eyelessfaces

[eyelessfaces]

I really feel like people don't focus on that aspect of his character enough, sadly. I'm so glad to hear that you liked it, thank you<3

rotten apple

bob reynolds x reader

summary: the room is carrying the weight of it, bottles clinking on the floor when his foot accidentally nudges one of them aside. you don't need to be a genius to figure it out, it's obvious for those with eyes to see – bob has relapsed.

/title from the alice in chains song.

cw: hurt/comfort, angst, relapsing on alcohol, fluff, implied mutual pining, nonsexual intimacy, talks of addiction, guilt, mentions of bob's past drug addiction, kind of a character study? mentions of bob's father/past abuse, bob needs a hug, kinda went crazy on metaphors and imagery with this one

word count: 1.9k

masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates

buy me a coffee ♡

He looks darker than the room around him when you find him there. 

You instinctively put your bag up on the counter, gaze not tearing away from his figure – knees hugged to his chest, head facing the other way as if he didn’t look at you it meant you wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t see the state he was in. But the hiding and the different empty bottles scattered on the floor spoke more than he ever could. 

You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t say anything. 

It’s like your body moves on its own when you come and sit down beside him on the floor, back pressed against the counter, foot nudging one of the bottles aside. You sit here for a moment and wait before you talk, just to see if he will, just to see if there’s a part of him that wants to.

But the silence stands between you like a concrete wall absorbing any sound.

“You’re gonna have to stop pretending I’m not here at some point, you know,” you eventually lightly say, voice low. You don’t mean any tone of accusation, you never could. “Because I’m not leaving” you continue.

You hear him quietly choke on a sob he’s so obviously been meaning to repress, and that’s when your hand reaches to his – covering it in silent affirmation, fingers sliding through his before he weakly squeezes them.

His face turns just enough for you to see it, not enough for him to be facing towards you, even for just an inch. The faint lights from outside bathe his face in a way only melancholic movies can, and his cheeks glow to reflect them from the dampness there.

You blink, trying your best to not to make him feel worse by showing how crushing it feels to see him like this. You’re not sure it’s convincing, but you’re not sure it’s his priority either, so it doesn’t really matter. You shift besides him, readjusting your position before you talk again. “That’s okay”

“I don’t think it is” he counters, voice breaking slightly. “It doesn’t feel like it” he adds in a barely audible mutter before he lets out a shaky breath, turning away from you again.

Your throat tightens with compassion, heart aching for him, stomach hurting in a way that almost makes you feel nauseous. Your hand pulls away from his to rest at his back, and you can feel him tensing under your touch, almost flinching – you’re not sure if it’s better to pull away and let him breathe for a while or let him know you’re here and not going away no matter what. 

You feel it under your fingers when he inhales and takes a deep breath, swallowing and suppressing the sob that threatens to slip from his lips. “I felt like it would feel less worse than drugs but,” he starts confessing, voice wavering with the heaviness of alcohol. “But I still feel so pathetic for giving up, and that’s one more thing I feel bad about now” he admits with the same vulnerability you have grown used to, but this time it feels like he’s fully stripping himself off everything he has, shedding his skin completely. 

He eventually turns to face you, eyes bloodshot and glassy, cheeks flushed from the heat in his face, both from the alcohol and the shame taking over every other feeling. You don’t look away, you don’t even blink, you’re even unconsciously holding your breath. “And it already felt awful but the fact that you have to look at me feels even worse”

Your head shakes. “I’m not looking at you any different, Bob”

His head tilts from uncertainty before he looks away again, his fist clenching at his side when he nervously picks at the skin around his thumb. His head aches, unrelenting and borderline unbearable, weighing on him like a punishment for what he’s done. Thing is, it’s bound to be even worse in the morning. Probably on every aspect of it. But it’s nothing he’s never seen before.

Although the guilt might eat away at him more intensely than it ever did before.

The bottles lay as sheer evidence of what happened and only twist the knife deeper; he would throw and smash a few of them if it didn’t mean scaring or risking hurting you, but the mere idea of his violence fades away when he feels you at his side and notices you’ve laid your head against his shoulder like you couldn’t be afraid of him in the slightest.

It speaks volumes when he’s aware that you know The Void could manifest itself so easily, could slip in through his fragmented headspace and take a hold of you.

Maybe you meant it. Maybe you still saw him as the same man you know so well.

