#sentry angst

You were across the hall in your room, with the door cracked, and music playing low. It was barely audible, but you were humming along out of tune. That little sound though had tugged at Bob like a thread caught in his chest. From his room he could see yours, and his eyes lingered there for a second too long before he turned away, running a hand through his dripping wet hair, closing his own door and padding barefoot across the hardwood floors of his bedroom.

He bent slightly, grabbing his black sweatpants from where they hung off the end of the bed, faintly warm from the sun that was beaming into his bedroom. Just as he was about to step into them–

“You should go into her room and tell her how you feel Robert.” The voice hit him like a low rumble in his chest, reverberating off the inside of his skull. Deep and rich, with that molten smoothness that made it impossible to ignore. It was a voice meant for command. Worship. Destruction. Right now, though, he sounded supremely annoyed. Bob groaned under his breath and pulled the soft cotton up his legs with an aggressive tug.

”I can’t te-tell her. It’s plain and simple, Sentry. How can you not understand that?” He hissed, keeping his voice low, casting a glance towards his door. The last thing he needed was for you to hear him arguing with himself like an exasperated older sibling. He crossed the room to his wooden dresser, pulling open the top drawer and grabbing a clean white t-shirt, yanking it over his dripping hair with more force than necessary.

“This is the perfect opportunity to confess your feelings…I’m getting sick and tired of watching your pathetic little mating dance. My patience is wearing thin.” Bob let out a small laugh under his breath–dry and crackly–shaking his head.

”Your patience?” He muttered, pacing towards his mirror, seeing the soft golden hue shimmering over the oceanic blue of his irises, “I’ve been waiting for these feelings to go away for six months, and we’re ta-talking about your patience?” The silence that followed was heavy, and for a split second, Bob thought that maybe he had stunned the sun god into temporary retreat. Only for him to come back swinging.

“You’ve been making yourself look like an absolute fool, and I’ve been allowing it thinking that you’d eventually grow a spine and do something about it. But I guess I was wrong. Guess you’ll just keep pining for your teammate in silence until the both of you die from mutual emotional constipation.” Bob pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing at them in frustration.

”Don’t try to pull that reverse psychology crap on me. I’m not that st-stupid.” He muttered. Sentry scoffed loudly, like a clap echoing through his head.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sentry shot back, “Only an idiot treats telling someone they love them like it’s the end of the world.”

“Wow…Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” Bob snipped, turning slightly to reach for his forest-green crewneck–the soft one with faint bleach stains, and frayed cuffs. He held it in both hands for a moment, running his thumbs over the texture as if it could soothe himself before tugging it over his head.

”Y’know, if you ac-actually thought about the consequences, I think you wouldn’t be encouraging me to do it.” He added, adjusting the hem of the sweater so it covered him properly. That earned him a sudden jolt in shoulder. Not pain, exactly–but a violent reminder of who he was arguing with. The Sentry rarely used force on Bob, but he always knew how to make his point felt.

“You’re not defusing a goddamn bomb, Robert. You’re just being honest. What kind of consequences are you building up in that overthinking brain of yours?” Bob paused, leaving on the edge of his desk, staring blankly at the sight of himself.

”If she doesn’t like me back…” He started slowly, “Then we’ll have to work together. We still have to live under the same roof, train in the same gym, eat at the same goddamn table. Do you have any idea how aw-awkward that would be?” For a long moment, there was no reply. Then came the laughter. Not mocking, but indulgent. Low and syrupy, warm like something dripping from heaven, curling through his spine like a lit fuse.

“It is painfully obvious that she likes you back. I have seen her through your eyes. I have watched how she looks at you when she thinks you're not watching. It’s not exactly subtle.” Bob snorted and shoved a hand through his hair again, tugging it slightly, his cheeks going hot at the thought of you sneaking quick glances at him. He never noticed and it was quite possible Sentry was just making it up to push him.

“Oh yeah? So why doesn’t she say anything then, huh?” Sentry let out a long groan that vibrated through Bob’s ribcage. It was almost like he was bored of the conversation, or he was sick of the predictability of his host and his line of thought.

“She doesn’t say anything because she’s a woman, Robert. You’re supposed to make the first move.” Bob let out a sharp laugh.

”Well that’s just not fa-fair,” He said, arms thrown wide for no one to see, he felt like he was going crazy in his own room–technically he was–but he couldn’t give in, “I’m not going to put myself in that position just to ruin our friendship, and that’s final.” He went to reach for his mini notebook, about to slide it into the pocket of his sweatpants, when Sentry’s voice changed.

Dropping into a lower, colder tone.

“…I guess I’ll have to resort to some extreme measures then.” Bob froze in his spot, as he slowly looked up, and glanced over at the mirror.

”…What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He asked warily, but there was silence, like a phone line being cut off midway through a call.

”Se-Sentry?” He whispered, taking a cautious step backward from the mirror, feeling his heart rate pick up. He didn’t understand what extreme measures meant, and he truly didn’t want to know, but he wasn’t going to go and admit something so sensitive like this. There was too much risk involved and he cared about you too deeply to put his feelings ahead of yours, because that’s just how Bob was with you.

Then a knock on the door made him jump up in the air.

”Bob, I’m making some iced latte’s, do you want one?” You asked. Bob pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, trying to will the fluttering in his chest to slow down. His pulse thudded hard in his ears–too loud for the quietness in his room. It felt like Sentry’s absence was a weighted pressure now, not a relief. Like something had just coiled back instead of vanishing. He turned toward the door, voice soft and strained.

“Um…Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice. I’ll be out in a se-second, thank you.” You didn’t reply, but he heard your footsteps padding gently down the hallway, the distant clatter of ice cubes being dropped into a glass, the hiss of the espresso machine warming up. He let out a long breath, fingers dragging down his face. He turned back toward the mirror above his dresser, stepping in close, peering into his own eyes. Blue. Clear. Normal. No trace of gold, and that only made it worse.

There was no way Sentry would just slink off like that without more sarcasm, more threats, more “divine push”–especially not after uttering a line like “I guess I’ll have to resort to some extreme measures.” Bob leaned closer, as if looking hard enough would summon the god back to taunt him.

“Wh-Where the hell did you go?” He muttered. “You never shut up this fast…” But there was nothing. No response. No flicker. No warmth in his bones. Just his own reflection staring back at him: flushed cheeks, frizzy damp hair, and a nervous tension coiled through his jaw.

He sighed and stood up straight, tugging down the hem of his forest-green sweater, smoothing it out even though it still sagged a little too loose at the collar. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to flatten it–pointless, really, but it gave him something to do.

Then he stepped out of his room.

The hallway smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and your perfume–orange peel and peach, you had told him happily when he had asked. The sunlight slanted in lower now, catching motes of dust that danced lazily in the air. The door to your room was still cracked, music still playing just because you wanted to keep listening to it even though it was faint–but you weren’t humming anymore.

He followed the sound of clinking glass and the gurgle of the espresso machine down the hall to the kitchen.

You were standing at the counter in a loose t-shirt and bike shorts, back to him, scooping ice into two mason jars. You had your hair pushed out of your face, and the late afternoon light that was pouring through the window kissed your bare legs, making you look like you belonged in a painting more than the compound's kitchen. You were a work of art to him, and he could admire you for hours if he could go unnoticed doing so. Bob swallowed thickly, and he could feel his stomach turn, a wave of nausea floating over him.

You turned when you heard his footsteps and gave him a small smile–soft and easy, like the two of you hadn’t been alone all day with miles of tension simmering between you. He watched as you poured a little bit of liquid sugar into the cup before adding a shot of espresso and some milk with the rest of it. You shoved a straw into the drink and mixed it around quickly.

”Here you go,” You said, handing him the jar, “Made yours a bit sweeter this time, cause you always make a face when it’s too bitter.” You added. Bob blinked down at the glass for a moment and cleared his throat.

”Oh. Th-Thanks.” He replied, wrapping both hands around the chilled jar, grateful that he was able to keep his hands occupied. The cold bit into his palms, but it grounded him enough to distract him from worrying about Sentry. You leaned casually against the edge of the counter, crafting your own drink with a soft rattle of ice against glass, throwing little glances his way. You didn’t seem to notice how stiff Bob had gone, shoulders locked and jaw tight as he lifted the straw to his lips.

The first sip helped. The sweetness, the cold. It settled like a stone in his stomach and gave his trembling hands something to focus on.

But it didn’t last.

A warmth bloomed beneath his skin–subtle at first. Then stronger. Not the warmth of sunlight or embarrassment. It was internal. Like standing too close to a furnace. Bob blinked, shifted on his feet.

And then–a bead of sweat slid from his temple, down his cheekbone. He wiped it away absently.

Then another.

And another.

He gulped loudly, his eyes flicking up to you nervously.

”Hey…Is it getting hot in here, or is it ju-just me?” You looked up from your drink, brows furrowing slightly at the question.

”They’ve got the AC on full blast…Can’t you feel it?” You asked, your voice laced with concern. Bob blinked slowly, almost like he was dazed. The cool air licked at his damp forehead, but it felt like nothing. His skin felt tight, hot, wrong.

“…I’m…I’m getting really ho-hot actually.” He mumbled, setting his glass down carefully on the countertop so it didn’t slip from his sweaty palms. With a clumsy, shaky tug, he peeled the forest-green sweater over his head, tossing it onto a nearby chair. You caught the brief glimpse of his bare waist as the hem rose–taut, pale skin, a soft line of hair trailing down below the waistband of his sweatpants–but you forced your eyes back up before he could notice. Your heart began to skip anyways. Bob ran the back of his wrist across his forehead, strands of damp hair sticking to his temples.

“Jesus,” He breathed, trying to shake the feeling off, fanning himself with one hand, “It really feels like I’m burning up.” He added, almost breathlessly.

“Bob,” You said slowly, eyes narrowing with concern, “Are you getting a fever or something?” He shook his head immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck, which was now slick with sweat.

”I was fine before. I-I don’t know what’s going on, I–“

“If you don’t tell her, I’m going to boil your insides until you’re a puddle of skin and blood.” Sentry said, his voice cracking like lightning inside his skull. Bob stiffened even more at the words.

And then–everything ignited.

It felt like his blood had caught fire.

One second he was upright, trying to breathe through the heat crawling up his spine, and the next–it was everywhere. Searing pain radiated out from his chest, licking through every vein like liquid metal. His nerves flared, his muscles seized, and his vision blurred at the edges with violent, pulsing white.

It was like being cooked alive from the inside out.

“Holy…Ho-Holy fuck,” Bob whispered, his voice barely audible through the rising static in his ears. His eyes darted around the kitchen like they couldn’t hold still, couldn’t focus. His pulse was hammering too fast in his neck. You stared at him, wide-eyed. His white t-shirt was plastered to his chest, soaked through as if he’d stepped into a shower fully clothed. Sweat dripped from his temples in heavy rivulets and the waistband of his sweatpants was already damp.

”Bob, what the hell is happening?!” You asked sharply, your drink completely forgotten behind you. He tried to answer, but his mouth opened–and nothing came out. Only a shallow, panicked gasp.

Then–his knees gave out.

“Shit-” You gasped, rushing forward and catching him before he hit the tile. Your arms looped beneath his, bracing his full weight as he sagged against you like a ragdoll. His head dropped forward, thudding against your shoulder with enough force to make you stumble. He was the weight of a boulder compared to you, but the angle you were able to catch him at really helped with your leverage. You eased both of you down onto the cold floor, your knees scraping the tile as you cradled him in your lap. His head lolled slightly, sweat-soaked curls sticking to you, seeping into the cotton of your shirt. He felt like he was steaming. Your hand flew to his forehead.

“Jesus Christ, Bob,” You breathed, barely holding back the shake in your voice. “You’re boiling hot–what is this? What’s happening to you?” His skin radiated heat like a furnace. Not fever-warm. Inferno-warm. Unnatural. You’d been around him enough to know what a post-mission stress spike looked like–what adrenaline did, what panic attacks did. This was something else. His skin was flushed, his breathing fast and shallow, like he was suffocating inside his own body.

“Bob,” You whispered, pressing both hands to either side of his face. He was slick with sweat, taking in shallow, desperate breaths, like all he was doing was inhaling thick humidity, “Look at me. Please, you gotta tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”

“Tell her or I’m going to keep going.” Sentry snapped. The pressure climbed again, cruel and sharp, curling beneath his ribs like a vice.

”St-Stop,” Bob gasped, voice hoarse, shaking his head against you, “Stop, please…I can’t, I can’t.” You froze at his begging.

”Who are you talking to?” He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move. His hands were limp in his lap. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes clinging with sweat. His whole body trembled with the effort of not screaming. It felt like his bones were melting. You brushed his soaked hair back with shaking fingers.

“I’m not–“ He tried, letting out a groan of pain, arching his back and writhing a bit. You thought he was being possessed, like somehow a demon got into him, because that would be more plausible than him just going through this at random, “I’m not…Strong enough to fight him wh-when he’s like this…” You paused, breath catching in your throat.

