nearly threw Roslin onto the floor. Roslin, for her part, had grabbed the nearest object to cover herself, which turned out to be a decorative throw pillow embroidered with the Stark family crest, the ensuing silence was deafening, then, from the doorway, Theon's voice: "Oh, this is priceless." Jon, standing beside him, had his phone out. "Smile for the camera." Robb considered throwing himself out the window.

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

The family meeting was torturous, Ned had that particular look of a man trying very hard not to think about his son's sex life, Catelyn alternated between horror and outrage, her hands fluttering like she wanted to scrub the memory from her brain with steel wool. Theon and Jon, the traitors, had front-row seats, their shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"On Grandmother's bed?" Catelyn finally burst out.

Robb sank lower in his chair. "We… didn't know it was special?"

"It's two hundred years old!"

Theon lost it. Full-bodied, wheezing laughter that made him slide right out of his chair. Jon, more subdued but no less amused, at least had the decency to turn his snorts into coughs. Roslin, to her eternal credit, had apologised profusely, then asked if the sheets could be dry-cleaned. Robb never lived it down.

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

The Nando's trip started like any other, Theon stealing everyone's fries before they'd even sat down, Jon methodically dissecting his chicken into symmetrical pieces, and Roslin humming along to the terrible pop music piping through the speakers. Robb, still riding the high of his mock exam results, made the fatal mistake of feeling invincible. "Extra hot," he declared when the waiter came to take their orders, ignoring Roslin's raised eyebrows.

Jon paused mid-bite. "You're joking."

Theon leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Stark's finally growing a pair."

Robb shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "It's just sauce."

Roslin patted his hand with the condescending grace. "Sure, babe."

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

The chicken arrived, glistening ominously under its crimson glaze. Robb's first bite was… manageable. A pleasant warmth, really. Nothing he couldn't handle.

Theon watched him like a hawk. "Well?"

"Please," Robb scoffed, taking another bite. "This is—"

Then the fire hit, it started as a tingle, then what felt like a full-blown volcanic eruption in his esophagus. His eyes watered instantly, his nose ran like a faucet, and his throat decided it was the perfect time to stage a mutiny. Roslin's eyes widened. "Oh my god."

Jon, the traitor, was already filming, Robb reached for his Coke with the desperation of a dying man, chugging it so fast ice cubes tumbled down his shirt. It did nothing. Nothing.

Theon was howling. "His face—" Robb would've cursed him out if he could speak. Instead, he made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a teakettle boiling over.

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

Twenty minutes and three milkshakes later, Robb sat slumped in the booth, his dignity in tatters, his taste buds likely permanently scarred.

Roslin dabbed at his forehead with a napkin, her lips twitching. "My brave, stupid man."

Theon was still wheezing. "I can't breathe—the way you screeched—"

Jon played the video back, zooming in on Robb's tear-streaked face. "We should send this to Bran and Arya."

Robb groaned, pressing his forehead to the cool tabletop. "I hate you all."

The waiter returned with the bill and a sympathetic smile. "We get that reaction a lot."

As they filed out of the restaurant, Theon slung an arm around Robb's shoulders. "Cheer up, Stark. At least you didn't cry this time." Robb considered pushing him into traffic.

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗╔══ ≪ °❈°

@maryrouge @liataylorsversion

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dude-the-best-names-are-taken · 30 days ago

Text

Part 2 pls pls 🙏 🙏 🥺🥺🥺🥺

too much (just enough)

bob reynolds x new avenger!reader | 3.4k

summary: the three (3) times bob tries to ask for some advice from his friends. and the one time he unexpectedly gets yours. your advice, he means. not that “yours” meant anything else or anything. cw/tags: fluff! underlying angst bc these are the thunderbolts*, duh. bob is shy at first but gets confident over time. everyone's supportive and trying their best. reader is gender-neutral, and closed off. bob-centric pov (no pun intended). lmk if i missed any <3 note: the prophets have spoken. a bob oneshot we shall Have. dine well, my fellow bob subjects.

If there was one thing he could be sure about, it’s that Bob knows he’s had crushes before.

Though his memory serves him blurry, and brief glimpses of the past, Bob knows that some people have made his heart stammer at some point in his life. That a girl might have brushed hands with him in a hallway and it made him trip over air. Maybe a guy had given him the impression of looking way too illegal to just be passing by while on his way to something.