You get up with a soft grunt after a while of not saying or doing anything. You would have loved to just sit there silently with him in any other situation, but you’re not sure it is what he needs right now. “Come on, let me get you to bed. You need to rest”

He doesn’t budge, his head just laggardly swaying from side to side before he settles on staring at his own lap. 

“Bob,” you call, your voice pleading, impatient. “I’m not letting this go. We’re either staying here together or I’m getting you to your room, but I’m not leaving you alone here with your self-deprecation” 

Even in this state, he knows it’s no use fighting with you. You only mean well. And he doesn’t, in the slightest, have the strength to, even if he wanted to.

He makes up his mind, then he talks, voice so low, words slurred, so tainted with shame. “I don’t think I can stand up on my own”

You nod, scratching your forehead before crouching to his side again. “Okay, I’ll help you”

You get him to the bathroom so he can change into his sleeping clothes while you pick up painkillers from your personal stash and a glass of water from the kitchen.

His limbs are heavy when he sheds his clothes, almost stumbling as he slides his sweatpants on before he grips the edge of the sink to balance himself. 

It barely feels real when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, his face rough and livid, his eyes bloodshot, half lidded from the weight of his night. 

Getting used to being sober almost made him forget this is the way he used to look on a daily basis – and it wasn’t even the worst of it, he even looked pretty nice right now compared to some of his average days under the influence back then.

His dizziness drives him closer to the mirror, unable to help the numb fluttering of his eyes at his own sight.

How could the self loathing ever end when he can recognize his father’s gaze through his own?

Bob is suddenly torn from the cage of his own contemplations at the rasp of your knuckles against the door, voice muffled behind it when you check up on him and ask if he needs any help. The last thing he sees in the mirror before he turns away and joins you is his face twisting when he sniffles, hand swiftly wiping away the lines of tears still streaking his cheeks, the same way he used to make sure it wasn't obvious he’d been crying whenever he left the attic of his parents’ house just so his father wouldn’t call him a pussy. 

—

You feel guilty for not having been there. 

You watch silently as Bob sits on the edge of his bed, hand tiredly rubbing over his face, hair draping around his face, posture sagging. 

It’s not wrong that it happened, it’s wrong that you haven’t been here for him before it did. 

But it’s no use weighing whats and ifs, because it’s done and there’s no going back, it’s only going forward now.

Your movements are tentative when you join his side, palms smoothing over your lap in uncertainty. It’s hard to know what to say when you know he will beat himself up when The Void will inevitably catch up on it. But you can always try. Because you know that if it’s coming from you, he will at least try to believe it.

“It doesn’t have to mean you’ve lost, okay?” 

Bob blinks slowly, new tears chased away by the flutter of his eyelids as he nods like he’s trying to convince himself of it.

Your hands reach to cradle his face, thumb grazing his cheeks, his eyes fluttering in honest vulnerability. His gaze falls back down to avoid yours, but you gently tilt his head up to have him watching you again. 

“Bob,” his gaze softens, jaw clenching underneath your hold. “You didn’t give up, you slipped. It happens. No one straight up heals the first time they try. Everyone would be doing amazing if it was the case” you nod. He blinks like he’s processing what you just said, like he believes it could make sense. 

You’re halfway through leaving the room when he realizes your hands have left his face, the ghost of them still lingering over his heated skin, and he turns before you can reach the door. “Stay with me” his voice is low, frail, softly pleading. “Please”

He makes room for you when you come back. Lies over the bed as he wordlessly waits for you to do the same.

It might be the state of drunkenness that drives him to lay his head over your lap when you do. Or it might be the overwhelming exhaustion of it all. 

You let your fingers tangle into his hair, absent-mindedly raking through the mess of brown locks, your other hand resting against his back when he hugs your lap. His breathing gets steady, slows down to the point where you think he’s fallen asleep. You know he hasn’t when he shifts slightly to reposition his cheek against your thigh, but you know he’s close to when he speaks and his voice only comes out as a faint murmur. “I never wanted to get clean. It was never part of the plan. It never even crossed my mind” his voice is hoarse from drowsiness, the rumble of his voice so low you would even begin to think you could have hallucinated it. “It was the whole opposite, actually. I always wanted… wanted more” The knot inside your throat tightens at his words, fingers stilling slightly before they resume their trail through the mass of waves. “To drown everything out” 

He blinks at the quiet hum of your voice, but closes his eyes when it becomes an obvious effort to keep them open. “It feels so strange fully committing to going against it now.” 