”…Sentry,” You said under your breath. Bob didn’t nod for you to get full confirmation of this, because you could feel it now–something else lurking beneath his skin. Something immense and ancient and merciless. The pressure in the room had changed, the air grown heavier. You felt the way the light dimmed, like it was being pulled inward, like the very shadows in the corners of the kitchen were watching.

“Why is he doing this to you?” You whispered, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Why would he hurt you? He’s never done this before.” Bob’s eyes opened, barely. There was no gold in them, it was as if Sentry was camouflaging himself–but you could see the panic, the regret, and longing even.

”…It’s be-because I won’t tell you the truth.” He croaked, shivering a bit, twitching against you.

”What truth?” You asked, confused.

“Now, Robert. Say it, or I’ll peel your consciousness apart piece by piece and make you feel every single moment of it.” Bob winced at his words, as he let out another grunt of pain, his stomach aching, his lungs burning.

”Stop. Pl-Please stop.” He begged, his breath hitching in his throat. You moved fast, gripping his cheeks again, forcing him to look at you.

“Bob,” You started, voice breaking, “Whatever it is, just tell me. I’m right here. If it makes him stop, just tell me for god sake!” He stared at you. Pupils blown wide, almost eating the familiar blue he always sported. Sweat dripping down his neck in steady streams, wetting your legs beneath him. The heat had reached his ears, his fingertips. He felt like he was dissolving–turning into a puddle in your arms.

And finally, with his lips trembling and his body shaking in your arms, he whispered “…I’m in lo-love with you.” You stayed just where you were, cradling his burning cheeks, the sweat from his skin soaking into your palms. Your legs were going numb beneath him, but none of that mattered now. His chest heaved with shallow, uneven breaths. His eyes were wide and desperate, waiting for impact.

But your expression didn’t change.

“That’s it?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked. “Wh-What?”

“That’s the truth that was going to kill you?” You shook your head a little, almost in disbelief. “You’re burning alive from the inside out because you didn’t want to admit you loved me?” He nodded. Quickly. Frantic. The heat still trembled beneath his skin like something half-released.

“I’ve–I’ve loved yo-you since I first saw you,” He stammered, words tangling into little balls of misunderstandings. “I thought it would go away, I tried, I really tried, but it just…It just got worse and I didn’t know how to…I’m so sorry.” You stared at him for another beat, your thumbs brushing instinctively along the damp skin beneath his eyes. He was flushed and shaking and somehow still apologizing. A soft laugh slipped from you.

“Only you would apologize about loving someone.” Bob groaned, like his body had finally started to come down, the tension bleeding slowly from his frame. His breathing began to even out, though he still looked like he’d run a marathon through a thunderstorm.

“Ye-yeah…” He muttered, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Because I have a god inside me who wants to kill me and have me ruin all my friendships in th-the process.” He tried to breathe through the humiliation, through the cool air finally creeping back in. He was regaining himself, physically. But emotionally, he was trying to retreat, blinking away from your eyes, gaze dropping down to your chin, then your lips, then the floor. You leaned in slightly. The space between your mouths thinned. You could feel his breath–still hitched, still hot–against your lips. You didn’t blink.

“Who said the friendship was ruined?” You whispered. Bob’s eyes flicked up. He blinked at you, lashes damp and heavy.

“…Well…” He rasped, “Yo-You don’t…You don’t like me like that…” You raised your eyebrows, a dry laugh slipping from your throat.

“Who told you that?” You shot back, a smirk coming up on your lips. He swallowed hard.

“…My-Myself.” He replied, voice breaking around the answer. You let out a breath through your nose, equal parts amusement and affection.

“Then I guess you’re wrong.” That confused look passed over his face like a ripple in water–eyebrows scrunching together, lips parting just slightly like he was about to ask–

And then you leaned in, your lips finding his before he could finish the thought.

It wasn’t a rushed, breathless kiss like the kind that usually came after a confession. It was slow. Sure. A quiet answer. Your lips moved against his in steady rhythm, grounding him more than the cold tile, more than the sweat that was now cooling on his skin. His breath caught in his throat again, but this time not from pain–just pure shock.

He kissed you back like he was afraid he was imagining it.

Like he couldn’t believe he hadn’t melted for nothing.

When you pulled back, just slightly, his eyes were glassy again–but softer now.

“…You kissed me,” he whispered, stunned.

You grinned. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“…Can you do it again?”

You laughed.

When you turned, there he was, holding a paper bag that’s more bottle than groceries.

Tall. Disheveled. Eyes red and tired in a way that spoke of something more than sleepless nights. His hands shook slightly when he held up a crumpled five-dollar bill.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Just… just coffee. Black. If you’ve got any left.”

Something about him made you unlock the door. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the way he said sorry like he’d been saying it his whole life.

You brewed the coffee and handed it over without charging him.

He blinked, surprised.

“You sure?”

You shrugged. “You look like you need it more than I need five bucks.”

He huffed out a laugh—small, raspy, but real.

“Bob,” he said, after a long pause. “My name’s Bob.”

“Nice to meet you, Bob,” you said, wiping the counter. “I’m—”

He cut in gently. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m not great company.”

But you told him anyway. The rain started to pour, and Bob looked worried, so you decided to make conversation.

You tell him about juggling multiple jobs, about your tiny apartment that smells of bleach and loneliness. He listens, then starts to tell you how he’s also in between jobs, in between apartments, barely holding it together. You both laugh at how pitiful it sounds, the sound fragile but warm in the quiet room—and still, neither of you pulls away.

There was something about Bob—not the kind of pull that makes your heart race, but the kind that makes you feel seen. Like someone finally looked up and realized you existed.

Somehow, the rain finally stopped and he walked you home that night. Not because he’s trying anything—he never even hints at it—but because he’s the kind of man who, even with his own demons chewing through him, still wants to make sure you get inside safely.

You don’t see him again for three days. Then, you do.

You see him standing outside a convenience store, holding another bag of groceries, but this time there’s no bottle. He looks jittery, restless—the kind of anxious that lives in your bones. You offer him coffee from the store, and he takes it like it’s a sacred thing. That becomes your routine: coffee, small talk, soft smiles. A fragile friendship built on exhaustion and second chances neither of you believe in yet.

Over time, you see pieces of him—the way he stares at his hands like they’re strangers, how he twitches when sirens echo in the distance, how he apologizes for everything, even when there’s nothing to apologize for. He tells you once, in a quiet moment, that sometimes he feels like something’s inside him. Something terrible, like a storm waiting to break. You don’t understand what he means then, not really, but you tell him he’s not alone.

He told you, eventually, that he was trying to get clean. You didn’t judge him. You just listened.

He told you about the loneliness, the fog, the days he couldn’t remember, the nights he didn’t want to. About the pain of trying to do better and failing again and again.

“I want to stop,” he said once, fingers clenched around his mug. “I really do. But it’s like… every time I try to climb out, something pulls me back in.”

You reached across the counter and covered his hand with yours. “Then we keep climbing,” you said softly. “Together.”

He stared at your hand for a long time. Then, quietly, “You shouldn’t waste that kindness on someone like me.”

And you, with a steady voice you didn’t know you had, replied, “Maybe I’m not wasting it.”

He starts showing up cleaner. Shaved. Wearing an old flannel that smells like detergent instead of whiskey. Sometimes he helps you carry groceries, sometimes he fixes your kitchen light or unclogs the drain. You try not to read into it, but when he smiles now, it feels different. Brighter.

And then one night, after weeks of dancing around it, he shows up at your door in the rain. He’s soaked, trembling—not from withdrawal this time, but from fear. He tells you he’s been sober for thirty days. That he wanted to tell someone who might actually care. You let him in.

The air between you changes that night. He laughs until his shoulders loosen, and when you brush a stray curl from his forehead, he catches your wrist like he can’t believe you’re real. The kiss happens slowly—hesitant, trembling—but when it happens, it feels inevitable. Like every bad thing you’ve survived led here, to this tiny moment of peace.

Later, when you wake up tangled in him, the world feels still for the first time in a long time. His breath is warm against your shoulder, and you think, maybe, this could be the start of something that doesn’t hurt.

Bob Reynolds will always be a man running from himself—but that night, he holds you like maybe he’s found something worth staying for.

-----------------------------------

Days become weeks. Weeks turn into something quieter, steadier—the kind of rhythm you didn’t think possible with someone like Bob Reynolds. He starts coming around more often, still shy about it, still asking “are you sure you don’t mind?” every time he crosses your threshold.

You mind a little—but only because it terrifies you how much you’ve come to depend on him.

Bob’s different now. He’s not all better—you still catch the haunted look in his eyes sometimes when he thinks you aren’t watching—but he’s trying. You see the effort in everything: in how he walks past the liquor aisle without stopping, in the way he fiddles with his hands when cravings hit, in how he repeats your words back to himself when you talk, as if trying to memorize every sound that makes you smile.

Sometimes, when he’s helping you fix something around the apartment, you’ll glance over and see him lost in thought, eyes distant but soft. When you ask, he shrugs. “Just thinking about… how different everything feels now.”

And then he always smiles—that shy, lopsided smile that makes him look younger, gentler—and you forget to breathe for a moment.

He gets a job eventually, at a local repair shop run by an old friend who doesn’t ask too many questions. He comes home with grease under his nails and the faintest glow of pride. He’ll tell you about how he rebuilt an engine or got a radio to work again, and you’ll listen, watching his hands move as he talks—animated, alive. You love his hands. They used to tremble, but now they’re steady, certain

Nights are slow. Intimate in their own quiet way. He’ll fall asleep on the couch beside you while some old movie hums in the background, his head resting against your shoulder, his warmth pressing through the thin fabric of your shirt. When he sleeps, he looks peaceful—like the world finally stopped demanding things from him.

Then one day, you threw up. Then another. And another.

You don’t plan it. You never do.

The morning you realize you’re pregnant starts like any other: gray light spilling through half-drawn curtains, the faint hum of traffic outside, Bob snoring softly beside you. His arm is draped over your waist, heavy but comforting, like an anchor. You lie there for a while, your hand resting against your stomach, trying to convince yourself it’s just nerves or hormones or the universe playing a cruel joke.

But deep down, you already know.

You’ve been nauseous for a week, and the scent of coffee—your morning ritual—makes your stomach twist. You’d brushed it off as stress, but when you finally force yourself to look at the test, those two solid pink lines steal the air from your lungs.

You sink to the floor, the tile cold beneath your legs. Tears come fast—not from sadness, but fear. Fear because everything was finally starting to make sense, and now it’s all about to change again. You’re not ready for this. Bob isn’t ready for this.

You want to be happy. You want to be brave. But your hands won’t stop shaking.

You hide the test under the sink and go about the next day like nothing happened. But the secret sits under your tongue, heavy as lead. Every time he smiles, it twists something inside you. Every time he reaches for your hand, you think, he deserves peace, not another reason to break.

The days stretch. You practice the words in your head a hundred times: Bob, I need to tell you something. Each time you almost say it, fear steals your voice.

One night, he finds you crying in the kitchen, forehead pressed to the cool surface of the counter. He doesn’t ask why at first—he just wraps his arms around you and lets you shake. When you finally speak, it’s a whisper.

“I’m pregnant.”

He freezes. Everything inside him stills—breath, heartbeat, time. You can see the panic hit him like lightning. For a moment, he just stands there, jaw tight, eyes darting around like the walls are closing in. You think he’s going to bolt. You almost prepare yourself for it.

But then he takes a step toward you. Then another. And another—until he’s close enough that you can see the tears building in his eyes. He doesn’t touch you right away, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you like he’s trying to understand what you’ve just said.

“Are… are you sure?” he finally whispers.

You nod, the weight of it settling in. “Yeah.”

He exhales shakily, hands finding your shoulders like he’s grounding himself. Then, slowly, carefully, he pulls you in. His chest rises against yours, his heart racing.

“I don’t know how to be a dad,” he says, voice cracking. “But I want to try. I swear, I want to.”

Tears sting your eyes. He cups your face. “We’ll figure it out.”

He means it. You can feel it in how he holds you—fragile, terrified, but full of something real. Hope.

The next few weeks are a blur of uncertainty and quiet courage. Bob goes to every appointment he can. He reads books about parenting, scribbles notes on napkins, even tries to fix the nursery door with a level of focus that makes you laugh. But beneath it all, there’s still that flicker of fear—the one that creeps into his voice late at night when he thinks you’re asleep.

“What if I mess this up?” he murmurs once, staring at the ceiling beside you. “What if… what if the baby ends up hating me? What if I turn out like—”

You press a finger to his lips before he can finish. “You won’t.”

He looks at you, eyes glossy. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” you say simply. “And that’s enough.”

