#devoiided

It was so easy to forget this part-- until it wasn't.

The last step on a staircase you miscounted in the dark. A lurch, sudden and sickening, as you try to remember if there had ever been a floor there at all.

(Sometimes John wondered if Bob made it hard to remember. If he even knew what he was doing.)

"That supposed to scare me?" he said, finally. His voice was steady enough, but there was a rawness underneath, scraped thin. "You're not the first thing that's tried to get in my head. Good luck in there."

Then he looked, just for a second.

The air thinned-- not like choking, like gravity was pulling him down. A nausea that didn't feel like it started in his stomach, but in the base of his spine, crawling upward.

Like he was at the top of a Ferris wheel, watching a bolt come loose.

"It doesn’t matter. They know what I’ve done." It was easier on the inside, where there was someone to pitch herself in front of - Anya. Antonia. Bob. Herself. This was worse. Nowhere to go. Like waking up in surgery, unable to move. Like a spider being pinned, leg by wriggling leg.

(Yelena thought she had seen him - Bob. Chased after him without a thought, a sighthound after a bird. She doesn’t see him now. There’s nothing but void, nothing but the sprawl of its wide, white mouth, painfully bright against so much darkness.)

Yelena’s hands don’t shake, but she feels sweat beading on her palms, slick around the grip of her pistol. She says it again, like repetition will make it stick: “They know.” A clipped nod. Trying to convince herself. But she can’t stop the dread thickening in the sponge of her lungs.

It’s not touching her, but it’s under her skin - it’s in the rabbity tremor of her pulse, it’s the sick, panicky feeling welling up in her stomach. It’s the gnarled little truth clinging to her mind - they’d all done terrible things, yes. But how many of them had been so good at it? Chemicals or not - how many had loved it?

Her head tilts, jet black eyes looking up at the other with uninhibited curiosity. Perhaps she should be afraid of this being – but she isn't. Her visit to Earth is surely taking a strange turn, though.

A small smile tugs at her lips, one that is surprisingly warm.

"I suppose we do have that in common, yes." Her voice is light-hearted, and she offers a polite nod. "My name is Mantis. You need not hide from me," she tells it.

for bob

@devoiided , random prompts .

" just . . . just stop . " begging is a desperate push at control , a folly attempt at wrapping broken fingers around something unreachable . bob knows he's overcome by a losing battle in trying , but what if silence is an invitation for it to consume ? it's not a risk he could take . not for his own sake , that didn't matter . he never mattered . it is not for bob's own wellbeing that he's even trying to stay afloat . he could not confuse the warm draw of void's presence as the resolution he needs , though it would be easier to give in and stop fighting what peace can he find in choosing to drown in the darkness ? there is none , he could rest his aching body but what becomes of him then ? the temptation persists .

arms wrap around his own body , trembling and pathetic , fingers clutch at fabric so desperately it could tear . his back is turned to pure darkness , weeping eyes veer towards what remains of the light bleeding through curtains . that too would soon be snuffed out . " so take it away , p - please . . . " head turns in want to look at it , to face it with what little strength he had left . there are days he could stand to glare his darkness in the eye and overcome it , then there are days bob could just keep his head above the water and refuse to let its words pull him beneath the surface . but then there are days like these . all strength has wilted , the pull for isolation runs riot , and bob's conditions give way for darkness to bleed into every pore like black tar ——— unforgiving , it remains even when he scrubs at everything 'til he's left raw and bleeding .