#mcu bob

You take in the scene. “Yeah. And not just the star,” you agree, though you don’t feel quite entitled to complain. You haven’t decorated nearly as much as Aleksei. No one really has. Yelena tried to hang a bottle of vodka on the tree, but someone must have taken it down already. Bucky claims he’s “too old” to decorate, and Ava… well, you don’t even know where she is, despite knowing she’s somewhere in the tower. You haven’t actually seen her much lately.

Bob has helped where he could, but Aleksei’s overwhelming presence has mostly kept him on the sidelines. Until now.

He takes a tentative step toward the tree, glancing around as if Aleksei might suddenly appear from behind one of the massive glowing reindeer.

“I could fix it,” he says, uncertain, as though asking permission to straighten the crooked star.

You step closer and offer him a small, reassuring smile. “We can fix it together, if you’d like.”

He swallows, hesitates, and then nods cautiously before lifting his gaze back to the star. He can reach higher than you, so you steady the tree while he adjusts it carefully.

The star wobbles in defiance, then settles, just as crooked, maybe even more so than before.

He sighs, a self conscious chuckle slipping out.

“Bob,” you say gently, taking his hand in yours. He’s warm against your skin, sending butterflies through your stomach. “It’s okay. I know this—,” you gesture to the overly decorated room, “—is a little outrageous. But I don’t care if the lights are uneven or the star’s a little crooked. All that matters is that we did this together.”

He lifts an eyebrow, and you laugh softly, feeling heat creep up your neck.

“Okay, Aleksei did most of it,” you add quickly, “but we’re a team. And we tried to fix it together.”

The reality TV show flickered across the Tower’s lounge screen—bright, over-produced, shrill voices of brides and planners bickering over centerpieces and floral arrangements. Yelena had her legs kicked up on the arm of the couch, a half-empty bowl of popcorn balanced dangerously on her stomach. She squinted at the screen, unimpressed.

“This is fake,” she declared, her thick accent stretching the word until it sounded like “fehhk.” She gestured with a handful of popcorn. “Nobody actually yells about napkins. Is scripted.”

Walker, sitting at the other end of the couch with a beer in hand, snorted. “Oh, it’s real, alright. Maybe not every bit of it, but trust me—planning a wedding brings out a side you don’t wanna see. Olivia? Sweetest woman ninety-nine percent of the time. The month before our wedding, though?” He shuddered dramatically. “Scary. Like, jump-scare scary.”

That got a laugh out of the others scattered in the room. Alexei muttered something about “American stress,” and Bucky rolled his eyes, though he didn’t look up from polishing his knife.

Bob hadn’t even realized he was paying attention. The voices from the show blurred into the background, white noise like the static hum he’d lived with in his head for years. He liked it that way—distant. He hadn’t meant to let his mouth open.

But then, like a slip of rope catching on a nail, the words snagged and tumbled out before he could stop them.

“My fiancée wasn’t anything like that,” Bob murmured. His voice was soft, barely above the television. “She was… lovely. Calm. Sweet about the whole thing.”

Silence.

It hit him in the chest a second too late—what he had just said.

Everyone turned, the room’s atmosphere shifting like a pressure drop before a storm. Walker’s brows went up. Bucky’s knife stilled. Alexei tilted his head, curious. But it was Yelena who spoke first, squinting at him like he’d just sprouted another head.

“What do you mean you were engaged?” she asked, sharp but incredulous.

Bob blinked. His throat tightened, panic flaring hot. He hadn’t said that out loud in years. Hadn’t even let himself think about it for too long. Not without the burn of shame curling through his gut, mixing with memories that felt like broken glass underfoot.

His mind tugged backward, unspooling threads he’d shoved into the darkest corners.

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It had been real. That’s what hurt the most. Not a hallucination, not a fever-dream spun out of chemicals and craving. He’d had a life. A woman who loved him enough to say yes when he asked. She’d said it through tears and laughter, her hand trembling when he slipped the ring on. He could still feel the press of her lips on his, could still smell the faint warm perfume she wore, the way she teased him about his messy hair.

For a while, he’d believed in it. Believed he could be normal. That maybe the hole inside him could be filled with love instead of smoke and powder.

But then the hunger came back. The itch he couldn’t stop scratching. Meth had been his shadow long before the serum, before the powers, before the Sentry. Sobriety was fragile, always had been. And one bad week had stretched into two, then a month, until he was lying to her face about where he’d been, hands shaking as he swore he was fine.

They’d fought. God, had they fought. He remembered the crack in her voice, how she’d begged him not to throw it away. And he remembered his own voice—ugly, snarling, high and paranoid—saying things he could never take back.

One week before the wedding.

Then the Blip happened.

She was gone, just like that. One argument hanging in the air forever, no chance to fix it, no goodbye. When the world snapped her back, years later, Bob was too far gone. Too drowned in guilt, too buried in his own collapse. He couldn’t face her. Couldn’t bring himself to show up at her door, reeking of chemicals and loss, when she deserved the man she’d said yes to.

So he disappeared.

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The Tower’s lounge pressed back into focus. Yelena still staring, waiting. Walker too, his expression softening from surprise into something closer to understanding.

Bob swallowed hard. “It was a long time ago.” His voice cracked on the edges, paper-thin. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his hands shook. “Didn’t work out.”

“That’s… heavy,” Walker said carefully. He leaned forward, resting his beer on his knee. “You don’t have to—”

“I don’t,” Bob cut him off. He forced a weak smile, hoping it would pass for casual. “It’s ancient history. Just—just ignore me.”

But the memories wouldn’t stop clawing. He saw her smile in the corner of his mind, the one she’d worn when she tried on her dress, twirling in front of the mirror. He saw the way her eyes had softened when he promised her forever. He remembered thinking, this is what saves me.

And then he remembered the crash—the relapse that shattered it all, the look in her eyes when she realized love couldn’t compete with the poison in his veins.

Bob leaned back into the couch, eyes fixed on the trashy reality show, though he didn’t really see it. A bride was screaming about the wrong flowers, Yelena muttering “ridiculous” under her breath. The others went back to their distractions, the moment slipping away.

But Bob couldn’t shake it. His chest ached like an old wound, pulled open again. The Tower felt smaller, the walls closer. He hated that he’d let it out, hated the way their eyes had burned into him.

Yet some part of him—small, trembling, buried—felt lighter.

For years he’d carried it alone, the ghost of a love he’d ruined. The guilt had been his anchor, his excuse for never trying again. But now the words were out, hanging in the air where others could see them.

“I was engaged.”

Maybe saying it didn’t change the past. Didn’t bring her back, didn’t erase the damage. But it was real. She had been real. And for the first time in years, Bob let himself remember that without reaching for a needle, without running.

He pressed his hands into his knees, steadying himself. The others were laughing again, Yelena mocking the show’s fake crying, Walker arguing that it wasn’t fake at all. Life moving on around him.

Bob exhaled slowly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

She’d been lovely. She’d been real.

And maybe, just maybe, he could be too.