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swordgrace · 3 days ago

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❝ 𝐨𝐡, 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) / fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of past depression, substance abuse, and working through trauma. talk of insecurities and feelings of inferiority. no smut in this one. purely fluff and angst. kissing, confession of feelings. slightly suggestive towards the end.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first time writing for bob but I really wanted to make sure that I got the mental health aspect right and didn’t minimize his issues. I am working on a part 2 with some very soft smut!

Perspiration clings to clammy flesh, flesh that crawls with gooseflesh, chest unusually tight, crushed beneath the weight of nightmares.

It’s the darkness — creeping, sinister, bleak — curling around the fringes of his room, kept at-bay by the soft illumination that hangs over his bed. Strangled gasps rip through his diaphragm, as if he’s swallowed water, pulled beneath the current.

He’s alone, surrounded by vicious mockery, by a cacophony of voices that claw at him, tell him he’s insignificant, tell him he’s nothing. Their rancor screams from the void, and he’s helpless, powerless against them.

It feels like drowning, falling into an endless pit of a ceaseless penumbra, the shadow that he keeps at-bay. A familiar pain blossoms from within his ribcage, and he’s desperate to be free from whatever nightmare he’s trapped in.

Bob startles awake, clutching at his sternum, brown tresses disheveled from a perilous slumber. Muscles ache, taut from a clenched fist, as if he’s being stretched too thin.

The nightmare disintegrates, carried away upon the wind, and the shadows slither to a mere lull.

Sweat glistens on his temples, strands of hair matted against his forehead, brows furrowing together. Tears wet his eyes, unshed, roused to the surface as he regains a shred of composure. Outside, the New York cityscape greets him — he’s home, in the Watchtower.

The skies have lost their pallor, no longer the hue of bruised violets, an inky atmosphere speckled with thousands of stars. Skyscrapers glisten through the haze, reflected against tinted windowpanes, and he begins to adjust to his surroundings again.

A dryness permeates his mouth, sitting uncomfortably upon his tongue, and he shuffles out of bed. The sheets are somewhat damp from perspiration, his body running inhumanly hot, hotter still from the nightmare.

The nightmares don’t get any easier — the pain sits raw within his chest, as if his heart has been spit over a searing flame. Bob exhales, reminding himself of where he is, they’re here, he isn’t alone, he’s safe.

Bare feet smooth over the cool flooring, making his way from his room to the tower’s lounge, greeted by dusk, pooling in through tinted windows. Starlight dances through a clear night, silvery whisper of the moon enough to bring him some semblance of comfort.

Wandering towards the sink, he’s quick to turn the faucet on, shoveling handfuls of water into his mouth to sate his thirst. The dry burn within his throat slowly diminishes, temperature beginning to regulate as he pulls away from tormented dreams.

A cool draft floats through the room, a soothing balm against his scorching flesh, smoldering with the temperature of the sun. A drawn-out, ragged sigh inhabits his lungs, and he begins to drift down from his state of panic, of fear.

“Bob?”

Nonplussed, Bob swivels, droplets of water rolling down his chin as his gaze finds you, standing there in your robe, groggy from the fringes of sleep. It’s as if you’re cast in some divine glow, the moon at your back, blanketing you in blanched light.

Within his chest, the pain ebbs, more of a crawl than biting, soothed by your presence. He doesn’t know what you are — you and him, but he knows that he’s comforted when you’re near, as if you possess some supernatural ability to console him.

He knows that you are a sanctuary, that you’re kind, you’re safe; and Bob knows that he feels something for you. It’s nearly overwhelming, whatever that sentiment is — he thinks it’s affection, or maybe it’s something else, something stronger.

Fisting his palm within the hem of his sweater, he forces a smile, threadbare; it dances along the line of genuine and despairing. “Hi,” He greets nonchalantly, as if he weren’t distressed. “What are you doing?”

Perplexed, you can tell that he’s had a nightmare again; a weekly ritual, wrought with melancholy, and yet you’re there with open arms, without question. “I heard your heartbeat.” It’s little more than a whisper, and you watch his smile waver.

“Did you?” Bob averts your gaze, digits twisting into fabric until it accidentally tears. He winces, shaking his head back and forth, brows drawing together as he attempts to navigate through the momentary swarm of emotions.

It’s been four months — he’s trying.