So, he’s sure that he knows what a crush feels like.

Bob just isn’t quite sure if that’s how he’s feeling whenever he looks at you. So naturally, he turns to his dearly beloved friends for some help.

Otherwise known as the rest of the New Avengers—minus you, of course. And Bob.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈. A word of advice from Yelena Boleva and Bucky Barnes.

On an unassuming Monday morning, Bob was tagging along with whatever Yelena was up to. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. At least, not yet.

Bucky was there, too. The four of you were hanging out in the old O.X.E. Laboratory, where Valentina had manipulated Bob into becoming the Sentry. He called the lab ‘old’ because that’s what Yelena called it. And what Yelena does, Bob takes after.

So the four of you were in the old lab, overseeing (but not really) whatever it was that scientists did on an unassuming Monday morning.

Oh, right. You were there, too. But Bob is trying not to think too hard about that. He’s trying very hard not to think too hard about anything.

“Bob?” The man in question hears Yelena from beside him.

He blinks out of his haze, just now realizing that he had been staring blatantly at you. Like he was some creep. Bob does not want to be a creep. But it seemed like you didn’t notice, continuing your silent exploration of the laboratory.

“You okay?” Yelena asks him when he faces her.

Bob gulps first, throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure? Is the lab too much for you again?”

“No, no. It’s— it’s fine, really.”

Just then, in his periphery, Bob sees Bucky take a quick glance at him. Though not moving from his spot beside a flustered scientist.

“Y’know we can talk about it, right, Bob? Not right now, but—” Bucky inhales, then drops a soft sigh through his nose. “We can talk about it.”

For the second time, Bob gulps. His eyes go from Bucky, to Yelena, to you for a split second, to the floor, and to everything else all at once. Maybe he’ll think about it, just a little hard, before he decides to do something about it.

“Um…” He makes a sound, scratching the back of his neck. “Well… actually, there— there is something I wanna talk about…”

Almost instantly, Yelena and Bucky stop whatever they were doing and turn to Bob, ready to listen to him.

“Do… do you guys think…” Bob starts, fidgeting with his fingers. “That Y/N’s kind of…”

Both Yelena and Bucky wait patiently for him to continue, remaining still and looking oddly like his parents for a moment.

What could Bob even possibly say about you? You’re… everything. You’re kind of mean. You have a resting bitch face. You grunt and murmur and say so little, it makes Bob lose sleep.

You’re also pretty. Really pretty. Well, Bob finds Yelena to be pretty, too. But in the purely admiring, in-awe kind of way. Not in the lowkey lovesick, a bit too cheesy kind of way that you have going on with him.

Not that there was anything going on with you and Bob—

“Bob?” Bucky calls out gently. “You still with us, bud?”

The man in question blinks rapidly out of his haze again. This is driving him nuts, respectfully speaking. And he’s been addicted to meth before.

“Yeah. I am,” He sighs, deflating like a sad balloon.

Afterwards, Bob doesn’t notice Yelena and Bucky share a concerned glance with each other. And he also doesn’t notice you stealing a quick glance at the three of you—him, Bucky, and Yelena— from your corner in the lab.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐈. A word of advice from the Red Guardian and the U.S. Agent

The penthouse in the Watchtower has a really nice view if you pay close enough attention. Also if you aren’t afraid of heights.

Bob likes to just… chill there, when he can. Most of the time, he’s either following Yelena around and asking about what he can do to help. Then, he sets off to do his task once the blonde woman assigns him one. They’re all minor, really. Sometimes, he vacuums the penthouse floor. Most times, he’s in his room by himself.

Today though, on just another Wednesday afternoon, Bob’s reading a book. He’s in his comfiest attire, accompanied by a milkshake, and a small bowl of chocolate bark that Ghost surprisingly made for the team one night.

Not to mention, he’s lounging in a chair similar to a La-Z-Boy recliner that his dad once had back in the day. Not that he remembers much of that time. Weirdly enough, he feels a little alarmed by the sudden thought of a La-Z-Boy recliner.

But that all goes out of the window the moment the doors of the elevator opens. Walking out of it with instant chatter and a certain pep in their steps were you, Alexei, and John ‘the Asshole’ Walker.