For a while, it seems like maybe things will work out. You find a kind of rhythm together—doctor visits, meal cravings, morning sickness and midnight giggles. Bob brings you flowers from the gas station down the street. He talks to your belly sometimes, awkward but sincere, whispering about all the things he wants to do better.

But at night, you still see the cracks. The tremors. The self-doubt. Sometimes you wake to find him staring out the window, whispering to himself. You don’t catch all the words, just fragments: “gotta be better,” “can’t mess this up,” “don’t deserve her.”

One afternoon, you wake to find him sitting at the kitchen table, a stack of papers in front of him. His hands are shaking again, eyes hollow and distant. When you ask what’s wrong, he shows you the letter. An envelope, stamped with a seal that makes your stomach drop.

He tells you that he’s been offered a chance—a “program” that could change everything. Some kind of experimental treatment, he says, meant to make him stronger, more stable. “They said it could fix the damage,” he murmurs, voice low, almost hopeful. “It could make me… better. For you, for the baby.”

You tell him it sounds wrong. You tell him you don’t care about better—you just want him here. But he’s already retreating into that old, familiar place—where pain feels safer than peace.

He kisses your forehead that night and promises that he won’t be gone long. “Just one week,” he says, voice trembling. “Then everything will be different.”

“I promise I’ll come back,” he whispered. It was the last thing you remembered him saying.

When you wake, the other side of the bed is cold.

His jacket’s gone. His shoes. The letter too.

You stand there, hand on your belly, and realize this is how the story begins to break.

The flickering kitchen light hums overhead, and for the first time since you met him, the world feels unbearably quiet.

You spend the first few days convincing yourself he’s coming back. You check your phone every hour. You keep the door unlocked. You fold his shirts and keep them stacked on the couch, just in case he walks in, apologizing, saying he made a mistake and he’s home now.

But days turn into weeks. The silence grows heavier. The longer you wait, the more real it becomes. Bob Reynolds is gone.

You tell yourself he’s on a mission—one of those secret government projects he sometimes mumbled about but never explained. You tell yourself he’s alive, that he’ll walk through the door with flowers and shaky apologies. But deep down, there’s a gnawing truth: he left to fix himself, and maybe that means fixing his life without you.

The mornings hurt the most. His mug is still by the sink. The chair he used to fix for you still creaks. The smell of his cologne lingers faintly in the hallway, mixed with the sterile scent of the prenatal vitamins you force yourself to swallow.

You try to go about your routine—work, grocery runs, doctor appointments—but there’s an emptiness to everything. You walk slower, talk quieter, eat less. You’re existing in half measures, saving the other half of yourself for the moment he comes home.

But he doesn’t.

At your prenatal checkup, you sit alone in a waiting room full of glowing couples. Husbands holding hands with wives, partners whispering jokes and pointing at ultrasound photos. You smile at them because it’s easier than crying.

When your name is called, you follow the nurse in silence. The doctor is kind. She talks about vitamins, heartbeat, diet, but the words pass over you like static. When she asks if the father will be joining, you choke on your answer.

“He’s… away.”

She nods, not prying, but you see the pity behind her eyes.

When she turns the monitor toward you and the room fills with the sound of your baby’s heartbeat, you can’t breathe. It’s so small, so alive, so terrifyingly yours. You press your hand to your stomach and whisper, “Hey, little one… it’s just us, okay?”

You wish Bob could hear it. You wish he could see this tiny miracle, the proof of everything you built together. But he’s gone chasing ghosts, and you’re left learning to live with the echo of what could have been.

As the months crawl by, your belly grows. So does the ache in your chest.

You try to write to him once—just to tell him the baby kicked, that you’re scared, that you still love him. You fold the letter three times, place it on the nightstand, and never send it. What would you even say? That you’re furious? That you understand? That every time you feel the baby move, it’s a reminder of the man who left before hearing its heartbeat?

Instead, you start talking to the baby. Quietly, before bed. “Your dad was brave,” you whisper. “He just… didn’t know how to be happy.”

Sometimes you imagine what he’d say if he saw you now. How he’d place a trembling hand on your stomach, how he’d try to make a joke about you glowing, then immediately apologize for being gone so long. You imagine forgiving him—over and over—until the thought hurts too much to hold.

Labor comes early.

It’s raining, the kind of relentless storm that turns streets into rivers. You wake to pain slicing through your body, sharp and merciless. You grab your bag, the one you packed weeks ago “just in case,” and call for a cab through gritted teeth.

The ride is a blur of thunder and contractions. You clutch your belly and whisper promises to the baby, tears mixing with sweat. You’re terrified—not of the pain, but of doing this alone.

At the hospital, the nurses rush you in. The world becomes a haze of white light and sterile smells, voices telling you to breathe, to push, to hold on. You scream. You cry. You pray. And when it’s over, they place a tiny, crying bundle against your chest.

The sound of your baby’s first breath breaks something open inside you.

You’re exhausted. Shaking. But when you look down and see that tiny face—his eyes, his hair, your nose—it’s like the world snaps back into focus.

You whisper, “Hi, sweetheart,” and your baby quiets, as if they recognize your voice.

You cry harder. You didn’t think you had any tears left.

The nurse asks if there’s someone you’d like to call. You shake your head. You want to say Bob, but what’s the point? You don’t even know where he is—or if he’s still the man you loved when he left.

So, you hold your baby tighter and say, “It’s just us now.”

For weeks afterward, you exist in fragments. The apartment feels haunted—every corner a reminder of him. The half-built crib stays in the living room, unfinished. You keep meaning to fix it but can’t bring yourself to. His tools still sit in the drawer, untouched.

Sometimes, you talk to him anyway. In the dark. In the silence. “You’d laugh if you saw her smile,” you whisper. “She’s got your stubbornness already. I don’t know if I should thank you or curse you for that.”

But the truth is—some part of you still hopes he’ll walk through the door one day. That he’ll be clean, that he’ll have answers, that he’ll hold your daughter and say he’s sorry.

And on nights when the baby won’t sleep and the wind howls outside, you almost believe it’s possible. That maybe, somewhere out there, he’s still trying to find his way home.

-----------------------------------

Bob didn’t mean to disappear.

He meant to come back. He meant to hold your hand during every doctor’s appointment, to paint the nursery walls the wrong shade of yellow, to cry when he first held your child. That’s what he promised himself the night he signed his name on the Sentry Project forms. But promises are fragile things when they’re written on desperation.

They told him it was a “rehabilitation program for struggling volunteers.” They said it could fix him—not just his body, but his mind. That he’d finally be enough. For you. For the baby. For the world that had long stopped believing in people like him.

The facility was far from home—isolated, gray, humming with fluorescent light and the scent of antiseptic. He stayed there for days that felt like years. The serum they gave him burned like liquid lightning in his veins. Sometimes it felt like it was killing him. Other times, like it was rewriting him from the inside out.

Pain consumed him. Not the kind that made you scream, but the kind that made you see. His body convulsed, his veins burning with something electric, ancient. He saw flashes—his child’s face, though unborn; your tears when he walked out the door; his own reflection, fractured by light.

Then came the voice.

Low. Whispering. Familiar.

“You wanted power. I am what comes with it.”

When the containment doors slammed shut, he stopped fighting. The serum fused with him, rewriting every atom. His mind split—one side desperate, terrified, human; the other vast, void-like, infinite.

They said he died during Phase Two. But death wasn’t what claimed him.

He existed in fragments—his body frozen, suspended, while his consciousness unraveled in the dark. The serum kept him alive.

Time was meaningless. He remembered faces—Valentina’s smirk as she signed the approval forms, the sterile glass of the chamber closing over him. He remembered thinking, If this works, I’ll be the man they need me to be.

He didn’t know that in her eyes, he was just a disposable proof of an experiment that went too far.

Then one day, deep in the darkness, he heard a sharp clang that shook him awake. Confusion flooded his mind, and a sudden pit opened in his stomach. Before he could think, he retched, coughing violently as he tried to clear the bile and steady himself. Summoning every ounce of strength, he shoved the loose metal in front of him aside and crawled out of whatever had been encasing him.

Bob stumbled forward, his vision blurred and his head throbbing. “Is she actually—de—?” His words caught in his throat as he tried to focus on the source of the noise.

And then he saw them: three strangers, guns raised, faces twisted in tension and fear, pointing at one another as if waiting for the other to make the first move. His stomach dropped, a cold pit gnawing at him, and panic clawed up his throat.

Scrambling to his feet, he intended to run outside, only for the door ahead to slam shut with a deafening bang. One by one, the other exits also closed, leaving the room sealed. The strangers turned, aiming their weapons at him. Bob raised his hands instinctively.

“Who are you?” the woman with dark hair demanded.

“I—I’m… I’m Bob. I told you, I’m… uh… yeah,” he stammered, trying to ease the tension. “Bob.”

“Jesus Christ, stop saying Bob,” the man in a helmet snapped, clearly annoyed.

“Who sent you, Bob?” the blonde woman pressed, her gaze sharp.

“Nobody!” Bob said defensively. “Why would I be sent? Were you all…You were all sent?”

The dark-haired woman sighed, frustration flickering across her face. “I am not sure what is happening here, but you’re all exhausting, and my job is done.”

Their argument escalated, voices overlapping until it turned into a grim realization: they had all been sent there as liabilities, assets meant to be eliminated by Valentina.

Bob’s instincts kicked in. Together, he and the strangers managed to escape the room just as incinerators roared to life. They fought their way through the facility, Valentina’s forces closing in, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he risked himself to help the others survive. In that moment, he felt little regard for his own life; as long as those he shared this fleeting connection with escaped, he told himself it was enough.

Gunfire tore through him, pain lancing across his body. Darkness crept in. And then, a surge. Something stronger, deeper than anything he had known, coursed through him. The wounds no longer burned, the pain vanished, replaced by raw power and a rush of anger and rage. Acting on instinct, he propelled himself upward, soaring even though he didn’t know he could.

Weakness clawed at him as he gained altitude, vision blurring. Then, a face appeared in his mind: a woman, radiant, impossibly beautiful. He clung to that memory as darkness swallowed him.

When he awoke, Valentina was there, explaining that Earth needed more heroes—and that he was the answer. Insecurity crept along his spine, but underneath it grew responsibility, a sense of a promise he had made to someone he couldn’t fully remember, a vow to be better. Before she left, he assured her he could do it.

Things blurred. He was suddenly in a golden suit, his hair lighter, his confidence foreign. He was fighting the very people he’d just escaped with. Valentina’s orders rang in his head until he snapped back to himself.

“Maybe… You don’t know what I am,” he told her—half warning, half truth.

And then everything went blank.

He awoke in a void, a familiar emptiness. A voice, gnawing at him since childhood, whispered reminders of abuse, addiction, and self-loathing. The same voice that had haunted him since childhood whispered from the dark—the voice that grew louder with every bruise, every drink, every bad choice. The one that had finally quieted when he met you.

He still didn’t know who you were. That killed him. But he knew he’d felt happy. Real happiness. And he remembered promising you something.

Yelena and the others eventually rescued him from the darkness. With their help, he learned to overpower the Void within him.

“You were great in there, Bob,” John said when they returned to the real world.

“Thanks, Walker… wait, wha—in where?” Bob asked, confusion furrowing his brow.

Later, Valentina introduced them to the press as The New Avengers. Bob just clapped for his friends, smiling from the sidelines, earning a confused glare from Valentina.

A year passed. The chaos dulled into a strange peace. His new family grounded him, gave him purpose. He trained, he helped, he laughed again.

But every night, when he closed his eyes, he saw you.

Your face. Your voice. Your laugh.

He couldn’t remember your name, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty— He had loved you. And somehow, some way… he still did.

-----------------------------------

Bob wakes before the lights come on. The room is always too white, too clean—an antiseptic hum that feels like it’s erasing him one layer at a time. They tell him he’s stable now, that the tremors have slowed, that the gold behind his eyes isn’t dangerous if he stays calm. He tries to believe them.

Most days he moves like a ghost through the compound’s concrete halls, doing the small things that make him feel human—coffee that he never finishes, sketches of things he doesn’t remember drawing, fragments of faces he’s sure once smiled at him. When he closes his eyes, he hears laughter that tastes like sunlight. A voice saying his name softly, as if afraid to wake him.

He tells himself it’s a dream, a leftover from the time before.

But then come the flashes: the faint smell of paint thinner, a woman’s hand brushing dust from his sleeve, a heartbeat so small and fast it makes his own stutter. He doesn’t know if these are memories or fabrications stitched together by whatever’s left of his mind. He only knows that every time they come, he shakes until someone finds him and reminds him to breathe.

Yelena usually does. She talks to him like she’s teaching a stubborn dog a new trick—half amused, half protective. “In through the nose, out through the mouth, Bob. You can do it.” He does it because she expects him to. Because she’s the only one who touches his shoulder without flinching.

The government calls it a public relations exercise—the team’s first appearance outside of the facility. Cameras, speeches, staged heroism. He isn’t supposed to be seen; he’s only there in case something goes wrong. “Background security,” Valentina said.