“I know.” you couldn’t. You couldn’t know. You could barely begin to imagine how sinuous it all could be. You only know he deserves to live free of this hold. But you know how hard it is going against everything you’ve ever known. “It’ll take time before it feels normal” you mutter, sensing he’s beginning to slip away from you.

“But it’ll be worth it, you’ll see.”

The low hum of his throat vibrates against your thigh. Maybe failing once doesn’t make it all rotten. Maybe he deserves to sleep tonight. 

He would say something, would thank you for being here, but his exhaustion catches onto him faster than he can fight against it – but he knows where you will be to hear it when the morning comes.

—

any and every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated and helps more than you think!!

buy me a coffee ♡

thunderbolts taglist:

@majestic-jazmin @eternallymaroon @sillymilly17 @yyiikes @snazzynacho

@harebrained-0 @daisydark @baruque-ya @sleepysongbirdsings @alexxavicry

@earsthemagpie @lifeisafreakshow @nomajdetective @minminswag04

fill the linked form or leave a comment if you want to be tagged in future fics :)

[eyelessfaces]

rb if you're a munch robert reynolds truther

[eyelessfaces]

[eyelessfaces]

will you allow me to scream about lewis' smile just for a sec? yeah? okay thank you

[eyelessfaces]

if you started writing for rhett abbott i would simply ✨️pass away✨️

I think I would pass away too if I was to properly meet his character but I just don't have the strength to start outer range. I WANT TO. but my brain DOESN'T. if it makes sense somehow. neurodivergent stuff I guess

but I know once the time comes I will want to write something for him so it's just a matter of time🤭

[eyelessfaces]

rotten apple

bob reynolds x reader

summary: the room is carrying the weight of it, bottles clinking on the floor when his foot accidentally nudges one of them aside. you don't need to be a genius to figure it out, it's obvious for those with eyes to see – bob has relapsed.

/title from the alice in chains song.

cw: hurt/comfort, angst, relapsing on alcohol, fluff, implied mutual pining, nonsexual intimacy, talks of addiction, guilt, mentions of bob's past drug addiction, kind of a character study? mentions of bob's father/past abuse, bob needs a hug, kinda went crazy on metaphors and imagery with this one

word count: 1.9k

masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates

buy me a coffee ♡

He looks darker than the room around him when you find him there. 

You instinctively put your bag up on the counter, gaze not tearing away from his figure – knees hugged to his chest, head facing the other way as if he didn’t look at you it meant you wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t see the state he was in. But the hiding and the different empty bottles scattered on the floor spoke more than he ever could. 

You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t say anything. 

It’s like your body moves on its own when you come and sit down beside him on the floor, back pressed against the counter, foot nudging one of the bottles aside. You sit here for a moment and wait before you talk, just to see if he will, just to see if there’s a part of him that wants to.

But the silence stands between you like a concrete wall absorbing any sound.

“You’re gonna have to stop pretending I’m not here at some point, you know,” you eventually lightly say, voice low. You don’t mean any tone of accusation, you never could. “Because I’m not leaving” you continue.

You hear him quietly choke on a sob he’s so obviously been meaning to repress, and that’s when your hand reaches to his – covering it in silent affirmation, fingers sliding through his before he weakly squeezes them.

His face turns just enough for you to see it, not enough for him to be facing towards you, even for just an inch. The faint lights from outside bathe his face in a way only melancholic movies can, and his cheeks glow to reflect them from the dampness there.

You blink, trying your best to not to make him feel worse by showing how crushing it feels to see him like this. You’re not sure it’s convincing, but you’re not sure it’s his priority either, so it doesn’t really matter. You shift besides him, readjusting your position before you talk again. “That’s okay”

“I don’t think it is” he counters, voice breaking slightly. “It doesn’t feel like it” he adds in a barely audible mutter before he lets out a shaky breath, turning away from you again.

Your throat tightens with compassion, heart aching for him, stomach hurting in a way that almost makes you feel nauseous. Your hand pulls away from his to rest at his back, and you can feel him tensing under your touch, almost flinching – you’re not sure if it’s better to pull away and let him breathe for a while or let him know you’re here and not going away no matter what. 