The three of you were out for a long overdue hangout session. Bob has no idea why you’d choose to hang out with two of the most egoistic men ever out of the team. But if it made you happy, or they made you happy, then who was he to complain about that?

Not like you were his… something or anything. Why can’t he remember that word?

“Ey, Bob!” Alexei’s ever-booming voice greets him, startling Bob in his seat. The Red Guardian, still in his awfully tacky costume, walks closer to the man in question with that dopey smile on his face.

“How is Bob doing today, eh?” He asks him, putting his hands on his hips. Alexei looked like he was posing for a moment. “Still no Sentry or… other side of Sentry, I hope?”

“Uh, no,” Bob shakes his head, stringy hair swinging around in his line of vision. “Not— no Sentry or the other side today.”

“Mm, shame, that is,” Alexei grumbles slightly, but he tries to keep it subtle. “You… still remember my dream of flying someday, right? Not on weak, small helicopter. But on top of Sentry—”

“Oh my god, Alexei. Didn’t we talk about that just a few weeks ago now?” John Walker’s voice interrupts, the sound of liquid pouring into a glass following after.

The Red Guardian sighs heavily, rolling his eyes as he throws John an annoyed glance.

“Yes, yes. No more talk about Red Guardian riding on top of—”

“Just don’t listen to him, Bob,” John advises, tilting his head to send Bob a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll learn to tune him out soon enough.”

Asshole, Bob unapologetically thinks. But he chuckles slightly as Alexei continues to share with him his personal fantasy about riding off into the sunset or whatever that meant.

In his periphery, while switching his view from Alexei to John, you’re standing by the bar just near the U.S. Agent. Bob assumes you were waiting for a drink of your own. He didn’t know you could drink.

But then again, he didn’t know a lot of things. So… here goes nothing.

“Uh… Alexei, sir?” Bob quietly interrupts.

The Red Guardian beams at him, happy to be called by his friend. “Oh, how many times I have to tell you, Bob? Just Alexei is fine!”

“Oh, okay. Uh… Alexei—?”

“Yes! Yes, what is it? Do you have idea about the sunset riding? Or how about the skydiving entrance into… what is it… Coach-Ella?”

“No, no,” Bob chuckles, slightly sheepish. He catches John raise an eyebrow from afar, grab his freshly prepared drink, and walk “subtly” closer to him and Alexei.

“I was just… I was gonna ask you something.”

“Oh? Bobby has question to ask? Then, ask away! The Red Guardian knows everything.”

“Pfft, sure he does.” John mutters from behind the Red hero himself.

“Um… do you guys think that Y/N…”

“Y/N?” Alexei asks, slightly surprised, but delighted still. “What about Y/N?”

“Nothing! Just that… I don’t know… I feel like—”

“Oh. I get it, Bob,” John stops beside Alexei, taking a slow, loud sip out of his drink. “You’ve got a crush, don’t ya?”

“What?” Bob flubs, looking everywhere around the room but at John and Alexei. “N-No, I don’t—”

“OH!” The Red Guardian shouts, excited in the way he always was when it came to personal matters. “OH, I understand now! Bob has little crush on little Y/N!”

“That—” Bob laughs nervously, brushing his clammy palms against his sweats. “That isn’t what this is.”

“No, no. That was definitely what this is all about.”

“YES! Finally! Now, we can make Avengerz… real… legacy!”

Feeling down on his luck, Bob sighs for what might be the first time that day. Or the hundredth, he isn’t really keeping count. But what he does as Alexei and John argue in front of him of what’s real and not real about ‘Bob’s little crush’ is bury his face in his hands.

With that, though, he fails to notice you sipping your drink quietly while seated at the bar. You’d been watching him— them, the entire time.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐈𝐈. A word of advice from Ghost— Ava

Bob feels hungry… or so he thinks as his stomach grumbles loudly as he enters the kitchen.

The kitchen in the Watchtower isn’t a closed-off space, though. It’s sharing space with the penthouse, actually. A kitchen kept in a tight, but cozy little corner where the New Avengers (and Bob) can eat whatever they like, and make whatever they want to eat.

It’s late at night, though, and while Bob knows he isn’t supposed to be up this late… he’s hungry.

