Charcoal Smudges
Robert "Bob" Reynolds/The Void x Reader
Summary: Bob thinks he's in control. At least…until you get involved.
Warnings: Angst, cannon level violence, mutual pining. I'm a sucker for a happy ending.
Words: 5k
I've been foaming at the mouth. Someone sedate me.
The Watchtower was spacious. It was a beacon of hope where the Avengers once stood. But you felt you were drowning.
The missions weren’t going as smoothly as the team had hoped. When it came to news headlines, everybody was catching strays. Everyone was a critic.
Bob may have had a point all along. It did feel like a void.
Your myriad of thoughts was dark, expansive, and all-consuming. You were helping people, sure, but you were tired…not that you would tell anyone. You didn’t push it down the same way Yelena did, nor did you have wild outbursts like John.
But on difficult nights, you would pull out an old tobacco tin from under your bed. Your dad used to make the prettiest charcoal pictures. But you took time to try and recreate his old drawings from memory, and it kept the demons at bay. Sometimes, you kept at it until your eyes burned, until you were slumped over the old sketchbook.
You weren’t any good at it. The lines were too dark, and the pictures were smudged in the wrong places. But you kept trying. The cleaner your hands, the better the day. But some nights were real bad, and the charcoal would dig into your fingerprints and smear across your cheek. What you were trying to scrub away, you wouldn’t name.
On those nights, you could swear the shadows in your room were darker.
You made an effort to participate with the group. You joined in on late-night movies where Alexi was bound to burn the popcorn. You guided Ava through technical documents, relaying the best ways to bypass encrypted files and store copies of data without the risk of frying the system. Even Bob, who was careful and reserved, offered to help pick up the latest take-out order. You would be a monster not to accept his help.
Even with Valentina keeping the group in the spotlight, you preferred the old Buick for late-night errands. You had a hard time breaking out of keeping a low profile. Bob was still skittish. His memory teeter-tottered on a knife’s edge, and even in those uncertain times, you could rely on the careful smiles and quiet observations. Bob was sincere. He was kind.
“Drawing anything good?” he whispered from the passenger seat.
Bob’s eyes flitted to your hands before settling on the old tape player. You took a moment to look at your hand on the steering wheel as you peeled through a green light. You hadn’t had the time to think about washing up before your late-night run. A sad smile stole at your lips.
“I don’t remember,” you offered just as quietly.
And truly, you didn’t. Overwhelmed with the week as a whole, you were blindly drawing lines and sketching in dark spaces. Everyone had their nightmares. Everyone had their battles, and you tried to relax your shoulders. Little drawings couldn’t harm you. You shrugged as you pulled up to the curb.
“Just feeling it out. Maybe one day I’ll have a masterpiece to show you.”
“Oh. R-right, yeah,” Bob muttered.
But you missed the hint of something in his eye as he turned away, his hands tugging at the lap belt. And you missed it again while you handed him the box of fried rice, your fingers brushing against his.
It was a bad night. You remembered dozing off while laying on your belly and drawing on your bed. You shouldn’t have been surprised that the midnight snacks and fucked up sleep schedule gave you bad dreams.
Well, not bad dreams. Just one. One dream that made your insides ache. You were lost and in the dark, the pitch black cocooning you. There was no place for light or peace; all you had were your lonely thoughts. You could reach out and touch, but there was nothing there. Your hands were shaking as you clasped them together. There was no point in walking around, no point in calling out. You were alone. Helpless.
Maybe you were meant to be. That thought stayed with you.
You were enveloped in the darkness, fatigue tugging at you even in your dreams. And then, right when you were on the cusp of oblivion, you heard the rustling of fabric.
It was in your head. You were finally losing it. You were all alone-
Until the weight of a cloak dropped around your shoulders.
An empty feeling lingered for days.
Bad guys were busted, justice was served, and you were on autopilot. You offered to hang back on the next mission and thought it would be the perfect time for redecorating. Something to distract yourself.
“You mean, like painting?” Bob asked, stopping his pacing in the kitchen. He had been looking for a box of Wheaties you knew John threw out the night before. “We…we can do that?”
The owlish tilt of his head caught your attention. Your nose scrunched with mild amusement. You had been noticing those little mannerisms of his more and more.
“Hmm?” You hummed, the hint of a question in your tone. “Well, it’s not like anyone can stop us.”
Bob stood there for a moment, almost mumbling under his breath. “I didn’t think about it like that.”
And a lightbulb flashed.
“Do you wanna come with me?”
There was a flicker of color in his cheeks. “Oh, uh, you don’t have to. I mean -”
But your growing smile and unwavering gaze pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. Bob finally pushed his hair back, taking a steadying breath.
“Yeah, that’d be nice.”
And that’s how you two ended up comparing paint swatches at the hardware store. Shoulder to shoulder, you debated the fundamental differences between cream and eggshell.
You noticed how Bob kept gravitating to a stormy blue. Funny. It was akin to how his eyes looked after long days of staring out the Watchtower. Not that you had noticed.
But you could see anxiety rippling through him as he looked at the tape, different primers, and finishes on the paint. You could see the compounding impact it had on him in real-time.