You feel it under your fingers when he inhales and takes a deep breath, swallowing and suppressing the sob that threatens to slip from his lips. “I felt like it would feel less worse than drugs but,” he starts confessing, voice wavering with the heaviness of alcohol. “But I still feel so pathetic for giving up, and that’s one more thing I feel bad about now” he admits with the same vulnerability you have grown used to, but this time it feels like he’s fully stripping himself off everything he has, shedding his skin completely. 

He eventually turns to face you, eyes bloodshot and glassy, cheeks flushed from the heat in his face, both from the alcohol and the shame taking over every other feeling. You don’t look away, you don’t even blink, you’re even unconsciously holding your breath. “And it already felt awful but the fact that you have to look at me feels even worse”

Your head shakes. “I’m not looking at you any different, Bob”

His head tilts from uncertainty before he looks away again, his fist clenching at his side when he nervously picks at the skin around his thumb. His head aches, unrelenting and borderline unbearable, weighing on him like a punishment for what he’s done. Thing is, it’s bound to be even worse in the morning. Probably on every aspect of it. But it’s nothing he’s never seen before.

Although the guilt might eat away at him more intensely than it ever did before.

The bottles lay as sheer evidence of what happened and only twist the knife deeper; he would throw and smash a few of them if it didn’t mean scaring or risking hurting you, but the mere idea of his violence fades away when he feels you at his side and notices you’ve laid your head against his shoulder like you couldn’t be afraid of him in the slightest.

It speaks volumes when he’s aware that you know The Void could manifest itself so easily, could slip in through his fragmented headspace and take a hold of you.

Maybe you meant it. Maybe you still saw him as the same man you know so well.

You get up with a soft grunt after a while of not saying or doing anything. You would have loved to just sit there silently with him in any other situation, but you’re not sure it is what he needs right now. “Come on, let me get you to bed. You need to rest”

He doesn’t budge, his head just laggardly swaying from side to side before he settles on staring at his own lap. 

“Bob,” you call, your voice pleading, impatient. “I’m not letting this go. We’re either staying here together or I’m getting you to your room, but I’m not leaving you alone here with your self-deprecation” 

Even in this state, he knows it’s no use fighting with you. You only mean well. And he doesn’t, in the slightest, have the strength to, even if he wanted to.

He makes up his mind, then he talks, voice so low, words slurred, so tainted with shame. “I don’t think I can stand up on my own”

You nod, scratching your forehead before crouching to his side again. “Okay, I’ll help you”

You get him to the bathroom so he can change into his sleeping clothes while you pick up painkillers from your personal stash and a glass of water from the kitchen.

His limbs are heavy when he sheds his clothes, almost stumbling as he slides his sweatpants on before he grips the edge of the sink to balance himself. 

It barely feels real when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, his face rough and livid, his eyes bloodshot, half lidded from the weight of his night. 

Getting used to being sober almost made him forget this is the way he used to look on a daily basis – and it wasn’t even the worst of it, he even looked pretty nice right now compared to some of his average days under the influence back then.

His dizziness drives him closer to the mirror, unable to help the numb fluttering of his eyes at his own sight.

How could the self loathing ever end when he can recognize his father’s gaze through his own?

Bob is suddenly torn from the cage of his own contemplations at the rasp of your knuckles against the door, voice muffled behind it when you check up on him and ask if he needs any help. The last thing he sees in the mirror before he turns away and joins you is his face twisting when he sniffles, hand swiftly wiping away the lines of tears still streaking his cheeks, the same way he used to make sure it wasn't obvious he’d been crying whenever he left the attic of his parents’ house just so his father wouldn’t call him a pussy. 

—

You feel guilty for not having been there. 

You watch silently as Bob sits on the edge of his bed, hand tiredly rubbing over his face, hair draping around his face, posture sagging. 

It’s not wrong that it happened, it’s wrong that you haven’t been here for him before it did. 

But it’s no use weighing whats and ifs, because it’s done and there’s no going back, it’s only going forward now.

Your movements are tentative when you join his side, palms smoothing over your lap in uncertainty. It’s hard to know what to say when you know he will beat himself up when The Void will inevitably catch up on it. But you can always try. Because you know that if it’s coming from you, he will at least try to believe it.

“It doesn’t have to mean you’ve lost, okay?” 

Bob blinks slowly, new tears chased away by the flutter of his eyelids as he nods like he’s trying to convince himself of it.

