Bob Reynolds x Dreamwalker!reader
Warnings: reader has the ability to dreamwalk and control sleep, GN!reader, No use of y/n, nightmare, reader has a not so good past, mentions of electrotherapy
You hardly slept. You may have had the ability to control sleep, to enter the dreams of others, and even, on occasion, to modify and influence them, but your power never quite extended to yourself. However much you tried, you were never really able to find a way to sleep on your own. So you would typically pass the nights strolling through the dreams of strangers.
There were evenings you'd find someone else dreaming of an old memory. Maybe a childhood summer, a bitter goodbye, or a face long forgotten. You'd hang back, unseen and unnoticed, just another shadow among many. You were just a visitor. Never part of it. You thought that was why you and Bob had gotten along so instantly. His abilities uncannily mirrored yours. As you, he existed on the periphery of other individuals' memories, hardly noticeable, and yet there.
The nights in the Watchtower were mostly silent. The soft, steady hum of electricity was the only constant noise. Occasionally you'd hear Walker pacing above your room, or the distant, muffled crunch of footsteps, and the gentle groan of the settling old building. But other than that, the world appeared to be paused, as if everything was holding its breath.
You didn't disturb the dreams of your fellow teammates. Dreams were personal, And from what you knew, most of them were tormented by something. You could tell by the way they carried themselves in the mornings. The exhaustion in their eyes, the slight slump in their shoulders, the tension in their jaw. If it was bad enough, and they asked for it, you'd step in. You'd smooth out the rough edges, and soften the nightmares. But only if they asked. That was the line you lived beneath. You would not cross that line with your crew without permission.
Sometimes, someone would knock softly on your door in the dead of night, asking you quietly, sometimes even shamefully, to help them sleep. You always did. But most times, they were too proud to ask for help. Heroes, after all, were not supposed to be saved.
You sat curled up on your bed, lost in a new book you’d picked up from a secondhand shop in the city. The cover was worn, the pages slightly yellowed, the spine all creased and fading, but it had character. Your room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp that cast a warm glow on the walls. The window was open a little, just enough for the cool night air to stream in. It had a slight smell of rain in it, even though the skies had been clear all day. The wind would occasionally catch the edge of your book and flip a page ahead, and you'd gently puff, flipping it back.
And then you heard a sound. Almost inaudible. Just a gentle knock. So faint you weren't even certain you'd heard it. You paused, straining your ears. Silence. Then another knock. Still soft, almost apologetic. You laid your book aside, pushed the blanket off, and onto the cold floor. Your hair was mussed, and your loose sleep shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing the knife-sharp protrusion of your collarbone. You looked sleepy. You usually did. But tonight, you looked absolutely exhausted in a way you didn't usually allow the others to see.
You moved stealthily to the door, catching the faint shuffle of feet on the other side. You slowly opened the door, turning the knob. And there stood Bob, cradling a pillow in his arms like a lifeline. His posture was awkward, almost shamefaced. He scratched at the nape of his neck, his eyes flicking up from the ground to yours.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Did I wake you?" You shook your head slightly, a slight smile on your lips. "No. I was reading." You shifted over, silently inviting him in. Bob hesitated for just a moment before coming in, his movements wary, almost reverent. You closed the door behind him with a soft click.
He'd been to your room before, of course. You'd given him a key ages ago so that he could borrow books whenever he wanted. But this was… different. More intimate. More vulnerable. In the silence of the night, when everyone else was asleep and the tower was motionless, it felt as though the two of you were in your own world.
He stood at the foot of your bed, clutching his pillow like a shield. "Do you think you could… uh…" he broke off, his eyes searching the room nervously, "Use your powers to make me sleep?" He mumbled, fidgeting. "I've been having awful nightmares, and they've been getting worse."
You nodded, your voice soft and even. "Of course." Your eyes dropped to his pillow, and you smiled gently. "You wanna sleep here tonight?" His eyes widened a bit. "Only if you're all right with it! I mean, I can return to my room if that's preferable. I don't want to impose"
You cut him off with a subtle wave of your hand. "Bob. It's okay. You can sleep in my bed. You know I don't mind." He relaxed a little at your words. Only a little. You climbed back into bed and drew up the blanket, a wordless invitation. Bob hesitated for a heartbeat, then lay down beside you, being careful to remain on his side. The lamp was extinguished, and the room was bathed in a soft darkness. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his brown hair a messy curtain over his forehead. He rolled his head towards you, his eyes barely visible in the darkness.