He stands behind the barricades, eyes scanning the crowd. Noise rolls over him in bright waves—cheering, music, the snap of banners in the wind. The air feels too alive, too loud.

Then— A sound. Small, quick, bright. Laughter.

His head jerks toward it before he understands why. And there, among the behind the cameras, is you.

Time stops.

You’re holding a little girl—maybe four, maybe five. She tugs at your sleeve, pointing toward the stage where the team smiles and Valentina answers questions. But Bob can’t focus on any of that. All he sees is her—her hair catching the late afternoon light, the faint golden glow of the sun after rain, and her eyes—his eyes—wide, curious, shining with a wonder he thought he’d lost forever.

The world tilts.

For a heartbeat, the noise in Bob’s head stopped. The puzzle pieces slammed into place. He saw flashes—your smile, your hand resting on your belly, your voice trembling as you told him something he couldn’t quite remember. Then the image of sterile white walls, cold restraints, and the blinding pain of the experiments that had torn his mind apart.

He staggered back. His throat went dry. Oh God.

Every suppressed memory rushed to the surface at once—your laugh, your nights tangled in quiet warmth, the promise he made before he left. “I promise I’ll come back.”

His breath breaks apart. The gold he keeps locked behind his ribs surges, hot and electric, turning the edges of everything molten. His pulse becomes a roar. For one horrifying second, the line between memory and reality collapses: you laughing in the kitchen; your hand on his cheek; a promise whispered against your skin.

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice cuts through the static. She’s beside him now, sharp and steady. “Hey. Look at me.”

He forced a gasp, clutching at her wrist like a lifeline. The panic clawed at his ribs, raw and merciless. All he could see, when he blinked through it, was you, standing there with wide, shocked eyes..

He wanted to reach for you. He wanted to say your name. But nothing came out.

Only static.

And then you were gone.

He pressed his palms to his temples, shaking, his voice breaking as he whispered, “I know her… I know her.”

But by the time he straightened, chest heaving, you had already disappeared into the crowd.

-----------------------------------

You’d been standing quietly behind the crowd and a number of reporters, watching the press event from a safe distance. The “New Avengers”—that’s what they’re calling them now—were being interviewed as a new symbol of hope after too much loss. You told yourself you were only here out of curiosity. But deep down, something urged you to come and see these people today.

Then you see him.

At first, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you—another cruel illusion born of exhaustion and old grief. But no… that’s him. The slope of his shoulders, the way he moves with quiet purpose even among the guards, the familiar tilt of his head—it’s unmistakably him. He stands just beyond the barricades, watching as Valentina continues on stage, murmuring to one of the guards.

The world narrows to the sound of your own heartbeat. You don’t hear the cameras clicking, the murmurs of the crowd, or even feel the small weight of your daughter’s hands in yours. Nothing exists but him. Bob.

Alive.

Your chest tightens when Bob’s pale, uneasy, eyes flicked around the room like he’s seeing ghosts. Then suddenly—he freezes. His hands start to tremble. The color drains from his face. He stumbles back, gasping for air, and before anyone can react, he’s clutching at his chest, breathing in shallow, ragged bursts.

Yelena—one of the New Avengers—reaches for him, trying to steady him, her voice sharp with worry. But Bob doesn’t seem to hear her. He looks lost—terrified—as if his mind has been ripped open. You recognize that look. You’ve seen it before, back when he would feel vulnerable—those moments when he’d wake up from a nightmare and stare at his hands like he didn’t know who he was.

You take a step forward before you can stop yourself.

His eyes flick toward the crowd, unfocused, searching. And for just that moment, you think he’s looking at you.

Something inside you twists painfully. You want to run to him, to tell him you’re here, that he’s safe—but then Yelena steps closer, steadying his shaking frame. Bob doesn’t move away from her. He leans into her hold, still dazed, breathing unevenly.

Your heart shatters so quietly you barely hear it.

You freeze where you stand, the chaos around you fading into a muffled hum. You’ve spent months imagining what it would be like if he came back—if you could tell him about the child he never met, the nights you cried yourself to sleep alone. You pictured him holding you, promising you that the pain had been worth it. But now, watching him lean against someone else’s shoulder while you stand in the shadows, you feel like a ghost haunting the ruins of your own life.

You turn away before anyone notices the tears building in your eyes. You force yourself to walk—one step, then another—until you’re out of sight, hidden behind the hangar doors. Your hands tremble, your vision blurring. You press a hand over your mouth to stop the sob that escapes anyway.

He’s alive. He’s here.

And yet somehow, it feels like you’ve lost him all over again.

You don’t see the panic in his eyes when he finally lifts his head again. You don’t see the confusion—how he murmurs your name under his breath, disbelieving, clutching his temples like fragments of a life he can’t quite remember are clawing their way back.

-----------------------------------

The world slowed after you disappeared.

The team’s voices came back all at once—dull, indistinct noise scraping against the edge of his consciousness. He barely registered Bucky asking, “You good, man?” or Ava’s sharp, skeptical glance. All he could feel was the phantom thrum in his chest, the echo of your eyes meeting his.

He dragged in a breath that didn’t fill his lungs. It felt like he was suffocating on memory.

“I—I need a second,” he muttered.

Yelena frowned, watching the tremor in his hands. “Bob,” she said softly. “What happened?”

Bob didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mind was a static storm of half-remembered faces, laughter, sunlight through thin curtains, the soft rhythm of a heartbeat that wasn’t his.

Then another image struck him—your face illuminated by lamplight, your hand resting over a small swell beneath your shirt, your voice trembling as you whispered, I’m scared everything’s changing, Bob.

His breath hitched.

It was like someone had taken a blade to the dam inside him, and every emotion he’d buried since the serum—since the experiments, since the endless silence—rushed back all at once.

Fear. Joy. Guilt so sharp it made him dizzy.

He stumbled toward the nearest wall and pressed his palms against the concrete, grounding himself.

She was real. Not a hallucination. Not a fragment.

“Bob,” Yelena said again, quieter this time. “Hey. Look at me.”

He did. Barely. His eyes were wet. “I had a family,” he whispered. “Before I volunteered for the experiment. And I… I left them.”

Finally admitting it hurt. It tore something open in his chest.

Yelena’s brow softened. She’d seen him lose control before—the tremors, the flickers of gold light behind his pupils when the Sentry pushed to surface—but this wasn’t that. This was purely human.

“Then find them,” she said simply.

He shook his head, voice breaking. “She saw me. She looked right at me—and the way she looked…” His throat closed up. “She looked horrified. I saw it in her eyes.”

Yelena crossed her arms, sighing through her nose. “Then go after her, idiot.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out fractured. “You don’t get it. I can’t. Valentina still keeps me under surveillance half the time, I’m not—safe. Not for them.”

“Bob.” Her tone hardened. “You either make peace with the ghosts you left, or they’ll eat you alive.”

He didn’t answer. But her words stuck.

By the time you got home, your legs were shaking.

The door shut behind you with a hollow thud that echoed through the quiet apartment. You set your now sleeping daughter down on the couch, one tiny hand clutching her stuffed bear. You just stood there for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall, your heart constricting painfully in your ribcage.

You’d imagined this—him walking through that same door, apologizing, holding you while you cried. Instead, he’d looked at you like you were something distant, something that didn’t belong to his world anymore.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, forcing back a sob.

Maybe that was your fault. You’d told yourself a thousand stories to survive the nights he didn’t come back—stories about him working for the government, injured, something. You never once let yourself believe the simplest answer: he left.

And seeing him today only proved it.

He wasn’t the man who promised, “I’ll fix this, I’ll get better. For you. For our baby.”

No—he was someone else now.

Someone with a new team, a new purpose, and a woman beside him who seemed to know him better than you did.

You felt a fresh tear slip down your cheek. You hated that it still hurt this much.

You crouched beside your daughter, brushing her hair gently from her forehead. She murmured softly in her sleep, unaware of the war happening inside you.

“Your father’s alive,” you whispered, the words trembling on your tongue. “He’s alive, baby.”

It should have been relief. It only made the ache worse.

You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her hair, and whispered, “But we don’t need him. You have me.”

But even as you said it, you didn’t believe it.

Because a small, reckless part of you still did need him—still wanted to scream at him, hit him, make him feel the same hollow that had lived inside you since the night he vanished.

And worse still, that same part of you still loved him.

-----------------------------------

Bob didn’t sleep that night.

He sat on the edge of the cot in his dim quarters—bare walls, single light flickering like it wanted to die—and stared at the half-empty mug in his hands. The coffee had gone cold hours ago. His reflection trembled in the surface, a distorted ghost of a man who no longer knew if he deserved the memories clawing their way back into his head.

He remembered now.

The apartment with the peeling wallpaper. The sound of rain outside. Your voice—quiet but trembling—during the first week of your pregnancy.

“Bob… I don’t know if I can do this.” He remembered the way you said it—equal parts fear and hope. The way he’d reached for your hand and promised, “You won’t have to do it alone.”

He’d meant it. God, he’d meant it.

But then came the doubts. The fear. The voices whispering that he wasn’t enough. The experiment—he thought it would fix him, make him worthy of being a father. Instead, it stole him away, piece by piece, until even he couldn’t remember who he was.

And now you were out there, raising your child without him.

Yelena leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him like she’d already known what he was thinking. “You’re not gonna rest until you find them, are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. “What if she doesn’t want to see me?”

“Then you’ll find out,” she said simply, walking into the room. “But not knowing is worse. Trust me.”

He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. “You think I should go?”

Yelena smirked faintly. “I think you already decided that the second you saw her.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Then start small.” She tossed him something—a folded file, stolen no doubt from one of Valentina’s databases. “I might’ve done a little digging.”

He blinked. “Yelena—”

“Don’t thank me,” she cut in, voice softening. “Just… don’t screw this up.”

He opened the file and froze. There was a photo. Blurry, grainy, taken through some security feed—you. Standing outside a clinic. Holding a child’s hand.

His heart stopped.

He traced his thumb over the corner of the picture, like touching it might make it real.

He stood abruptly, setting the mug down with a soft thud. “I have to go.”

“I’ll cover for you,” Yelena said, shrugging. “Just don’t make me regret being a sentimental idiot.”

Bob almost smiled. “You won’t.”

But as he slipped out into the night, heart pounding, he wasn’t sure if he believed it.

He watched you from across the street that night.

You were sitting on the balcony, wrapped in an old sweater, eyes distant. The warm yellow light from your apartment framed you like something sacred, something fragile. His throat tightened when he saw the faint outline of a small figure asleep behind you.

His daughter.

He pressed his hand against the lamppost to steady himself. The Sentry in him wanted to move—to go, to protect—but Bob knew better. If he walked up now, he might scare you away. You deserved more than another shock.

He stayed until the lights went out.

And for the first time in years, he whispered a prayer—half to himself, half to the universe that had stolen his life away.

“Just give me a chance to fix it.”

He stood outside your apartment for fifteen minutes before he found the courage to lift his hand and knock.

The hallway was quiet, heavy with the faint hum of the building’s old wiring. The air smelled of rain and dust. He could hear the murmur of a television from another unit, the rhythmic sound of pipes creaking behind the wall. Everything felt too loud, too normal—as if the world had no idea that the man standing here was falling apart from the inside out.

He wiped his palms against his jeans. His hands were shaking.

He’d rehearsed what he’d say a hundred times in his head. I didn’t mean to leave you. I didn’t even know who I was. I thought I was dying. But none of it felt like enough. There was no apology big enough to fill the years you’d spent alone.

When the door finally opened, you stood there—barefoot, hair slightly damp from a shower, wearing an old sweatshirt that hung loose around your shoulders. For a second, your expression was blank, unreadable. Then your breath caught.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Bob swallowed hard, voice trembling when it finally broke the silence. “Hi.”

It was such a small word, but it cracked open everything.

Your eyes hardened instantly. “What are you doing here?”

He took a cautious step forward. “I needed to see you. To explain—”

“Explain?” you repeated, your tone sharp, incredulous. “Years, Bob. You were gone for years. And the first thing you say is that you need to explain?”

He winced, guilt washing over him like acid. “I didn’t want to leave. I was trying to get better. I thought… I thought if I did this—if I fixed myself—I could come back and be someone you and our kid could count on.”

“Don’t,” you cut in. “Don’t you dare talk about her like you were ever here.”

Bob’s throat went dry. “I didn’t know what they were doing to me. The serum—it wiped everything. I didn’t even remember your name until I saw you.”

Your eyes flickered, torn between disbelief and heartbreak. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything.” His voice cracked, desperate. “I just need you to know that I never stopped loving you. Even when I didn’t remember you—some part of me did. I swear to God, it did.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That’s not enough, Bob. Love doesn’t raise a child. Love doesn’t pay for hospital bills or hold your hand when you’re giving birth alone.”

His breath hitched. “You gave birth alone?”