Your hands reach to cradle his face, thumb grazing his cheeks, his eyes fluttering in honest vulnerability. His gaze falls back down to avoid yours, but you gently tilt his head up to have him watching you again. 

“Bob,” his gaze softens, jaw clenching underneath your hold. “You didn’t give up, you slipped. It happens. No one straight up heals the first time they try. Everyone would be doing amazing if it was the case” you nod. He blinks like he’s processing what you just said, like he believes it could make sense. 

You’re halfway through leaving the room when he realizes your hands have left his face, the ghost of them still lingering over his heated skin, and he turns before you can reach the door. “Stay with me” his voice is low, frail, softly pleading. “Please”

He makes room for you when you come back. Lies over the bed as he wordlessly waits for you to do the same.

It might be the state of drunkenness that drives him to lay his head over your lap when you do. Or it might be the overwhelming exhaustion of it all. 

You let your fingers tangle into his hair, absent-mindedly raking through the mess of brown locks, your other hand resting against his back when he hugs your lap. His breathing gets steady, slows down to the point where you think he’s fallen asleep. You know he hasn’t when he shifts slightly to reposition his cheek against your thigh, but you know he’s close to when he speaks and his voice only comes out as a faint murmur. “I never wanted to get clean. It was never part of the plan. It never even crossed my mind” his voice is hoarse from drowsiness, the rumble of his voice so low you would even begin to think you could have hallucinated it. “It was the whole opposite, actually. I always wanted… wanted more” The knot inside your throat tightens at his words, fingers stilling slightly before they resume their trail through the mass of waves. “To drown everything out” 

He blinks at the quiet hum of your voice, but closes his eyes when it becomes an obvious effort to keep them open. “It feels so strange fully committing to going against it now.” 

“I know.” you couldn’t. You couldn’t know. You could barely begin to imagine how sinuous it all could be. You only know he deserves to live free of this hold. But you know how hard it is going against everything you’ve ever known. “It’ll take time before it feels normal” you mutter, sensing he’s beginning to slip away from you.

“But it’ll be worth it, you’ll see.”

The low hum of his throat vibrates against your thigh. Maybe failing once doesn’t make it all rotten. Maybe he deserves to sleep tonight. 

He would say something, would thank you for being here, but his exhaustion catches onto him faster than he can fight against it – but he knows where you will be to hear it when the morning comes.

—

any and every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated and helps more than you think!!

buy me a coffee ♡

thunderbolts taglist:

@majestic-jazmin @eternallymaroon @sillymilly17 @yyiikes @snazzynacho

@harebrained-0 @daisydark @baruque-ya @sleepysongbirdsings @alexxavicry

@earsthemagpie @lifeisafreakshow @nomajdetective @minminswag04

fill the linked form or leave a comment if you want to be tagged in future fics :)

[eyelessfaces]

LEWIS PULLMAN as Rhett Abbott OUTER RANGE 2.01 — One Night in Wabang

[eyelessfaces]

rb if you're a munch robert reynolds truther

[eyelessfaces]

#GUYSHELLO #ITSALLOVERTHESCREENOHMYGOD

[eyelessfaces]

wet cat robert reynolds

[eyelessfaces]

OSCAR ISAAC and his family in the upcoming documentary King Hamlet by ELVIRA LIND

[eyelessfaces]

rotten apple

bob reynolds x reader

summary: the room is carrying the weight of it, bottles clinking on the floor when his foot accidentally nudges one of them aside. you don't need to be a genius to figure it out, it's obvious for those with eyes to see – bob has relapsed.

/title from the alice in chains song.

cw: hurt/comfort, angst, relapsing on alcohol, fluff, implied mutual pining, nonsexual intimacy, talks of addiction, guilt, mentions of bob's past drug addiction, kind of a character study? mentions of bob's father/past abuse, bob needs a hug, kinda went crazy on metaphors and imagery with this one

word count: 1.9k

masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates

buy me a coffee ♡

He looks darker than the room around him when you find him there. 

You instinctively put your bag up on the counter, gaze not tearing away from his figure – knees hugged to his chest, head facing the other way as if he didn’t look at you it meant you wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t see the state he was in. But the hiding and the different empty bottles scattered on the floor spoke more than he ever could. 

You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t say anything. 