"Ready?" you whispered. He nodded slightly, anxiously. You leaned forward, your two fingers grazing gently against his temple. The contact was momentary, featherlight. You closed your eyes, allowing the sensation of your power seep out through your fingertips, allowing the sensation to wrap around him like a warm blanket.
"Goodnight," he grunted. And then, that simply, his body eased. The tension melted from his shoulders, and his breathing slowed. Within twenty minutes, he was asleep, sound, restful, undisturbed.
You stayed awake with him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, and you slowly, cautiously, reached out and ran your fingers through his curls. The touch was comforting. Grounding. Being near him made it easier to let go of the chaos that constantly swirled around your mind.
And for the first time in ages, you felt it. The weight behind your eyelids. The soft pull of sleep calling to you, not from someone else's dream, but from within. Maybe it was because you weren't alone tonight. Maybe it was just the way his arm finally wrapped around your waist, holding you, keeping you grounded.
You hadn't realized you'd fallen asleep. Not at first. It was so strange, the kind of thing you'd almost forgotten how to recognize. And for once, it wasn't someone else's dream. This time you weren't hovering on the edges of some other person's dream or murky memory. This time, it was yours. You were the source.
It felt… strange. Foreign. You’d grown so used to being an observer in dreams, just a shadow, always silent and unnoticed, that being at the center of one felt like stepping into a forgotten version of yourself.
The dream began softly. Gentle. Familiar. You were walking barefoot on a beach, one you hadn't seen in years. The Pacific Ocean stretched out in front of you, painted in golds and blues under a setting sun. You knew this place. Knew it. Not from someone else's memory, but your own. It was your childhood beach, the one in California. Before everything had transformed. Before your powers had manifested. Before the labs. Before the silence.
The air was warm but dry, the kind of dryness you'd missed and yearned to return to. You could almost taste the salt in the air, and feel the sand grains stuck between your toes, warm from the sun. You closed your eyes and lifted your face to the light, and let yourself think, for a moment, that it was real.
Then it started to change, To change. There was a coldness. Barely noticeable at first. A prickling at the back of your neck, a shift in the breeze. Then the shadows came. They crept in silently, warping the silhouettes of the palm trees into twisted, macabre forms. The mangroves became misshapen and gnarled, their roots reaching out farther than they should. The sky darkened too early like a curtain being pulled across a stage. You stopped in your walking.
The waves, which were bright and foamy, turned dark to inky black, the shadows spreading like oil along the beach. It lapped greedily at the sand, closer and closer to your feet. You moved back. Once. Twice. Until your heels hit something hard, and you discovered you could go no further. And then, in an instant, the beach was gone.
You were in a room. White, sterile, and far too bright. The kind of artificial brightness that seared your eyes and made you feel small. It took your eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did, your stomach dropped. You knew this room. Every horrific detail of it. It was the testing facility. The one underground. The one you spent too many years trying to remember.
You turned slowly, horror creeping through your chest like a slow-moving poison, and there you were. A younger you, thirteen maybe, maybe younger, strapped into a cold metal chair. Electrodes on your temples. Wires crawling across your body like vines. Your wrists were restrained, legs too. Your heart pounding.
"We're attempting to assist you, you understand," came a voice from behind you. It was oily, sweet, dripping with condescension. "Your powers, make them stronger." You flinched at the voice. It tormented you. A man wearing a white coat was standing beside the chair, holding a clipboard, tapping his pen against it in a rhythmic pattern. He was looking at your younger self with thinly veiled impatience, the kind of impatience a teacher might have for a dim student.
Your younger self sat in front of a large pane of glass. On the opposite side, a woman lay unconscious, hooked up to her own set of machines. You knew her. You knew this exact moment.
Get into her head," the scientist instructed. "Get in through her dreams. Press harder. There's no reason you wouldn't have telepathy as well." His smile was strained, too fake. As though he had no concept of what warmth felt like. You leaned in toward the clipboard, feeling like a ghost hovering behind him. He couldn't feel you. You weren't there. Just a memory trapped in a dream.
Subject #652
Age: 13
Powers: Dreamwalking (Potential for Telepathy)
The subject never speaks but is starting to seem compliant and open to experiments.
Still suspicious and guarded of people, of what we're requesting they try and do, but acceptably receptive.
You swallowed hard. Your younger face was pale, trembling slightly. You watched as you closed your eyes and began to focus. You remembered what came next. The pressure. The pain. The screaming in your mind as you fought to push into the woman's dreams, deeper than the surface level. You remembered it opening you up like a fault line. The memory crashed over you like a wave.