You glared at him, tears stinging your eyes. “Who else was there, Bob?”

That landed like a punch to the gut. He flinched, his entire frame trembling as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “You don’t get to say that.”

He took another step toward you. “Please—just let me fix it.”

“Fix it?” You let out a broken laugh. “You think you can just walk in here and undo the last five years? She doesn’t even know you're alive.”

The silence that followed was brutal. You were both breathing too hard, staring at each other like strangers carrying the ghosts of people who used to be in love.

Bob’s voice softened. “Can I… can I see her? Just once?”

Your jaw tightened. “She’s at daycare.”

“Oh.” He looked down, eyes glistening. “Right.”

He stood there, awkward and shattered, like a man who didn’t know where to put his hands or his guilt. Then he looked up again, meeting your eyes with a kind of quiet desperation that made your heart twist.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said. “But please don’t shut me out. Let me try to be there. For her. For you. Even if you never let me back in.”

For a moment, you almost gave in. You saw the man you’d loved—the one who used to hold your shaking hands and whisper about a better life. But then the years of loneliness came flooding back, the exhaustion, the heartbreak, the fear.

You stepped back and closed your hand around the edge of the door. “I think you should go.”

Bob’s face crumpled, but he nodded. “Okay.”

He turned, shoulders heavy, and started walking down the hall. You watched him go, biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood.

When the door finally clicked shut, you pressed your back against it, sliding to the floor as your breath broke into quiet sobs.

You hated that seeing him again hurt as much as it did. You hated that part of you still wanted him to come back.

-----------------------------------

Bob sat in the parked car outside your apartment complex for a long time, staring at the rain streaking down the windshield. The wipers had long since stopped, but the rhythmic sound of water hitting glass filled the silence between him and Yelena. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes.

“You’re not seriously just going to sit here, right?” Yelena asked finally, arms crossed as she leaned back in the passenger seat. “You dragged me all the way here, Barnes-style, and now you’re going to chicken out?”

Bob’s jaw tensed. “She doesn’t want to see me. She made that pretty clear.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “So that’s it? You’re going to give up? Just like that?”

He let out a slow, shaky exhale, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “I’ve already done enough damage, Yelena. I ruined her life—ruined both their lives. Maybe the best thing I can do now is stay gone.”

Yelena turned to him, her tone softening, though the edge never quite left it. “You don’t get to decide that for her. You owe her the truth, not another disappearance.”

Bob didn’t respond. He just stared at the dim glow of your apartment building, at the one window he thought might still be yours. His pulse was unsteady, a steady hum beneath the guilt that had lived in his chest since the day he remembered you.

Yelena sighed and reached over to pop the door open. “Then I guess we’re both going in,” she said simply, stepping out into the drizzle before he could argue.

Bob hesitated a moment longer—then followed.

The hallway outside your apartment was quiet—the kind of silence that pressed heavy against his chest. Bob stood before your door for a long time, knuckles hovering in the air, his reflection warped in the peephole. He thought of the last time he’d stood here—your voice shaking with fury, the way you told him to leave before the tears could fall, how he’d walked away wishing he hadn’t.

He wondered if you’d even open the door this time.

Three soft knocks. Years’ worth of guilt behind every one.

When the door finally opened, you didn’t look surprised—just tired. The kind of tired that came from too many sleepless nights and too many half-finished apologies. You met his eyes for only a second before stepping aside, wordless, letting him in.

He hesitated at the threshold, the weight of the moment pressing down—then the sound of footsteps behind him made you look past his shoulder.

And your heart cracked clean open.

“Are you kidding me?” you snapped, voice trembling with disbelief. “You seriously brought her here?”

Yelena blinked, startled. “I—uh—this wasn’t—”

You didn’t let her finish. “You disappeared on us, Bob. You left me alone—pregnant, terrified—and now you show up with her?”

Bob flinched. “Y/N, please—”

“No.” You crossed your arms, holding yourself together by sheer force of will. “You don’t get to come here, with your new girlfriend, acting like you didn’t abandon us.”

“I’m not—she’s not—” he stammered, reaching out, desperate, but you took a sharp step back. The recoil hit him harder than any punch ever could.

Yelena looked between the two of you, sighing softly before touching his arm. “I’m gonna go,” she said quietly. “You two need to talk.”

The door shut behind her, leaving only silence and the faint sound of rain on the window. Bob didn’t move. Neither did you.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” you said finally, your voice brittle and uneven. “You shouldn’t—”

“I had to,” Bob said softly, stepping forward though his hands stayed at his sides. “You deserve the truth.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You want to talk about the truth? The truth is, you left me to survive it all alone. And now you show up like nothing happened—like I'm supposed to just forget?”

His eyes filled with something raw. “It wasn’t like that. I remember now—everything. But after I escaped that facility with Yelena and the others, it was like living in a fog. I remembered who I was, what I’d been through… but not us. Not clearly. It’s like my brain scrambled the parts of me that knew how to love, how to reach you. I knew something was missing—I just didn’t know it was you. And when my memories came rushing back, I didn’t even know how to find my way back to you.”

You turned away, your breath unsteady. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”

He took a small, hesitant step closer. “No. But it’s the truth. And I’m sorry, I’m so—”

You shook your head, cutting him off, pressing trembling hands to your eyes. “You promised me you’d come back,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You promised.”

He closed the last of the distance then, not daring to touch you, just standing close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the presence that had haunted your dreams for months.

“I know,” he said, voice cracking. “I broke everything. But I swear to you, I’ll never disappear again.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The sound of his voice, the quiet desperation in it, made something in you twist painfully. Against your better judgment, against the ache that had defined your every day since he left—hope flickered.

You swallowed hard, tears finally falling. Then, slowly, you nodded.

“Fine,” you said, the word fragile but firm. “Explain.”

And he did.

It all came spilling out. He told you about the facility, about waking up strapped to a table, about the experiments that ripped apart his mind and rebuilt him into something he didn’t recognize. About the nightmares. About how every time he tried to piece himself back together, it was like reaching for something that burned to the touch.

He spoke until his voice went hoarse, until he was wringing his hands like he could squeeze the guilt out of his skin. You listened because some part of you needed to, because even through all the hurt, you could hear that he wasn’t trying to justify—it was confession, not defense.

By the time he finished, your eyes were wet. His too.

“…You should’ve trusted me,” you whispered.

Bob looked at you, his own eyes rimmed red. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I hate myself for not remembering—for not coming back.”

His gaze flickered down, then back up, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I left you when you needed me most.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and unsteady. He shifted his weight like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. His next words came out barely above a whisper, trembling with something close to fear.

“Can I… please see her?”

You looked at him for a long time, searching his face. The man standing before you wasn’t the same one who left—he was worn down, haunted—but there was something in his eyes you recognized. The warmth. The regret. The love that had survived everything.

You exhaled, slow and shaky. “She’s at daycare,” you said softly this time. “We can pick her up.”

And for the first time in years, Bob let out a breath that sounded like relief. A small, broken kind of hope.

The walk was quiet. Too quiet. Every step seemed to echo against the damp pavement, the scent of rain still clinging to the air. Puddles caught the late afternoon light, turning the street into a blur of gold and gray. People passed you by—laughing, carrying groceries, scrolling through their phones—oblivious to the quiet storm still settling between you and the man beside you.

Neither of you uttered a word. There was too much to say, and no words gentle enough to hold it all. Still, every few steps, Bob would steal a glance at you, like he couldn’t quite believe he was walking next to you again. You kept your eyes ahead, heart pounding with every block closer to the daycare.

When you finally arrived, the world seemed to still. Through the gate, your daughter spotted you and broke into a run, her small backpack bouncing behind her. “Mommy!” she squealed. You dropped to your knees, arms wide—until she stopped short. Her bright smile faltered as her gaze caught on the stranger beside you.

Bob froze. His breath hitched, shoulders trembling like he might fall apart right there. Slowly, he crouched to her level, eyes wide and wet. “Hi,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m… I’m your dad.”

For a moment, the world held its breath. Your daughter tilted her head, studying him with the kind of quiet curiosity only children possess. Then, after what felt like forever, she smiled—a shy, uncertain thing, but real. “Mommy talks about you a lot.”

Something inside Bob broke. His lips parted, but no sound came. He reached out hesitantly, hands shaking as though he didn’t trust himself to touch her. When she stepped forward and wrapped her little arms around his neck, his breath shuddered. He closed his eyes, hugging her back—carefully, reverently—like he was holding the universe in his arms.

He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, whispering something so soft you barely caught it: a quiet thank you. Maybe to you. Maybe to fate. Maybe to whatever cruel miracle brought him home.

Later, the three of you found yourselves at that small diner—the one with the flickering neon sign and cracked red booths. The same place you used to visit when you were still pregnant, craving fries and strawberry milkshakes.

The bell above the door chimed as you entered, and the owner’s eyes widened in recognition. “Well, I’ll be,” she said warmly, her smile soft and knowing. “It’s been a while.” She didn’t ask questions. She just brought your usuals without needing to be told.

Your daughter sat between you, swinging her legs and dipping fries into her milkshake, completely content. She talked between bites—about her favorite class, about how she drew a butterfly today, about how her teacher said she was good at coloring inside the lines. Every story spilled out of her like she’d been saving them for this moment, for him.

Bob listened as if each word were a gift, nodding, smiling, eyes shining in quiet awe. You caught him watching her like she was made of light—like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. Every blink seemed like he was afraid she might disappear if he looked away.

When your eyes met, it was just for a heartbeat—but in that glance was everything unsaid. Grief. Guilt. Love. Wonder. You looked away first, pretending to stir your drink, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you.

You weren’t ready to forgive. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. But when your daughter reached across the table to hand her father a fry, giggling when he took it like it was sacred, something inside you began to thaw.

That night, the rain started again—gentle at first, then steady, tapping softly against the windows as you tucked your daughter into bed. The sound filled the apartment, wrapping everything in a quiet, almost fragile calm.

When you stepped back into the living room, Bob was still there, standing near the door like he didn’t quite belong. His hands were shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes downcast.

“I should go,” he said quietly.

You hesitated. The thought of him leaving again—stepping out into the rain, disappearing into that same silence that had haunted you for years—made your chest ache. “Don't be silly,” you said softly. “It's late. You can sleep on the couch.”

He looked up, startled by the offer. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, arms crossed like you were holding yourself together. “Yeah. It’s just one night.”

Later, when the lights were out and the apartment had gone still, you found yourself awake—listening to the rain, to the faint creak of the couch as he shifted. Sleep wouldn’t come. The space between rooms felt too wide, too full of ghosts.

After a while, you padded into the living room. He was sitting up, elbows on his knees, staring out the window. He looked up when you approached, eyes soft, uncertain.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated before answering. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Then, quietly, you said, “Come on. The bed’s warmer.”

He blinked, stunned, but followed. You both lay there, a careful distance between you—close enough to feel each other’s warmth, far enough that the air still hummed with caution.

Time passed slowly. The rain filled the silence. And then, barely above a whisper, Bob said, “I love you.”

You froze.

He continued, voice breaking, each word trembling under its own weight. “I never stopped loving you. Even when my mind betrayed me—even when I couldn’t remember… my heart never forgot. I missed you every day. And I’m so sorry, for everything. For leaving you to face it alone.”

Your eyes filled with tears. “You weren’t there when I gave birth,” you whispered. “I was terrified. I’ve never felt so alone. I hated you for that. I hated you so much…” You turned to face him, voice trembling. “…but I hate more that I still love you.”

Bob reached out, gently cradling your face in his hands. His eyes were glassy. “I’ll never disappear on you again,” he promised. “Not ever.”

He brushed his lips against your cheek, catching your tears with a shaky exhale. He paused, just above your mouth, as if the world had narrowed to the space between you. His breath hitched. He waited, eyes searching yours, uncertain, afraid of being rejected, afraid of breaking what fragile piece of you was still his.

You didn’t pull away.

That was all the permission he needed. He leaned in, lips finally meeting yours. The kiss was tentative at first—soft, trembling—then deepened with desperation, aching with a year of separation, longing, and unsaid words. There were no declarations, no promises, only the raw pulse of everything you had both endured finally spilling out.

The rain tapped a soft rhythm against the window as you and Bob lay tangled together in the quiet dark. Every inch of him against you was a spark, a fire that had been smoldering for years, finally allowed to breathe. His hands traced the curve of your back, over the line of your shoulders, along the small dips and rises of your body, grounding you, pulling you back to the life you had imagined so many lonely nights. You shivered under his touch, the heat of his skin pressing into yours making every past ache dissolve.

Every movement, every brush of his fingers across your ribs, your waist, your neck, spoke of longing, of sorrow, of love that had never truly faded. When he leaned closer, lips brushing yours again, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a confession, an apology, a reclamation of everything lost. Your fingers tangled in his hair, hands tracing the firmness of his back, your body arching toward him instinctively, seeking the warmth you had missed, craving the familiar safety of him.