It’s like your body moves on its own when you come and sit down beside him on the floor, back pressed against the counter, foot nudging one of the bottles aside. You sit here for a moment and wait before you talk, just to see if he will, just to see if there’s a part of him that wants to.

But the silence stands between you like a concrete wall absorbing any sound.

“You’re gonna have to stop pretending I’m not here at some point, you know,” you eventually lightly say, voice low. You don’t mean any tone of accusation, you never could. “Because I’m not leaving” you continue.

You hear him quietly choke on a sob he’s so obviously been meaning to repress, and that’s when your hand reaches to his – covering it in silent affirmation, fingers sliding through his before he weakly squeezes them.

His face turns just enough for you to see it, not enough for him to be facing towards you, even for just an inch. The faint lights from outside bathe his face in a way only melancholic movies can, and his cheeks glow to reflect them from the dampness there.

You blink, trying your best to not to make him feel worse by showing how crushing it feels to see him like this. You’re not sure it’s convincing, but you’re not sure it’s his priority either, so it doesn’t really matter. You shift besides him, readjusting your position before you talk again. “That’s okay”

“I don’t think it is” he counters, voice breaking slightly. “It doesn’t feel like it” he adds in a barely audible mutter before he lets out a shaky breath, turning away from you again.

Your throat tightens with compassion, heart aching for him, stomach hurting in a way that almost makes you feel nauseous. Your hand pulls away from his to rest at his back, and you can feel him tensing under your touch, almost flinching – you’re not sure if it’s better to pull away and let him breathe for a while or let him know you’re here and not going away no matter what. 

You feel it under your fingers when he inhales and takes a deep breath, swallowing and suppressing the sob that threatens to slip from his lips. “I felt like it would feel less worse than drugs but,” he starts confessing, voice wavering with the heaviness of alcohol. “But I still feel so pathetic for giving up, and that’s one more thing I feel bad about now” he admits with the same vulnerability you have grown used to, but this time it feels like he’s fully stripping himself off everything he has, shedding his skin completely. 

He eventually turns to face you, eyes bloodshot and glassy, cheeks flushed from the heat in his face, both from the alcohol and the shame taking over every other feeling. You don’t look away, you don’t even blink, you’re even unconsciously holding your breath. “And it already felt awful but the fact that you have to look at me feels even worse”

Your head shakes. “I’m not looking at you any different, Bob”

His head tilts from uncertainty before he looks away again, his fist clenching at his side when he nervously picks at the skin around his thumb. His head aches, unrelenting and borderline unbearable, weighing on him like a punishment for what he’s done. Thing is, it’s bound to be even worse in the morning. Probably on every aspect of it. But it’s nothing he’s never seen before.

Although the guilt might eat away at him more intensely than it ever did before.

The bottles lay as sheer evidence of what happened and only twist the knife deeper; he would throw and smash a few of them if it didn’t mean scaring or risking hurting you, but the mere idea of his violence fades away when he feels you at his side and notices you’ve laid your head against his shoulder like you couldn’t be afraid of him in the slightest.

It speaks volumes when he’s aware that you know The Void could manifest itself so easily, could slip in through his fragmented headspace and take a hold of you.

Maybe you meant it. Maybe you still saw him as the same man you know so well.

You get up with a soft grunt after a while of not saying or doing anything. You would have loved to just sit there silently with him in any other situation, but you’re not sure it is what he needs right now. “Come on, let me get you to bed. You need to rest”

He doesn’t budge, his head just laggardly swaying from side to side before he settles on staring at his own lap. 

“Bob,” you call, your voice pleading, impatient. “I’m not letting this go. We’re either staying here together or I’m getting you to your room, but I’m not leaving you alone here with your self-deprecation” 

Even in this state, he knows it’s no use fighting with you. You only mean well. And he doesn’t, in the slightest, have the strength to, even if he wanted to.

He makes up his mind, then he talks, voice so low, words slurred, so tainted with shame. “I don’t think I can stand up on my own”

You nod, scratching your forehead before crouching to his side again. “Okay, I’ll help you”

You get him to the bathroom so he can change into his sleeping clothes while you pick up painkillers from your personal stash and a glass of water from the kitchen.

His limbs are heavy when he sheds his clothes, almost stumbling as he slides his sweatpants on before he grips the edge of the sink to balance himself. 

It barely feels real when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, his face rough and livid, his eyes bloodshot, half lidded from the weight of his night. 