Unraveling the tangled web of trauma that blankets his life is easier said than done, and he’s put in the work, but it never seems enough. The nightmares don’t recede, still a haunting constant, a plague nipping at his heels without pause.

Silence fills the gap between, and the sting you feel never lessens when he’s had a nightmare. Affection pulls upon your heartstrings, a dull ache within your chest that blossoms into concern. Wordlessly, you step closer, hand seeking his own.

It’s an anchor; there’s a weight to it that grounds him, flesh to flesh, and Bob feels the unearthly chill that clings to your skin. Through a warbled exhale, he finally looks to you again, his smile threadbare yet easier, appreciative.

“I’m here for you,” Solemn, your oath to Bob is a promise, and you’ve kept it, never straying from the meaning of your words. The sheen of sweat seems to cool, and his body no longer feels coiled into a thousand knots. “Still tired?”

It was a poor habit he’d developed, not going back to bed once he’d awoken from a bad dream. Though, you’d been rather diligent about ensuring that he got proper rest — and you always stayed with him until the sun came up.

Bob nods, and the two of you make your way back to his room.

Hands flex and pull away from one another, kissed by fire, and you feel it, warmth spreading over the back of your neck like tendrils. It’s innocent, whatever you share with him — pure, clean. You don’t recall the last time you’d felt this about anyone, for anyone.

There’s a gentleness that radiates from his soul, burning brighter than the sun; it’s good, he’s good. He doesn’t fully know it, but he’s healing you, too.

As you cross the threshold into his room, the door shuts, met with the soft glow of his nightlight, the sparkling cityscape. Bob is visibly relieved, grateful to you for everything — he wonders if he deserves it, but the thought is fleeting.

There isn’t a shred of awkwardness as the both of you climb into his bed; you abandoned that a long time ago. Instead, there’s a peculiar tension — but it’s sweeter, more of a tenderness than anything else.

Curled atop the sheets, Bob’s gaze finds you, unknowing, enticed by the glitter within your eyes, the characteristic amiability that he clings to. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were some angel, a savior, pulling him back from the brink.

Facing one another, the hush of his room is comforting; the hum of New York drones on outside, save for the minuscule thrumming of the light above his headboard. Tucking an arm beneath your head, you feel yourself grow a touch flustered beneath Bob’s stare.

There is a sense of incredulity there, an amalgamation of gratitude intermingled with warmth, mesmerized, affectionate. He nearly shrinks when your gaze finds his own, mustering up a smile, one that quirks at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” He mumbles, fearing that he’s wasted enough of your time on his troubled mind. Bob notices the flicker of fire within your eyes, a certain determination. “I …”

Before he can conjure up some apology, you begin to shush him, a gentle croon that is a placating gesture, intended to soothe. “We’re here for one another, Bob. You know that I don’t mind. It’s just as important to me as it is to you.”

That surprises him, bewilderment crossing his features, settling within his visage as he clears his throat. He wants to inquire, ask about why this matters to you so much, consoling him, but he’s quiet, absorbing every detail of your countenance. His memory is hazy, but he always remembers you.

“Why?”

A brief pang of ice stabs at your stomach, recalling a slew of past memories, none of which are pleasant. His loneliness is something that you empathize with more than he knows, the burden of nothingness.

Bob can see the ripple of pain that passes through your face, and he reaches out, hands interlacing once more. It’s innocuous, grounded; you tether one another to reality. For a moment, he’s standing in your memories — needles, a thousand jagged pricks of ice, threading themselves into your veins.

“This comforts me, too,” Your confession is laced with underlying melancholy, one that he shares, understands. Bob understands it better than himself, and he feels your digits tense around his hand; it’s a pleasant feeling. “You comfort me.”

It feels strange, to be important to someone; to matter in a way that transcends a simple human connection. His body heat warms the icy chill of your hands, sending a brief shiver throughout your spine.

As he involuntarily wades through your memory, he sees you again, alone — begging, sobbing for help, for someone to rescue you from the misery inflicted at the hands of zealous scientists. Like him, he realizes, and he wants to help you in the way you’ve helped him.

“I don’t know how.” Bob admits, but you’re swift to counter him with a smile. There’s an easiness to you, something kind, something secure, a home that he’s made, the heart where he has roots.