You did what came naturally, walking over the distance to where you sat as a younger version of yourself. You placed your hands on your head, trying to ground yourself, stop it from happening again, pull away from the recollection but it was useless. It had already taken place. You were only watching now.
Your younger self gasped, eyes flying open, and blood trickled from your ears. And that's when you saw it – what you hadn't seen then. What you had been too far in pain to notice. The scientist smiles. Not just pleased he looked ecstatic.
You froze. Your hands gradually dropped to your sides, and you stepped into his place. You looked over his shoulder, horror growing in your stomach, and read the words typed beneath the last line on the clipboard.
The experiment was a success. Subject #652 gained access to subject #249 and was able to establish a complete telepathic connection.
They reacted to the stimuli of subject #249 receiving electrotherapy.
This is a giant step for #652 and has demonstrated they can perform telepathy. #652 will be transferred to a better secured facility tomorrow.
You stumbled backward. The air was too thin as though you couldn't breathe. The walls began to pulse, the contours of the room wavering. You whirled around, looking for a door, a window, anything to get out, but the scene began to collapse in on itself. This was no dream anymore. It was a memory masquerading as one. And now that you'd at last remembered it in entirety, it was determined to consume you.
Then, just as the walls began to fold like paper you felt it. A touch. A warm arm around your waist, pulling you back into the here and now. Pulling you out of the memory. You blinked hard, and the sterile light flickered one last time before dying altogether.
"Wake up! Oh, wake up!" Somebody sobbed, the voice trembling and beseeching, as you were shaken gently, then urgently. You fought through the fog in your brain, dragging yourself out of the dark weight of the dream. Your eyelids flickered open and Bob's face hovered over you, his face pale and horrified. His hair was mussed, his breathing ragged, and his eyes scoured yours as if he were afraid you would vanish.
"I'm sorry I didn't mean for it to happen. One minute I was asleep, and then, then I don't know what happened I didn't feel it coming, I swear" He was chattering, words tumbling out in a confused pile, one on top of another, as if he thought that if he stopped talking even for a second, everything would collapse.
You sat up gradually, drawing a tired hand over your face, still trying to get rooted. The dream still clung to your skin, sticky and cold as water in the shade, but Bob existed. His voice and his presence helped to root you.
"I'm fine," you whispered, reaching out and touching his shoulder. Your voice was rough, but level. "I'm okay. It was an accident. It happens." Bob's eyes dropped to the blanket in his lap, his jaw tight, fingers tearing at the edge of the fabric. You could sense the shame rolling off of him in waves. He wasn't angry, he was horrified.
"You didn't mean to hurt me," you whispered, turning to face his gaze. "Didn't mean for the void to get me. I know." But he wouldn't look at you. His eyes flicked toward the door as though he was already halfway out of the room.
“I’m… I’m gonna go back to my room,” he mumbled, standing up so fast it startled you. He grabbed his pillow like it was something for him to hold onto and something to hide behind before he bolted.
The door shut behind him before you could say anything else. You let out a slow sigh, glancing at the clock on the wall. 7:03 a.m. Other people would be awake by now. You were still tired and heavy from the dream and peeled yourself from bed. You got changed into a pair of jeans and an old hoodie and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
Yelena was at the counter, spinning lazily on a stool as she chatted with Ava, who was sipping tea as if it was the sole reason she was still standing. Their subdued conversation buzzed quietly through the kitchen in a comforting way. You walked over and placed a hand quietly on Yelena's shoulder. She glanced up at you, reading the somber look on your face right away.
When you've got a minute," you said softly, loudly enough for her to hear, "would you go talk to Bob?" Yelena's eyebrow rose, her posture stiffening. "He slept in my room last night," you explained, "but in the night, the void claimed me. He didn't do it deliberately. It just did. And now he's blaming himself for it.".
You had barely finished the sentence when Yelena was already sliding from the stool and heading for the door without another word. You blinked a few times before you shook your head. That was one thing about Yelena, she didn't waste time. You returned your attention to Ava, who nodded slightly in comprehension, and then reached for her tea again, not inquiring further.
You sighed and went to the fridge. One glance inside was all it took to give you the entire saga. You were completely out of almost everything. No milk. No fruit. Not even Alexei's Wheaties, which you knew he'd be reminding you about in exactly three hours like clockwork, so off you went to go grocery shopping.