“Okay… not here… not here…” Bob mutters under his breath as he searches the cabinets and drawers for a snack. He can’t remember exactly where Yelena put the “easy access” snacks; the Pop Tarts, the Cheetos, and whatnot. But he isn’t gonna give up that easily, because his stomach will keep him up all night.

After the unfortunate search for snacks in the cabinets, Bob steps back and leans against the kitchen island in the middle of the area. Then, he sighs, cheeks puffed out and lips slightly pouted. Now, he’s really hungry.

Bob sighs, again, because he just remembered that his stomach’s empty. And now he’s imagining his stomach with a sad face—

A figure phases into reality right in front of him, out of the blue, sending Bob into a fright—

“AHH!” He yelps out loud. Maybe a little too loud. And a little unmanly.

“Calm down, Bob, it’s just me,” Her voice sounds familiar to Bob’s ears, smooth and silky. “Ava Starr? ‘Ghost?’”

He tries to slow down his breathing, eyes still wide with fright as he thinks about her name. ‘Ghost,’ she said… Yelena did tell him something about a ghost one time—

“Oh! You’re the ghost lady!”

Ghost just stares at him, deadpan, for a long almost-minute. Then turns to face the cabinets, muttering, “Unbelievable…”

“No, no, no— Yelena told me that there’d be someone with like… ghost powers in the team?”

Ghost makes an interested sound. “Did she, now?”

“Yeah! And that sometimes, she’ll appear and then disappear out of thin air.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” The she in question replied, opening a cabinet overhead and scrutinizing its contents.

“I… I don’t think she was, either,” Bob chuckles slightly, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down to his palms. “I don’t think she ever is, actually.”

That’s when Ghost pauses, a pack of Chips Ahoy cookies in hand, and slowly turns back around to face Bob. Meanwhile, he’s looking at the pack of cookies in her hand. Bob remembers that he’s very hungry right now.

They both speak at the same time, at the same speed—

“Where’d you get that?

“D’you have a crush?”

—and both questions give them equal surprise.

“Uh… I got this from… up here,” Ghost answers him, pointing overhead at the middle cabinet. Slowly, she circles Bob and stops beside him, leaning against the kitchen island. “That’s where the snacks are…”

“Oh,” Bob chuckles, unsure-sounding with his low voice. “S-So that’s where they were…”

“Bob?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“...do you like Yelena—”

“It’s not Yelena,” He answers too quickly, wincing slightly at the high pitch of his voice. “It’s not… her… I have a crush on.”

“Huh,” Ghost rips open the Chips Ahoy pack, eyes still on Bob. “So if it’s not Yelena, who is it then?”

Well…

“It’s Y/N,” Bob answers, looking timid and tense. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Ghost tilts her head as she looks at him and just… watches him for a moment, a small smirk on her face. “Y/N… interesting. Your secret’s safe with me, Bob.”

An imaginary wall of bricks lifts off his shoulders. “Thank you—”

“On one condition, though.”

“A condition? What—”

“My name isn’t the ‘ghost lady.’ Though technically I am the Ghost,” She starts, pulling a cookie out of the pack in her hand. “But I do have a name, and I’d like it if you called me by it.”

Bob straightens his posture, taking her condition seriously as he nods. “Yeah, of course. What’s your name?”

“Ava,” Ghost— Ava, introduces herself. “Ava Starr.”

“Okay. Miss… Ava—”

“No. It’s just Ava, Bob. Just Ava.”

“O-Okay,” He nods, smiling slightly. “Just Ava.”

“Good. Now I can keep your secret,” Ava smiles, then places the Chips Ahoy pack between them on the kitchen island.

“Now eat,” She tells him. “I couldn’t hear you from how loud your stomach was grumbling.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐕. Your word of advice to Bob

There’s a secret sort of room in the Watchtower that only the New Avengers get exclusive access to. It isn’t the penthouse, or the hangar all the way up in the building.

But it’s a simulation room, kind of. Presumably one of Stark’s old tech facilities, but everyone calls it the Simulation Room.

Why? Because that’s exactly what it does—simulates the user’s active thoughts of a certain place, or moment. Then it’s projected out into an actual, physical reenactment. It’s… a trippy place, for sure. But if used correctly and responsibly, it could make for a place of relaxation.