“You’re just you,” As the words slip from your lips, warm breath plumes between, tinged with sweetness. He finds it difficult to fully believe your words, but he hangs onto them nonetheless, heart lurching within his chest. “You’re Bob.”

If only things were that simple, he thinks, knowing that there’s much more to him than that. Darkness, a malignant shadow, constantly slinking around within the recesses of his mind — and something golden, a brilliant light, blinded by his own hubris.

His silence is telling, and you know he doesn’t fully believe you. You don’t press the matter, the pad of your thumb ghosting over his knuckles. Gooseflesh ices his spine at the brief contact, prompting him to exhale, nearly relaxed.

“You know that’s not true,” Bob stammers, wrestling with himself. Sometimes he wonders if you like all of him — even the tarnished, broken parts. His eyes briefly flutter shut before he shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, feeling your fingertips dance over his palm.

“All of you, then. You are comforting to me,” The sincerity within your cadence is incredibly soothing to him, hanging upon every word. “Even the parts that are still healing.” You assure, and his breath catches within his throat.

There’s plenty of mending left to do — learning, adapting, trying to find himself again. However, Bob knows for certain that he’s beginning to love you, in a way that he’s never experienced himself. Whatever parts of him are still scattered, you’re there to help pick up, no matter how dark.

His lips split into a smile — brighter this time, fully reaching his eyes. Grogginess hazes the fringes of his gaze, exhaustion beginning to seep into his bones, attempting to drag him back into the throes of sleep.

Still, he fights it, wanting to stay up with you and talk — it’s what you’ve done every time. Sometimes the conversation is light, airy, sweet — and sometimes it’s raw and poignant. Whatever way it goes, he’s content to converse, to better understand himself, understand you.

“Everything about you is perfect,” Bob utters, scarlet permeating his cheeks, flush snaking toward his jaw. Bewilderment crosses your features, eyes widening, throat thick as you swallow down a slight lump. “All of it.”

You want to blame it on the sleep deprivation, and you do, forcing a brief laugh, wrought with a sense of shock. “You must be really tired,” Attempting to pass off his remark as nothing more than kindness, you notice his sudden streak of embarrassment.

“I mean it.” Shrewd, he tries again, insistent as his teeth catch on the inside of his cheek. Earnestly, he sits up enough to look at you fully, cerulean hues glistening through dim illumination.

Biting back a retort, you reluctantly accept the compliment, digits idly twisting into the pillow beneath you. You are far from perfect — the sum of many flaws, self-esteem still tattered from your past. Bob understands, insecurities marrow-deep, gnawing away at him.

He sees you — glimpsing through whatever guilt and sorrow plague you, seeing the light that emanates from within. With bated breath, your lips part, enough to make room for a soft exhale, attempting to decide on your next words.

“Thanks,” It’s all you can muster, grappling with the bewilderment of it all, being called perfect. You’ve never been labeled as anything other than a mistake — but not to him. “No one’s ever told me that before.”

Bob feels your digits still across his knuckles, akin to silk, still somewhat icy. “I’ll tell you,” His voice is disarmingly gentle, the ghost of a smile fluttering over his face. “You’ve helped me, more than you know. I can return the favor.”

There’s still pain left inside, ashen remnants of a fire that nearly engulfed him, but it’s more manageable. Most of his life was one of isolation, of longing for a purpose — he’d found the team, and he’d found you.

He still remembers meeting you for the first time, even if the memory is clouded, faint. It’s you that breaks through the veil, piercing sunlight through his own shadow. It was the softness of your touch that lingers still, guiding him from the dark.

“It’s only fair if I tell you, too,” Through a murmur, you shift atop the mattress, the distance between bodies slimmer than before. You can hear his heartbeat begin to climb, notice the way in which he shuffles closer, too. “We’ll remind each other.”

Bob smiles again, eyelashes fluttering, accidentally bumping his knees against yours. “Sorry.” He mumbles, but you shake your head, able to savor the proximity. There’s something else he wants to say, stuck upon the tip of his tongue.

Words simmer to ash within his throat, struggling to vocalize the turbulent storm of inner thoughts that wage war within his head. He wants to tell you how much you mean to him, how much he likes you, how you burn away any lingering darkness.

“It’s okay.” Assuring, you absentmindedly untangle your hand from his, much to his disdain, only to card your fingertips over his brow. Brushing aside sweat-laden tresses, you feel the heat of his flesh, like that of an open flame.