Getting used to being sober almost made him forget this is the way he used to look on a daily basis – and it wasn’t even the worst of it, he even looked pretty nice right now compared to some of his average days under the influence back then.

His dizziness drives him closer to the mirror, unable to help the numb fluttering of his eyes at his own sight.

How could the self loathing ever end when he can recognize his father’s gaze through his own?

Bob is suddenly torn from the cage of his own contemplations at the rasp of your knuckles against the door, voice muffled behind it when you check up on him and ask if he needs any help. The last thing he sees in the mirror before he turns away and joins you is his face twisting when he sniffles, hand swiftly wiping away the lines of tears still streaking his cheeks, the same way he used to make sure it wasn't obvious he’d been crying whenever he left the attic of his parents’ house just so his father wouldn’t call him a pussy. 

—

You feel guilty for not having been there. 

You watch silently as Bob sits on the edge of his bed, hand tiredly rubbing over his face, hair draping around his face, posture sagging. 

It’s not wrong that it happened, it’s wrong that you haven’t been here for him before it did. 

But it’s no use weighing whats and ifs, because it’s done and there’s no going back, it’s only going forward now.

Your movements are tentative when you join his side, palms smoothing over your lap in uncertainty. It’s hard to know what to say when you know he will beat himself up when The Void will inevitably catch up on it. But you can always try. Because you know that if it’s coming from you, he will at least try to believe it.

“It doesn’t have to mean you’ve lost, okay?” 

Bob blinks slowly, new tears chased away by the flutter of his eyelids as he nods like he’s trying to convince himself of it.

Your hands reach to cradle his face, thumb grazing his cheeks, his eyes fluttering in honest vulnerability. His gaze falls back down to avoid yours, but you gently tilt his head up to have him watching you again. 

“Bob,” his gaze softens, jaw clenching underneath your hold. “You didn’t give up, you slipped. It happens. No one straight up heals the first time they try. Everyone would be doing amazing if it was the case” you nod. He blinks like he’s processing what you just said, like he believes it could make sense. 

You’re halfway through leaving the room when he realizes your hands have left his face, the ghost of them still lingering over his heated skin, and he turns before you can reach the door. “Stay with me” his voice is low, frail, softly pleading. “Please”

He makes room for you when you come back. Lies over the bed as he wordlessly waits for you to do the same.

It might be the state of drunkenness that drives him to lay his head over your lap when you do. Or it might be the overwhelming exhaustion of it all. 

You let your fingers tangle into his hair, absent-mindedly raking through the mess of brown locks, your other hand resting against his back when he hugs your lap. His breathing gets steady, slows down to the point where you think he’s fallen asleep. You know he hasn’t when he shifts slightly to reposition his cheek against your thigh, but you know he’s close to when he speaks and his voice only comes out as a faint murmur. “I never wanted to get clean. It was never part of the plan. It never even crossed my mind” his voice is hoarse from drowsiness, the rumble of his voice so low you would even begin to think you could have hallucinated it. “It was the whole opposite, actually. I always wanted… wanted more” The knot inside your throat tightens at his words, fingers stilling slightly before they resume their trail through the mass of waves. “To drown everything out” 

He blinks at the quiet hum of your voice, but closes his eyes when it becomes an obvious effort to keep them open. “It feels so strange fully committing to going against it now.” 

“I know.” you couldn’t. You couldn’t know. You could barely begin to imagine how sinuous it all could be. You only know he deserves to live free of this hold. But you know how hard it is going against everything you’ve ever known. “It’ll take time before it feels normal” you mutter, sensing he’s beginning to slip away from you.

“But it’ll be worth it, you’ll see.”

The low hum of his throat vibrates against your thigh. Maybe failing once doesn’t make it all rotten. Maybe he deserves to sleep tonight. 

He would say something, would thank you for being here, but his exhaustion catches onto him faster than he can fight against it – but he knows where you will be to hear it when the morning comes.

—

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what if I was cooking some bob angst where he relapses on alcohol and we help him through it. what then.

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lewis via jakeschreier

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i love being a girl (staring at my bob reynolds pinterest board for hours)

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thank you so much❤️

hi friends, sorry for the inactivity, this has been a rough week, my cat got hit by a car so I've been spiraling and dissociating a lot. he's doing okay and he will make it through but it's been extremely exhausting. I'm working on some stuff I'm hoping to publish soon