There’s this one moment that Bob likes to picture whenever he wants to head to the Simulation Room. A time where he could remember being so at peace and happy. At… home.

It was a game night in the penthouse, and everyone was miraculously there. And Bob. And so were you. Alexei was trying to comfort Yelena after she lost in the game. Bucky was snickering while watching everyone have fun. John and Ava were bickering as usual, and Bob… he was sitting next to you.

You were quiet, back then. Still a little new to the team but… just starting to warm up to the dynamics and whatnot. Bob had offered you some popcorn from his bucket, and you thanked him with a quiet murmur.

Maybe that’s how it all started for Bob, with you and your… quietness. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward.

He’d been so lost in thought, letting his feet take him to the Simulation Room, that he didn’t realize somebody else was already in there until—

“Uh… occupied?” You speak, seated on a bed.

The room that Bob accidentally entered was… warm. There were fairy lights strung in a zig-zag pattern across the low ceiling of what seemed like a wooden cabin. There’s pictures plastered on the wall, a bookshelf filled with worn-out books, and memorabilia that Bob didn’t know the significance of. There was also this corner-bed situation where you sat with a gloomy window behind you. But the bed makes up for the gloomy mood.

It all made Bob feel… very at home, all at once.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t know where I was going,” He apologizes to you.

You push yourself up by your hands, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed instead of just on it.

“S’okay. It’s just me,” You shrug, sending him an unsure smile before looking away from him. Bob’s heartbeat falters a little from your brief eye contact.

He murmurs a weak okay, shifting his weight in his spot by the door, not sure what to do. Bob can’t think of a quick dad joke like John, and he can’t make quick decisions like Bucky. He’s kind of hopeless on this one.

But then, you speak up again, “D’you wanna come in?”

Bob looks up at you, eyes wide with surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” A breathy chuckle leaves your lips. “You can sit here.”

You pat the spot beside you on the bed, scooting aside to make some space for him there. Bob feels lightheaded and light-footed all at once because of it.

But he can’t find it in himself to say no, no matter how selfish this all seemed to him. So, he takes small steps forward, bringing him closer to you, and says, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” You smile at him, albeit a little awkwardly. Bob steals a glance at you from sideways and catches you doing the same. You both look away from each other at the same time.

This time, it’s Bob who breaks the silence, clearing his throat.

“So, what is this place anyways?”

“Oh… it’s my uh…” You trail off, looking around the room with nostalgia in your eyes. “My dad’s old cabin. He used to take me here before I—”

You stop yourself, catching Bob’s attention. Not that he wasn’t already paying attention to you. He kind of has a sixth sense for just about anything that concerns you.

“Eh, not important,” You brush the detail off, crossing your arms. “It’s just a room I like to be in when I wanna be alone.”

“Oh,” Bob nods, smiling slightly at you, then he realizes what you just said. “Wait… oh. Wait—”

“Bob?” You ask him, looking worried as he stands up abruptly from the bed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted to be alone. I–I can go, it’s really fine—”

“No, please. Stay,” Quick words fall out of your mouth, and you’re nearly standing up from the bed, too. Bob wonders why that is.

But he says okay, anyway, then sits right back down beside you on the bed.

“Sorry for scaring you off.”

“Sorry for misunderstanding.”

The both of you almost speak at the same time. Almost. But you both mirror the slight surprise on your faces.

And then you both laugh, the tense air dispersing into lighthearted feelings.

“I’m…” You start, still chuckling slightly as you glance at him. “I’m not very good at this… talking thing. Like, at all.”

“Oh, no worries. So am I,” Bob replies, smiling.

You let out a soft snort from your nose at that, still donning that awkward little smile. It renders Bob oh-so-hopeless.

You clear your throat, shoulders relaxed. “Well… a word of advice, then?”

“Sure,” Bob answers. “I’m all ears.”

“Don’t, uh… hesitate to talk to me next time. From one socially awkward person to another.”

A genuine laugh comes out of Bob’s mouth, and he doesn’t realize he’s grinning so wide.

“Deal.”

if you'd like a part 2 (because bob and r's convo doesn't just end there...), please leave a reblog, comment, or an ask in my inbox! they're always open <3

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