The gesture is sweet, and he craves your embrace with a pathetic desperation. Bob’s eyes widen, pads of your digits ghosting toward his cheek, until your palm is nearly flat against the side of his face.

His hand finds your wrist, his hold disarmingly delicate, as if he’s cradling something precious, fragile. Bob is fearful of his own strength, letting it fester just beneath the surface. As your thumb traces over his cheekbone, his gaze doesn’t stray from you.

Floating within a wordless silence, you’re unusually content, feeling the pang of tension that crackles between, embers stoked to a low flame. Everything about him is warm, inviting, gentle — his heartbeat jumps again when you smile at him.

“I like you,” He whispers, as if he’s just revealed some earth-shattering secret. Despite the sudden excitement that washes through you, he seems anxious, as if this news is something you’d detest. “But I don’t know if I’m good enough.”

Offended on his behalf, your brows furrow together, caressing his visage with lingering strokes of your fingertips. “You are more than good enough,” You know it’s a struggle for him to have faith in such words. “You’re so good, Bob — you’re resilient, you’re perfect.”

Bob laughs; a subdued, nervous sound as his own compliment is thrown back in his face — he should’ve suspected you’d do something like that. Foreheads ghost against one another, and he realizes how close you are, bodies nearly entangled.

His divulgence of his affections dawns upon you, realization raw and palpable. However, you don’t let it swallow the remark he made, of not being good enough for you — he’s everything, he’s more than enough.

“I like you, too.”

Disbelief, as sharp as a blade, cuts through him effortlessly — he knows you mean it, but it’s difficult to let the feeling sink in fully. His thumb caresses over the heel of your palm, tears burning his eyes, a wet sheen that he continues to fight off.

Somewhere within the recesses of his mind, he hears the voice again — the Void, some festering spectre that looms still, as black as ink. Bob’s jaw tenses as he staves off insecurity, finding a steadfast adoration within your eyes; your gaze softens, consoling.

“I have a lot of low days,” It’s almost as if he’s giving you reasons not to be with him, to avoid acting on this pull that you feel towards him. “Some good days.” Bob whispers, voice hoarse, as if he’s been scraped too thin, choked by swimming tears.

“I’ll stay with you — no matter what kind of day it is,” Something wet coats your thumb, inklings of salty droplets rolling from his eyes. “Low or high, you mean so much to me.” The softness of your cadence is unmistakable, his hand gliding to rest over yours.

Tears flow freely now, most of them born of an elation he hadn’t experienced in such a long time. He’s happy — joy tastes foreign, something new and unfamiliar, but it’s liberating, all the same. Your voice washes over him, curling around him; tranquil, serene.

It’s as if the voices are squashed, momentarily snuffed out as he looks to you, the center of everything. Wiping at bleary eyes, he regains his composure, enough to plant a kiss against your palm. The gesture is chaste, sweet — your lips part slightly, smitten.

Still holding your hand against his countenance, Bob gawks, stars swirling within his dark-blue hues, the look of something more. His heartbeat thrums within your ears as it jumps again, jumbled and erratic in your newfound closeness.

“You can hear it,” Bob murmurs, a reddened flush crawling over his neck, settling within his cheeks. “My heartbeat.” He knows it’s quick, knows the way you make him feel — beloved, comforted, some semblance of normalcy.

“It’s fast,” Your observation only furthers his twinge of embarrassment, but he smiles — your heartbeat quickens, too. “Never noticed the flecks of green in your eyes.” Muddled by the growing grogginess, your voice tapers off, nothing more than a hushed whisper.

“Reminded her of moss,” He recalls, forlorn, as if he’s miles away. Bob doesn’t talk much about his past — only the naked ugliness of it, but this is something lighter, something good. “My mother.” His throat stirs with a soft hum.

“They’re pretty.” Again, your fingertips brush above his brow, nudging brown tresses aside. The change of subject is all a ploy for Bob to gather his courage to kiss you — it’s building, the tension. You’re content to let it simmer.

Bob relinquishes his grasp upon your hand, enough to touch you, too. He’s hesitant, the way he reaches for you, trembling digits warm against your lips, chapped and scabbed from you constantly biting at the thin flesh.

Exhilaration swirls within your stomach, a thousand butterflies dancing around, gooseflesh crawling across your spine. His fingers skirt toward your cheek, palm large enough to cradle your countenance, and you let him.