The sound of rain, the quiet whisper of his breathing, and the thrum of your hearts beating in tandem filled the small space. Every touch sent shivers down your spine; every brush of his body, pressing into yours, was a wordless promise, a reminder of what had always been there, waiting for this moment. The subtle weight of his chest over yours, the way his warmth seeped into every part of you, made your pulse quicken, your thoughts dissolve.

His lips traced the line of your jaw, the delicate curve of your cheek, the sensitive nape of your neck, memorizing every contour, every mark, every scar of love and loss. You trembled beneath him, letting go of everything you’d held in for so long, pressing closer to him, inhaling the scent of him, the faint trace of soap and something uniquely his, and finally feeling like you were home.

Time slipped away. There were no clocks, no world beyond the soft glow of the lamp and the gentle hum of rain. The intimacy wasn’t just desire—it was reclamation. It was about proving that love could survive, even when stretched, broken, and nearly torn apart. Every sigh, every whisper, every pause where your breath mingled, became a thread, stitching your hearts back together.

When the storm softened to a drizzle, the quiet of your daughter sleeping in the next room settled over you like a blessing. You lay pressed against him, tangled in sheets and warmth, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek grounding you, his heartbeat syncing with yours. His thumb brushed away the last traces of your tears, lingering on your skin, sending tiny sparks through your nerves.

“I love you so much,” he murmured repeatedly, almost a prayer, almost afraid you’d vanish again.

“I love you too,” you whispered, voice trembling, “even though I hated you. Even though I was terrified. Even though I didn’t think I could…”

He tightened his arms around you, cradling you as if he could hold the whole world, as if his presence could erase every lonely year, every ache, every loss. Your body molded to his, every breath, every touch, every heartbeat a confirmation of love regained, of trust rebuilt, of hearts finding each other again.

The night stretched on, soft and forgiving, as you both lay together, hearts aligned, just breathing, just being, just feeling the quiet, unspoken vow that this time, he would never leave.

-----------------------------------

Morning light spilled gently through the blinds, casting stripes across the room where you and Bob still lay entwined. The rain had stopped, leaving a clean, fresh scent in the air, and the world outside felt softer somehow. Your daughter was still asleep, curled into the warmth of her stuffed bear, chest rising and falling in rhythmic innocence.

Bob stirred first, careful not to wake you, though his gaze lingered on you for a long moment. The soft curve of your cheek, the faint glimmer of tears dried on your skin, the way your hand rested limply near the sheets—it all spoke of vulnerability and trust he’d longed for. He traced a gentle line along your arm, savoring the intimacy of simply being near you, the years of absence and regret dissolving in the quiet morning.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he whispered. You stirred, blinking sleepily, eyes softening as they met his.

“No, you already did enough,” you murmured, though a small smile tugged at your lips. He only shook his head, moving to the kitchen to pull together something simple while you watched your daughter stirring, yawning, and reaching out for you. The little moments felt miraculous—mundane, yet miraculous—because they were no longer imagined. They were real.

Breakfast was simple pancakes and orange juice, laughter filtering softly into the room as Bob learned his daughter's little quirks, the way she tilted her head when she was thinking, the way she insisted on pouring her own syrup even if it meant a sticky mess. He smiled every time she looked at him, and slowly, cautiously, you could feel the last remnants of your fear melting away.

“Mommy, can Daddy sit with us?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Yes,” you said softly, your voice carrying both surrender and relief. Bob’s chest swelled in a way it hadn’t in years. This was the family he’d lost—and finally, finally, he was part of it.

By mid-afternoon, Bob had nervously, cautiously led you and your daughter to the Watchtower. The air of the facility was different now—less sterile than it had been the first time he’d met his team, more like home in a way he’d never imagined.

Yelena was the first to greet you, arms crossed but a teasing smirk on her face. “Well, this is… unexpected.”

You laughed lightly, a little embarrassed. “I owe you an apology,” you said. “I was rude before… I assumed things about Bob… and about you. I’m sorry.”

Yelena waved her hand casually. “Eh, don’t worry about it. I get it. You’ve got a lot to process. I’d be grumpy too if someone I cared about disappeared for years and came back just like that.”

The tension lifted immediately, and you felt a little lighter just from seeing her smile.

Your daughter, her small hand clutching Bob’s hand, bounced slightly with excitement, her wide eyes drinking in everything—the shiny floors, the strange gadgets, and the enormous team of “grown-ups” she was meeting for the first time.

“Okay,” Bob murmured to her, crouching down so he was at eye level. “These are my friends. Some of them are a little scary, but they’re all nice. Promise.”

Alexei crouched down immediately, grinning and extending his massive hand. “Hello, little one,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice. She giggled, testing out the words, “Hellooo!” before leaning toward him and giving a tentative high-five. Bob chuckled, shaking his head.

Yelena leaned against a console, smirking. “See? I told you they’d take you back.”

“Shut up,” Bob muttered, though his grin betrayed him. Every member of the team seemed genuinely charmed by his daughter, and Bob felt a flutter of relief that this first introduction wasn’t a disaster.

Bucky knelt down, softening his imposing presence. “So, you like superheroes?” he asked, voice gentle.

“Yeah!” she squealed, pointing at the monitors. “Can I see you fly?”

Bob’s chest tightened at the normalcy of it all. This is what I missed, he thought. All of this. Every ordinary, extraordinary moment.

You leaned into Bob’s side, letting your fingers curl around his as he guided your daughter around the room. He seemed almost giddy, yet careful, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“This… this is perfect,” he whispered softly, almost to himself, “I never thought I’d ever experience this.”

You kissed his shoulder lightly. “You deserve it,” you murmured.

And in that moment, surrounded by the people who had become their family in so many ways—his team, his child, you—Bob felt a strange, unshakable happiness. It wasn’t the thrill of a mission or the adrenaline of a fight. It was calm. It was warmth. It was home.

He held you close as your daughter ran off laughing, and for the first time in years, Bob let himself believe that this was the life he had been waiting for—the life he had fought for, the life he had feared he’d never get to live, now unfolding before him in quiet, beautiful moments.

He pressed his forehead gently against yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the reality he’d once thought lost. “I love you,” he whispered again, his voice low and steady. “I love you both so much. And I’m never leaving—never again.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and in that perfect, ordinary moment, surrounded by laughter, warmth, and belonging, you knew—for the first time in a long time—that you were home.

Bob’s eyes flicked upward but never lingered, because every time he tried to look at you too closely it felt like his skin was being cut into with shards of glass–the harsh realities of what was truly happening. You were suspended in sterile water, your body frozen and attached to wires and tubes that led out of the chamber–the techs said it was a precaution, just in case they needed access to your vein for emergency medication delivery. Scattered around your torso was an array of wounds, and holes, some going straight through you, your arm had a crush injury from the collapse but Bob was told they would reconstruct it if it didn’t heal properly. Your skin was leached of warmth and color until it barely resembled the person he loved so much. The one who used to lay on the couch, basking in sunlight for hours on end while reading or working on mission reports, the one who would ask him to come join you because you wanted the company. Now, there was no evidence of that.

Your lashes were pressed flat against your cheeks from the heaviness of the water, lips parted in the ghost of a breath that would never come. He told himself you were healing–that this was temporary–but the lie had worn thin months ago, because progress wasn’t being made quick enough. The lab techs had told him that cryosleep would take away the pain of healing, that once you made it to a point where the wounds that plagued your body were at least seventy percent closed up they would bring you out, but you weren’t even close to that.

A sigh slipped from him, more like a shudder, and he folded himself against the chamber as though he could hold you in his arms. His cheek pressed to the glass, the cold sting biting against his overheated skin. The low hiss of oxygen, the quiet burble of circulation, the mechanical pulse of monitors–he listened to it all like it was your heartbeat, like if he stayed long enough he could convince himself it meant life, or that you were improving, or that possibly…He could hear your actual heartbeat, the strong pulsing one that echoed through his mind like a drum.

His eyes burned, heavy with tears that refused to fall. Crying had become second nature in the first few weeks of missing you, it was a reflex that he couldn’t control. Now he was past it–wrung out, hollowed, a man with nothing left to give but this aching vigil, even if he wanted to cry, he couldn’t, the tears would just remain in his eyes, clouding his vision until they disappeared, and it killed him to not be able to let it out.

He nuzzled his face against the chamber like he could bury himself in you–like he always did when he needed you to comfort him, when you would wrap him up in your arms and give him the tightest hug you could because that’s what he needed in those moments. He inhaled sharply, hoping if he did it enough that he’d catch that sweet, maddening scent you always carried on your body–cherry, strawberry, vanilla, soft and warm like sugar melting on his tongue. You had laughed when he told you that you smelled like a dessert and when he practically begged you to tell him what you were wearing, but you always refused to reveal your secret.

Now, there was no trace of that scent. Just antiseptic. Chlorine. The acrid tang of ozone from the humming machines around him that were working overtime to keep you on ice, and coolant. It was the only perfume that was left to him–static and sterility.

Having this barrier between you made his chest ache in ways he didn’t know were possible. He would give anything to feel your warmth pressed against him again, to curl his hand against your waist and trace idle circles over your shirt until you sighed into sleep. He missed the way your fingers used to weave into his hair, twirling strands of his soft brown locks around them while he laid sprawled out beside you. You would laugh whenever he drooled on your shoulder, teasing him for becoming such a mess from a simple gesture. He had always shrugged sheepishly, pretending it embarrassed him, but secretly he had loved how easy you made it for him to lose himself–how safe you made him feel.

Now, with nothing but the unyielding chill of glass between you, Bob pressed closer, arms locking around the chamber in a desperate embrace. His forehead leaned against the pane as his breath stuttered out in shallow bursts, fogging the glass with each trembling exhale. The ache inside him was relentless, gnawing at the hollow in his ribs until it threatened to spill out of him entirely.

”God…I ju-just want you here with me again,” He croaked, the words shredded and uneven. His lips pressed against the barrier, a kiss wasted on the sterile glass, a kiss he never gave you because he was too scared he would ruin what the both of you had. “I wish I could br-bring you back…” The last syllables cracked apart, dissolving into a small, broken whimper.

Desperation had driven him to dark places these past two months. He had begged Sentry–the part that was supported to be salvation incarnate–to take over to help. He thought if he could push himself far enough, hurt himself badly enough, he would break through the surface and see the truth of what was happening and the severity of it, then maybe he would swoop in, tear the chamber open, and fix what no one else could. But no matter how Bob harmed himself, how recklessly he threw himself into the wake of danger–whenever it presented itself to him–he never came. He was left with nothing but the scars of his own helplessness.

Nights were the worst though. Lying in your bed, holding your pillows so tightly they lost their shape, burying his face into the fabric that no longer carried your scent–those were the hours he thought he might break apart completely. In the dark, his mind whispered bargains he couldn’t voice in the light of day, he would go willingly if it meant that you got to come back. He would trade everything, his soul, his life, for the smallest chance of seeing your smile again before he died.

Because your absence made the truth sharp and undeniable–he had no life without you. He could breathe, eat, exist, but it meant nothing if you weren’t there to share it with him. Everyone else had seen it long before he dared to admit it to himself, and now, with you gone, the weight of that truth suffocated him.

The team had tried to ease the ache in ways teammates could. Walker brought him food, standing stiffly in the doorway until Bob cleared every last bite–even if it took hours–grumbling curses to mask his concern. Bucky camped out with his mission reports in hand, eyes flicking over the edge of his tablet whenever Bob’s whispers turned sharp or desperate. Yelena often dragged a chair next to him, forcing conversation until he said more than two words at a time, sometimes she even spoke directly to your suspended form as though you could hear her banter. Ava and Alexi came down in pairs, never making it obvious they were watching him but staying long enough so the silence didn’t swallow him whole. They thought they were subtle–keeping him company without calling it what it was–but Bob knew. They were making sure he didn’t break or relapse or hurt himself further.

And still, the only company he wanted was you…And he couldn’t have that.

He let out a shuddering sigh and peeled his cheek from the glass, before pressing his forehead to the warmth he left, his breath ghosting over the pane in uneven bursts.

”I’ll fi-find a way to bring you back…” He whispered, “I know I always promise th-that but I will. If it’s the last thing I do.” The words trembled out of him like a vow, soft and desperate. He pressed his brow harder to the cold barrier until it hurt, as if the sting might anchor him, keep him from splintering apart completely.

————————

That night, in your bedroom, exhaustion dragged him into dreams he didn’t want to have. Dreams of that night–the night he lost you.

It started the same way it always did: static in his ear, the faint hum of open comms he had tuned into just to feel close to you. He had gotten into the habit of listening when you went out on missions, a nervous tic he never admitted out loud. He told himself it was just routine, just in case–but deep down it was because he hated being away from you, hated the silence of not knowing.

Then the world collapsed.