Sliding along in your shoes, you took the elevator down and outside into the cool morning air. The sky was clear, the sun low but warm on the sidewalk. It was too nice a morning to be inside, and the market wasn't far away. You stuffed your hands into the pockets of your hoodie and let the cool air brush the rest of the nightmare from your skin.
The market was quiet, as it always was in the early morning. Muffled voices, the occasional rustle of bags, the far-off clink of bottles and carts. You moved through the aisles in a routine rhythm. Milk. Fruit. A box of Wheaties for Alexei. Snacks for the others, chips, tea, the weird protein powder Walker, and some new boxes of tea for Ava and Bob.
As you were about to head back, you paused. Something attracted you. You turned and crossed the street, slipping into the small used bookstore between the tailor's shop and a cafe. You browsed the shelves idly, fingertips grazing cracked spines and dog-eared corners. You pulled out several books, one for yourself, one you thought Bob would like.
You left the store with one arm carrying the paper bag and the other supporting the groceries, your stride now more slow, more reflective. By the time you reached the tower, the sun was higher, and the weight in your chest was a bit lighter.
You took the elevator and stopped by the kitchen, setting the grocery bags down on the counter with a gentle sigh. The morning had warmed up, the sun coming in through the tall windows and making golden stripes on the floor. You put everything away, milk in the fridge, snacks in the cupboards, fruit washed and put in a bowl. You left notes on the food that was meant for particular teammates: "Alexei this is YOUR box of Wheaties, don't touch the other one, That one is for everyone else." And another note taped to a bag of apples: "Leave these alone. I need these for apple pie this week. I promise there is a second bag, you just haven't looked hard enough. " Small traditions like this made the chaos of the Watchtower manageable.
When all was stowed and in order, you retrieved the two books from the bag and walked up to Bob's floor instead of using the elevator. You weren't really sure why; maybe you just needed the time to think. You reached his door and knocked gently, not wanting to be too loud, and are met with silence.
You waited, switching the books from one hand to the other. Still nothing. No footfall sound, no voice sound from him. You considered leaving one of the books on his doorstep with a note, maybe coming back later. The morning's heaviness still lingered in you, and you did not know if the two of you were ready to talk. And then there was this small sound. This very quiet, gentle, broken whimper, making you stop still. You listened intently and heard it again. A stifled sob, soft, brutal. Your heart clenched. You reached out automatically to place your palm against the door, hesitating for merely a moment before shoving it wide.
"Bob?" you whispered, sticking your head in. And, when he didn't respond, you moved in slowly, and your breath caught as you saw him bunched up in bed, back to you, his blanket clutched around his shoulders like a shield. From behind his headboard, dark tendrils, shadows. Were crawling up the wall. Not real shadows, not tricks of light, but something deeper, something born of pain and fear and something else you couldn't quite define.
The Void. Your voice was quieter now, almost cracking. "Bob? You have to wake up, honey." You knelt beside him, extending a hand to carefully place it on his shoulder and give it a slight shake. His eyes opened, and for a moment, they were jet black. That blank, consuming black that likes to follow the void. But then, slowly, like dawn bleeding into the night, color leeched in brown irises replacing the void, the tension in his jaw relaxing.
He looked at you, startled and horrified, then pulled away sharply, recoiling as though you had burned him. You didn't follow him. You just moved back and sat down quietly on the edge of his bed and folded your hands in your lap. There was a silence between you, fragile and total.
"Are you guys okay?" you asked gently, not wanting to push too much. Bob nodded slightly. It wasn't genuine, but it was something. You took the book you'd picked out for him and held it out in both hands like an offering of peace.
"I went out earlier," you said, voice even, guarded, "just for groceries. But I stopped off at our second-hand bookstore on the way back. I saw this and thought of you." He blinked, slowly taking it from your hands. His fingers brushed against yours. Cold and trembling, but steadying as they wrapped around the spine of the book. His eyes went wide as he looked at the cover, recognition blooming on his face.
I looked at this one last time we were here," he muttered, voice gruff but gentle. "I was going to get it for you, actually." You smiled, small and genuine enough that it reached your eyes.
"Hey, I beat you here," you said, joking. "Hope it's good. I got another one for myself too." You held up your own book. "We can trade when we're done." His gaze flickered up to yours, something warmer now simmering in the rear of his eyes. Relief, maybe.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'd like that."
a/n I am not usually a writer... as in... This is the first fic I've written here, and I wrote it at 3 in the morning I am so terribly sorry LMAO also why is this so many words... I meant for this to be like... 1k words at most.
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