You cannot recall the last time someone had touched you with a gentle hand, as if you mattered, as if you were worthy of such kindness. His touch is incendiary, fire to ice, eyes searching his own for something else, something unspoken.

As if urged by invisible strings, your movements are sluggish, deliberate; the closer you get, the louder Bob’s heartbeat gets — yours too, joined in-tandem. He doesn’t recoil or push you aside, doe-eyed and mesmerized, though still somewhat nervous.

His gaze flickers over your visage — ethereal, gravitating, and he’s pulled in. He’s asking, you realize, hushed yet expectant, lips parted and flesh plagued by scarlet. Bob’s hand remains steady, caressing your jaw, characteristically shy as you lean forward simultaneously.

Lips brush against one another, slow to start, perhaps agonizingly slow. It doesn’t bother you in the slightest, allowing yourself to merely bask in the pleasantness of it all.

Kissing isn’t something foreign to him, but he’s inexperienced, stumbling over himself, still clumsy in his ministrations. He drowns his anxiousness, throat bobbing as he swallows, finding some tranquility in the shape of your mouth.

Velveteen, just like the rest of you; his heartbeat crescendos before it begins to steady, fingertips pluming over the dip beneath your jaw. Nothing ever moves faster than it needs to be, lips growing accustomed to a sweeter embrace.

Noses brush together, warmth of his tremulous exhale feathering over your features, a heat that eases whatever chill holds you still. Bob’s mouth shifts just slightly, brows creased in concentration, your stray tresses tickling his cheek.

This is real, a blissful reality that he merely grasped at, once upon a time. You’re flesh and blood in his grasp, scent an amalgamation of something floral, coupled with the clean smell of your bathrobe.

Bob withdraws, only to marvel at the sight of you, picturesque, flustered as you struggle to maintain your composure. The distance is still slim, almost nonexistent, limbs tangled, hearts galloping together, a tandem of exhilaration.

His smile is shy, chest bubbling with gentle laughter, as if he can’t comprehend what happened. It evokes a giggle from you, too; his hand never strays from your jaw.

“Was it that bad?” The teasing nature of your cadence flusters him, but he knows that you don’t mean anything by it. Bob shakes his head, extinguishing the gasp that nearly floats from his lungs as your palm rests over his collarbone.

“No,” Breathless, he steels himself, flesh beginning to burn when he fully realizes how close you are, intertwined at this point. “The opposite.” Bob remarks, shivering as your fingertips lightly graze against the bare flesh near the collar of his sweater.

Neglecting to press him further, you’re content to simply swim within your shared affections. It’s quiet for a moment, and he stares at you as if you’ve moved mountains. “I’m rusty.” You utter, eyes half-lidded, sleep nipping at your heels.

A glint of pearlescent teeth shimmer from behind his lips, brief; Bob nearly says something cheeky, but cringes at the mere thought. Instead, he concedes, shifting slightly beside you. “Me too.” He concurs, swallowing the growing lump within his throat.

“It might be worthwhile to practice,” A soft snort escapes you, followed by laughter. You’re being playful again, partially serious, but you’d never force Bob into something he didn’t want. “Sorry.” You mumble, nose crinkling.

“No, hm,” Bob’s smitten, and he’s agreeable — though, he prefers if you were more awake. You’re fighting slumber with both fists, shoving it away, but it keeps chasing after you. “Maybe when you’re not tired.” He hums, and you open one eye.

“Okay,” You’re smiling and he’s falling, as if he’s soaring through the skies, crashing down on solid ground. “M’holding you.” Slurred, a mere wisp of a grumble, your arms flex and adjust, making space for Bob to rest his head against your shoulder.

He’s much taller, larger, but you don’t seem to mind, arm extended beneath his head, the other splayed somewhere else. His arms tangle around your middle, feverishly hot, but the warmth is more welcoming than the cold.

You’re asleep before he is, digits curled into the back of his sweater, something to hold onto. Shallow, relaxed breaths stretch through your diaphragm, a melody that brings him peace; the pain subsides into a dull ache.

Bob exhales; it’s even, steady — the sensation of your digits carding through his tresses lulls him into submission. Rest is much easier to find this way, caged within your arms, a sanctuary that he crawls into without hesitation.

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