The building you were inside crumbled, the sharp crack of concrete splitting and the deafening roar of steel giving way flooding the channel. Dust, shouts, static, screams. He hadn’t seen it—he hadn’t been there—but he heard everything. Every sickening second.

Your voice was lost beneath the chaos.

Instead, he heard them.

Bucky’s voice first–tight, clipped, breaking apart despite the soldier’s discipline. “She’s under here…Fuck…Help me move this!” The line had popped with interference, but Bob could still hear the ragged edge of panic.

Walker, frantic, swearing under his breath, his usual arrogance stripped down to desperation. “She’s bleeding out–we need medical, now! Where the hell is the quinjet?!” Their voices tangled over each other, overlapping, frantic, arguing about what to go for first. Bob remembered how he had sat frozen, fingers digging into the armrests of his chair, nails carving into the wood as if he could hold himself still against the hurricane of their panic.

He remembered the sound of rubble shifting, Bucky’s labored grunts as he strained to drag you free, Walker’s voice going raw with curses as he pressed down on wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding. He remembered the silence when they couldn’t find your pulse. The empty stretch of comms filled only by their ragged breaths, broken mutters of your name, pleading like prayers that weren’t answered fast enough.

Bob had listened, paralyzed, with the taste of iron in his mouth and his heart threatening to split apart inside his chest. He had clawed at his own hair, pulling, tugging, wishing he could do something, wishing he could be there, hating himself with every second that he wasn’t. He remembered yelling into the line, his voice breaking, “Tell me she’s okay! Tell me!” But no one responded.

The dream dragged him back to that helplessness, the way his knees had buckled under him, the way the comms had gone eerily quiet before sparking back to life with medics calling in the evac and your blood curdling screams, the way you were practically inconsolable, the way Bucky and Walker tried to calm you down, how they tried to reorient you even when you didn’t understand a word they said through the pain that ripped through every inch of your body, like every nerve was exposed and someone was pouring hot water on them. The screams echoed in his skull, louder than the hiss of cryo machines, louder than anything he could ever drown out.

Bob jolted awake in your bed, chest heaving, sweat soaking through the collar of his shirt. Your pillow was clenched to his chest, crumpled, damp with tears he hadn’t realized had fallen. He pressed his face into it, sobbing soundlessly, whispering broken apologies into the fabric that smelled of nothing but stale laundry detergent.

Before he even realized it, Bob was wheezing. His lungs were clawing for air that refused to come, every breath jagged and sharp. The sounds slipped out of him without control, wet and strangled, the kind of noises that made it sound like he was choking. He curled tighter around your pillow, but the more he held on, the harder his body fought against itself.

The door slammed open.

“Bob?” Walker’s voice was sharp, alarmed.

Then came the other footsteps on the floor, too many at once–Yelena’s urgent stride, Bucky’s steady pace, Ava and Alexei crowding in behind. Within seconds, they were around him.

“Hey, hey, hey–look at me, Bob.” Yelena dropped to her knees beside the bed, hands reaching for his face. He tried to turn away, but she caught him gently, firmly, cupping his cheeks. “You’re okay. Breathe with me, yeah?” Her accent thickened with the rush of worry, her thumbs brushing the damp heat of his skin.

“Sit him up,” Bucky muttered, already moving in. He and Walker gripped Bob beneath the arms, hauling his trembling frame upright. Bob resisted at first, body rigid with panic, but the strength in their hands kept him from collapsing completely.

“Christ,” Walker cursed under his breath, holding one of Bob’s shoulders steady. “He’s gonna pass out–” Then the room itself shivered. A lamp rattled against the nightstand, the mirror on the wall vibrating in its frame.

“Shit–” Ava hissed, looking around.

“It’s him,” Bucky said lowly, gaze flicking toward the shaking dresser. His voice hardened. “We need to calm him down now.”

“Bob.” Yelena’s tone sharpened, pulling his gaze to hers. She pressed her forehead to his, grounding him, her hands framing his cheeks like she was holding his soul together with her palms. “Listen to me. Breathe. With me.” She inhaled slowly, loudly, exaggerating the sound of breath filling her lungs. The others joined in–Walker dragging in air through his teeth, Bucky steady and measured, Ava and Alexei in sync. The room filled with the rhythm of five people breathing, deliberate, controlled, a tide rising and falling. Bob tried. His chest convulsed, rattling. His breaths came broken, stuttering, but he fought to follow. His trembling lips parted, his forehead slick against Yelena’s, until at last a real inhale shuddered through him. Then another. The trembling in the furniture slowed, then stilled.

The silence afterward was worse.

And then he broke.

His body collapsed forward, shoulders heaving, hands clutching at Yelena’s wrists as the sobs ripped free. It was loud, and raw, a sound that seemed to tear itself out of the pit of his stomach

“I’m never gonna get her back,” He choked. “She’s never–she’s never gonna wake up. There’s no so-solution…No way out–”

“Bob–” Ava tried, but his cries swallowed her words.

“I can’t–” His voice shattered, cracking high like glass breaking. “I can’t do this an-anymore. I don’t–I don’t know how to live without her.” He buried his face in his hands, body shaking, wet sobs muffled against his palms. Yelena rubbed at his shoulder gently, trying to soothe him.

The team stood helpless, the weight of his grief pressing on all of them.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through, quiet but steady. “I’ve been doing some research.”

All eyes snapped to him.

“There’s…A possibility. If one of us donates blood,” He motioned to himself, Alexei, and Walker, “It might help her…They could transfuse it into Y/N, and there’s a chance her body could develop the serum's attributes…It may be dulled down, but it could help her heal faster.” Yelena’s head whipped around, sharp disbelief in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell us this when it happened?” Bucky shook his head, jaw tight.

“Because I’ve never seen it work. I’ve never even heard of it happening. It’s a risk. A big one…But we’re desperate at this point are we not…?” Bob’s head lifted, tear-streaked face desperate, wild.

“Wh–What about mine?”

The room went still. The question hung heavy, dangerous. Walker and Alexei exchanged a wary glance, then looked at Bucky. None of them had to say why they hesitated–as much as Bob’s serum was a play on the Super Soldier version, it wasn’t even close. It came with too many cogs that could turn out of line, and nobody truly knew what would happen, especially in regards to Sentry and The Void’s existence that was manifested when Bob took it. Bucky exhaled slowly, and searched for an excuse quickly.

“…How about we access her profile in the morning. See if any of us are matches first. Then we go from there.” His tone softened, though his eyes stayed steady on Bob’s. “Okay?” For a long moment, no one moved. The only sound was Bob’s hitched breathing, still uneven but quieter now. His eyes fell shut, his head lowering. Finally, a faint, broken whisper left his lips.

“…Alright.”

—————————

The next morning, the lab smelled sharper than usual–bleach, sterile plastic, that metallic tang that clung to the air like old pennies. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, humming in Bob’s ears as he sat stiffly in the chair with his sleeve rolled up. The tech had tied a band around his arm, veins bulging faintly, needle glinting in the harsh light. It reminded him of when he used to inject himself–when he was chasing his next high…The stinging pain of the needle going in sent a sort of euphoria in him in ways he couldn’t describe, maybe it was his brain thinking that he was back on the meth train again, but it wore off quickly when he watched the vials of his blood being pulled from him.

Bucky, Walker, and Alexei sat nearby. The room was unnervingly quiet except for the soft clink of vials being placed on the table nearby, the scratch of pens on clipboards, and the faint beeping of machinery monitoring your chamber through the glass wall in the adjoining room. When the tech pulled the needle from Bob’s arm and snapped the safety on it, before discarding it and giving Bob a cotton ball and bandage to hold against the spot. He flexed his fingers out of nervous habit, but his hand trembled from the slight numbing sensation that ran through his nervous system.

Once the tech collected all their things, they moved out of the room, leaving them all in silence, waiting for the news. The squeaking of Bob’s sneakers against the tile echoed through the room as his knee bounced.

“Wh–what if none of us are matches?” His voice was hushed, but the tremor in it cut through the silence. Bucky’s sigh was soft but audible. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.

“Then we go back to the drawing board. We’ll figure something out. We always do.” His eyes, though tired, carried a steady weight–as if trying to anchor Bob through sheer force of will.

The minutes crawled by. Walker muttered something about disliking the lab chairs, Alexei was pacing slightly because–just like Bob–he couldn’t stay still, and Bob on the other hand kept looking through into the adjoining room, watching your body floating in the cryo chamber. His stomach twisted with every tick of the clock.

Finally, the lab tech reappeared, a sheet of paper in hand, his expression unreadable until he spoke.

“Reynolds.”

Bob’s head jerked up, throat tight.

“You’re the match.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, dense, unmovable.

Bob’s eyes flicked over to the others. Bucky’s jaw tightened. Walker raised his brows in disbelief. Alexei stopped pacing mid-step. For a moment, no one spoke, they were just taking in the reality of the situation.

”Nobody else was a match with her?” Bucky asked, glancing at the tech, and he shook his head. Bob swallowed hard, his mouth dry. His fingers gripped his knees until the knuckles went white.

“So…We can do th-this then?” Bucky leaned back, arms crossing, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Bob. He was biting the inside of his cheek, almost like he was contemplating what to say next, or how to say it more than anything.

“Would she be okay with this?” He asked, the words hitting like a slap. Bob blinked at him, startled by the change in tone now that he was the one who matched with you.

“Wh-What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Bucky started evenly, “We’re going to be infusing her with your blood that contains a serum that killed multiple people before you because they couldn’t handle it…It’s also a version that made you…” He hesitated, searching for the word, “Different…Yes it made you stronger, but it wasn’t without cost. What if she wakes up with abilities she can’t control? What if she…Doesn’t wake up at all?” Alexei rumbled low in his chest, his arms crossing.

”It is not small thing here…” He stated. Bob looked over at his teammates, almost like he was being cornered.

”It’s wo-worth a shot…If I survived, there’s a chance she could.” Walker tilted his head, lips pressing thin.

”You’re saying you’re willing to gamble her whole life without knowing the outcome? And you’re willing to have her be pissed off at you because you made a life altering decision for her?” Bob’s eyes darted to him, eyes bloodshot but burning, a faint ember flickering just for a brief moment.

”You th-think she wanted to be locked in a glass coffin, frozen in water, and hooked up to machines like some…Some experiment? Wasn’t that a life altering decision? At least if I give her my bl-blood, there’s a chance she will wake up. Even if she hates me for it, at least sh-she’ll be here to do that.” The room went still at that, the weight of his words sinking heavy. Bucky’s gaze softened, but it didn’t lose its seriousness.

“You know there’s no undoing it, right? Once it’s in her, there’s no going back. If she wakes up with powers she can’t control, that’s on her shoulders forever…And yours…That also applies to if she dies…Do you understand?” Bucky asked. Bob’s throat bobbed. His voice lowered, hoarse, but steady.

“We have to tr-try…I have Sentry…If anything happens to her, if things go wrong…I can save her.” Even though he had limited control over Sentry, he assumed this would be the thing that truly dragged him out of the hollows of Bob’s body. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Finally, Alexei exhaled, heavy and resigned. “Then we try.”

———————

Machines clicked to life, monitors warming up with soft beeps, the slow hiss of oxygen lines a constant undercurrent. Bob sat where they told him to, his sleeve rolled high on his arm, veins standing out faintly beneath his skin.

The lab tech swabbed the crook of his elbow with cold antiseptic, the sting sharp against skin still damp with sweat. A rubber tourniquet cinched tight above his bicep, and the needle glinted in the harsh light. Bob swallowed against the rising nausea, his throat dry.

The thick needle slid in with a sting that sent a shiver of old memories down his spine. His stomach rolled, but he forced himself still, fingers curling into fists. The pint bag slowly began to fill, dark red inching into its plastic reservoir. The weight in his body shifted as the blood left him–lightheadedness prickling at the edge of his senses, nausea blooming in his gut. He fixed his eyes on the floor, steadying his breathing.

But then his gaze slipped sideways.

Through the glass, in the adjoining room, your body floated in the cryo chamber, pale and still. The glow of the liquid seemed otherworldly, shadows rippling across your face, your form suspended in silence. Bob’s throat constricted painfully, his eyes stinging. The thought pressed in heavy and merciless–this might not work. He forced himself to blink, to breathe, but the knot in his chest only tightened.

“Almost there,” One of the techs murmured, unclipping the bag and hanging it on a rack beside them. They sealed the line, labeled it, and began hurrying toward a processing machine at the far end of the lab.

Bob wet his lips, forcing his voice out despite the dry rasp in his throat. “Can–Can you walk me through it? The transfusion?”

The older of the two techs glanced up, voice calm but clinical. “We’ll rush the processing on the blood, and run it through the purifier. Once that’s complete, we’ll hang the bag and connect it to the IV already inserted into her vein. It will flow directly into her system. Then we’ll monitor vitals for any signs of change or distress.” Bob nodded, his jaw tight, hands clenching against the tremor crawling through them. His stomach swirled, not from the blood loss but from the weight of what this meant.

“And wh–what if there’s an emergency?” His voice cracked, thin.

The younger tech hummed, already prepping tubing. “We have protocols for cryo patients. If there’s an adverse reaction, we’ll trigger the emergency drain, which will clear the chamber of the liquid and rapidly rewarm her. That allows us to attempt life-saving measures.” He hesitated, exchanging a glance with his colleague before finishing, “Beyond that…There isn’t much else we’d be able to do.”

The words hit Bob like ice water down his spine. His breath caught, his eyes flicking back to you in the chamber, that still figure suspended in water and wires. His pulse roared in his ears, but he forced a nod, jaw clenched until it hurt.

”Th-Thank you…” They both gave him a nod, before one of them handed him a cookie and juice so he wouldn’t feel lightheaded when he stood up.

He slouched a bit in the chair, his fingers trembling around the rim of the cup. The cookie tasted like chalk in his mouth, dry and flavorless, but he forced himself to chew, swallowing against the metallic tang that clung to his tongue from him nipping his cheek during the blood draw. Through the observation glass, he could see the techs at their machines, your future hanging in plastic bags and tubes, his blood swirling through the purifier in whirring, silver-bellied processors.

He didn’t even hear the door open at first. It was the quiet scuff of boots that made him glance sideways.

Yelena slipped into the lab with her arms folded across her chest, her sharp eyes tracking him before flicking to the glass window where your chamber was beaming,

“How are you feeling?” She asked softly, crouching down so she was level with him instead of towering over him.

Bob tried for humor, but it cracked and stammered on his tongue. “As go-good as I can feel after getting a bunch of blood taken out of me.” He lifted the juice cup weakly, shaking it once before taking another sip.

Yelena huffed out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “You nervous?” The word hung there. He hesitated, chewing on his answer before finally letting it fall.

“Of co-course I am…” His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders hunched. Yelena’s lips pressed together, her expression tightening–brows knitting together, and nose crinkling.

”Are you reconsidering?” Bob looked up at her then, and for the first time, he saw it–the way her fingers twitched where they curled against her biceps, the tightness around her eyes, the guarded fear she hadn’t shown in front of the others. She was nervous too. Worried sick. And that truth burned through him, because he wasn’t the only one who might lose you. He shook his head slowly.

“We ne-need to try, Lena. I can’t…I can’t leave this stone unturned.” His chest rose, fell, words tumbling from him in a rasp. “I… I love her. And I never got to say it.” The confession cracked the silence like glass shattering. Surprise flickered across Yelena’s face, quick and raw before she masked it, but he’d seen it. Of course she had known he cared for you–anyone with eyes could see it–but she hadn’t realized it ran this deep, this consuming.

“Bob…” Her voice softened, but there was steel behind it. “I’m sure she knows. But you need to think about this decision without being selfish. What if she dies? What if Sentry doesn’t come out? What if you can’t save her?” The words cut. They were the same questions that had gnawed at him in the silence of your bedroom, in the hollows of his dreams. They sank teeth into him now, too, but he forced a sigh through his chest and let his gaze settle back on the chamber where you floated, so close and unreachable.

“I’ll drag him out, if anything go-goes wrong. I’ll make him save her.” He whispered hoarsely. For a long beat, Yelena studied him, eyes searching his, weighing the fire in his voice against the fragility in his posture. Finally, she gave a small nod.

“Alright. But I’m going to stay with you. Just for support.”

Bob blinked at her, throat tightening, and after a moment’s pause, he relented, a faint nod jerking his head forward. “…Okay.”

The door clicked open again, breaking the fragile moment. The lab techs re-entered, their gloves snapping back into place, masks already up. One of them lifted a sealed blood bag, crimson fluid shifting within, and gestured toward the adjoining room.

“We’re ready to start,” He said evenly. “If you want to come in and observe.” Bob’s palms were slick, his fingers trembling as he crushed the empty juice cup and tossed it into the garbage, as he nodded at the tech. He rubbed his hands furiously down his sweatpants, as if friction could scrub the dread out of him, but it only left streaks of dampness on the fabric. The techs were calm, professional, as they handed him and Yelena sterile masks.

“It’s just to keep sterility when we’re spiking the bag, then you can take them off,” One of them explained. Bob nodded mutely and slipped the mask over his face, his breath already catching in his throat. Yelena adjusted hers with brisk efficiency, but her eyes flicked toward him, sharp, worried. They followed the tech into the adjoining chamber, the hum of machines and monitors growing louder, colder, like the belly of some mechanical beast.

They were told to stand back, out of the sterile zone, and they did. Bob’s chest heaved unevenly as he watched the techs work–the sharp plunge of the spike into the blood bag, the crimson fluid shifting inside like liquid fire. Tubes snaked downward, carefully primed, flicked and tapped to free bubbles, clamps clicked into place. Bob’s hands itched to pull at his hair, to do something, but instead he rubbed them harder against his pants, his skin hot and clammy.

“We’re going to open up the clamps now and start the infusion,” The tech said, steady, clinical. Bob gave a jerky nod. Yelena did the same. His gaze shot instantly to you, your body suspended in that cold womb of water and glass. The machine beeped as the clamps were opened. The blood–the essence of him, the serum that had cursed and saved him–began to flow into you.

His pulse hammered. He glanced at the vitals machine, chest tight. Flat numbers. No change. The line of your heart rate remained steady, coldly indifferent. Seconds dragged like hours. His breath grew shallow.

Nothing.

One minute. Two. His heart thudded harder. His nails dug crescent moons into his knees.

Then–

A sharp rise. The temperature monitor flickered upward by a fraction. Bob’s stomach dropped.

“Temp’s rising,” One of the techs noted calmly, but Bob could hear the tension under the composure.

The numbers jumped again. And again. The chamber glass began to fog, condensation streaking in rivulets.

“Why’s it climbing so fast?” Yelena’s voice cut sharp, her arms crossing tightly.

“Could be her body metabolizing the serum. Hold.” But then the water around you began to ripple. Not softly, not from a shiver–boil. Tiny streams of bubbles broke free, swirling upward in frantic spirals.

Bob staggered forward a step. “Wh-what’s happening?!”

“Stay back!” One of the techs snapped, even as his gloved hand darted to controls. “She’s overheating–core temp’s spiking out of control.” The monitor screamed with beeps, heart rate climbing–120, 140, 160–numbers sprinting upward without hesitation.

“Tachycardia,” The other tech muttered, tone still calm but sharp now. “If it doesn’t stop, her heart’s going to give out.”

“Shut it down! Initiate emergency protocol!”

A hand slammed onto the button beside the infusion lines. With a mechanical roar, the chamber hissed and began to drain, thick streams of superheated liquid rushing down the sides. Steam curled upward, heat rolling across the floor like a furnace. Bob’s body shook with the sound of your heart monitor hammering in sync with his own–170, 190–

“She’s going into V-fib!” The chamber whined, heaters kicking in for rapid rewarming, but it was already too much, too fast.

“Stop the transfusion, cut the line!” The tubing was yanked, clamped, blood flow arrested. Your body jerked faintly in the chamber as the last of the water drained away, leaving you sprawled against the sterile padding, pale skin gleaming with beads of scalding condensation.

Then–

A shrill, flat tone.

The line on the monitor went still.

“No pulse–she’s flatlining!”

Bob’s vision tunneled. His nightmares–the screams, the static, the silence–crashed over him in suffocating waves. His knees buckled, his chest heaving like it might tear in half. The techs didn’t hesitate. They hauled the chamber door open with a groaning hiss and dragged your limp, burning-wet body onto the ground. One ripped out the IV line. Another positioned their hands over your sternum.

“Starting compressions. Clear the line. One, two, three–”

Bob couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All he could hear was the sharp smack of palms driving into your chest, the hiss of a bag mask being squeezed over your mouth, the endless flat drone of the monitor.

“Switching–keep going–”

“Charge paddles to two hundred!”

“Ready, clear!”

Your body jolted, arching, then collapsed limp again. The line stayed flat.

“Again–three hundred, clear!”

Another brutal jolt. Nothing.

Bob’s chest caved in on itself. His nails tore into his palms as his mind flashed with your screams from that night, Bucky and Walker begging into the comms, the silence afterward.

“I’m not getting anything,” One tech muttered, sweat dripping down his temple.

“Push epi–”

They worked furiously, a storm of movement, but the truth pressed in. No pulse. No rhythm. Nothing.

And then–

“Stop.” Bob’s voice cracked, raw, broken. He stumbled forward, shoving past Yelena’s grip. His eyes were wild, his breath ragged.

“Move. M-Move, now.” For one raw second, no one budged. Then the lead tech gave a sharp nod, and they stepped back. Bob fell to his knees beside you, dragging you into his arms. The smell hit him–chlorine, coppery blood, the sharp singe of heat clinging to your skin. His shirt soaked instantly, your damp hair plastering against his chest. He cupped your cheek with a trembling hand, the warmth of your skin burning into his palm, too hot, too wrong. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, desperate, frantic.

“Y/N…” His voice was a wreck, shredded. “Co-come on… please…” He rocked you gently against him, forehead pressed to yours, tears spilling hot and fast down his cheeks. They fell onto your face, sliding into your hairline.

“Come on,” He repeated, softer, breaking. “Do-Don’t leave me. Not like this. I–I love you. God, I love you so much. I’m sorry–I’m so fucking sorry.” His arms locked around you, clutching you as if force alone could anchor you back to him. Minutes crawled by, agonizingly. His sobs wracked the silence, chest tearing itself apart. Behind him, the techs stood frozen. Yelena moved at last, kneeling and pressing her hand to his shoulder, her voice low, breaking.

“…I’m sorry, Bob…”

But he didn’t hear her. His ears rang with silence, with the hiss of old comms static, with the emptiness of losing you all over again, his body was so hot from you, that he could feel it vibrating in his hands, like the blood under his skin was boiling. He buried his face in your hair, choking on grief so heavy it drowned him.

Bob’s sobs tore from his chest, ragged, primal, his whole body heaving as he cradled you against him like you were the last thing tethering him to his life. His arms trembled around you, clutching too tightly, then loosening in terror, as if he might shatter you completely if he wasn’t careful. His tears soaked into your damp hair, fell hot against your still skin, tracing rivers down your cheeks.

“I can’t–” His voice broke into pieces, muffled against your temple. “I can’t do this without you. Please…please don’t leave me, Y/N. Please…” He rocked you slowly, the way a man rocks his grief when it’s too heavy to carry, his cheek pressed to yours, whispering broken apologies against the heat of your skin. His whole body shook with the weight of it, like if he held you close enough, long enough, you’d breathe again.

And then–

A sound cut through the silence. A sharp, guttural gasp–loud, violent, the sound of air tearing its way back into empty lungs.

Bob froze.

Your body jerked hard in his arms, muscles spasming, hands pushing weakly against his chest. Not to escape him–never that–but the wild, uncontrolled shudder of a nervous system clawing its way back online. Your ragged breathing rattled against him, erratic and shallow, chest heaving like you were dragging yourself back from the bottom of the ocean.

“Y/N–?” Bob’s voice cracked, disbelieving, terrified. His hand flew back to your cheek, trembling as his thumb brushed across the wet heat of your skin. He bent close, eyes wide, frantic, searching your face as if he might anchor you there by sheer will. “Y/N? Y/N, it’s me–it’s Bo-Bob. Open your eyes…I’m right here.”

Your lashes twitched, heavy from the lack of use, then slowly, achingly, they fluttered open. The faintest sliver of your eyes appeared–glazed at first, unfocused–before the smallest flecks of orange shimmered through your irises like embers catching flame. Bob choked on a sob, his forehead pressing to yours. Relief broke over his face in a flood so raw it nearly undid him.

“…Bo-Bob…” Your voice rasped out, fragile, cracked, so faint he almost thought he imagined it. But it was there. It was real.

“Yes–yes, it’s me,” he whispered, his thumb stroking your cheekbone in trembling arcs. His chest was shaking so hard it hurt. “Go-God, you’re here…You’re really here…”

Your eyes darted weakly, confusion knitting your brow, and your lips parted. “Wh-what…?” Bob cut you off softly, his hand cradling the back of your head as though shielding you from the world.

“I’ll tell yo-you everything, I promise. Just…Relax right now, please. I don’t want to lose you again. Not again…” Your breath trembled as you gave the faintest nod, your weight collapsing back into his arms. And he held you then–held you with a desperation that bordered on violent, squeezing you so tightly he thought you might fuse into him, but still careful, still reverent, as though you were both fragile and eternal all at once.

And then–so faint, but so real–it came.

“Lo…Love you too…” Bob shattered. A sound between a sob and a laugh burst from his throat, his tears falling faster, his arms curling around you like a fortress. He pressed trembling kisses into your hair, your temple, your damp cheeks, his whispers spilling over you in a broken litany–I love you, I love you, I love you.