“I thought it’d be easier,” he whispered with a frown. “It’s - it’s too much.”
You stepped forward, letting your paint swatches scatter to the ground.
“Hey,” you urged, reaching for his shoulder. “We can just pick a color.” Bob’s shoulders were rounded in, and his head dropped slightly. He was warm, probably warmer still with a sweatshirt on. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”
And his eyes danced from one of yours to the other. Oh. And the storm in his eyes was uncanny.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” He repeated at last.
You hummed out a sigh of relief.
“In fact,” you urged, “I hope it’s not perfect. Then we can come back here and try again. It’ll be fun.” You shrugged. Bob thought about it, debating with a question long enough for you to notice his fingers twitching.
“You want to come back here?” he thought. “With me?”
His eyes drifted down to the toothy smile you offered. His look was like you had unlocked some secret treasure. You didn’t hesitate to seize the moment.
“Who else would I invite? Alexi has no taste. He’s been wearing the same red suit for decades.”
Bob huffed out a hint of a laugh at that. You almost forgot about the aching, empty feeling in your chest. A moment of quiet passed between you, glancing down at the stack of swatches covering the ground and the disgruntled sales associate walking your way.
“You good?” You thought to ask.
Your hand was warm-no, he was warm. Noticing you were still holding to him, you let your hand slip down his arm before letting go. You cleared your throat. He watched the movement before taking his own tentative step back.
“Yeah,” he assured. There was a hint of color in his cheeks. “All good.”
Blue paint was speckled all over your clothes. It was on your arms. Hell, it was probably in your hair. And in the quiet, you listened to an album that Bob put on while pushing all his furniture to the middle of the room. It was a trainwreck, an absolute disaster. You should have had supervision. And you were having the best time.
And you two painted in silence, listening to the rock tunes.
“Sorry,” he mumbled at some point, but you waved it off.
“I don’t mind,” you hummed, pulling a rogue paint bristle off the wall. “I don’t mind if there’s not much to say.”
And Bob didn’t quite know how to show his appreciation. In his head, it was loud enough already.
That night, you didn’t have to reach for the sticks of charcoal under the bed. There were no demons to keep at bay. Your paint cans lie abandoned in a pile next to the door, with an unspoken promise behind who would help you paint your room.
It was inevitable that your light-night thoughts drifted back to careful eyes and brown curls.
The dream came back.
Dread didn’t tug at the corners of your mind this time. Shame didn’t grab root and drag you into despair. But the darkness was welcome, a quiet, constant companion. This time, you didn’t fear what you couldn’t see. You stood, feet on solid ground, and started walking around in the vast bleakness. At first, your strides were careful. You didn’t know what you would run into. But there was nothing. In the dark, there was nothing. There was nothing to fear.
Silent steps turned brave. Brave strides turned to running, wanting to feel the burn in your lungs. And you ran until - until you couldn’t touch the floor anymore. That, too, was gone, and walking was meaningless. There was no point, no need to waste your stamina.
Were your eyes open? Closed? Did it matter?
You were suspended in nothing. You were nothing.
And…and it was okay. It was alright. There was a tugging feeling even, and you reached out, not expecting something to reach back.
But something did. Fingers entwining with your own, grasping firmly but not too tight. Your eyes searching, but not seeing. And finally, the fall of a breath. Low, quiet even in the dark. Golden eyes peering back at you.
You woke up with your face pressed against the page of the sketchbook. A piece of charcoal was loose in your grasp, your hand darkened with markings. And you felt…well, you felt like you were missing something.
The rasp of a soft knock at your door stole your attention. After a moment, you pulled yourself up, shuffling to the door with a yawn.
“H-hey.” Bob smiled as the door swung open. And a curious expression lingered on his face as he took you in. “Did you just get up?”
“Good morning,” you replied, a sleepy grin on your cheeks. He noted it, his lazy grin threatening to reel you in.
“I was gonna see if you wanted lunch. I making sandwiches. Didn’t know if you like bologna. Uh. Do you?”
You pulled the door open wider, leaning against the frame. Bob’s eyes moved away from you, tilting his head into view of your room.
“I don’t know the last time I’ve had bologna.” You thought, rubbing your eyes. Was it already lunchtime? You couldn’t remember the last time you slept in so late. It felt like you had been hit by a truck.
“Oh, it’s awful,” Bob warned, but it was with a smile. Charming. He was charming. “But I grew up with it, so it’s something of a comfort food…And I might have already made you one.” He admitted, sheepishly pulling one hand through his hair. The other, which had been cleverly hidden behind his back, pulled forward a plate with two sandwiches. “B-but I can come back later, you know. So it’s no big -”
“I’d love one.”
It was quick, more to yourself than to him, but he heard it all the same.
You were more embarrassed to think it was because Bob liked it. He liked it, and he thought of you while making it. Was it getting warm in here? Clearing your throat, you pulled back.
“Come on in,” you offered. “I’ll clean this up,” you put your palms up to show off the crime scene before pointing your thumb toward the bathroom. “And I’ll be right out.”
You stepped away and closer to the bathroom before you could embarrass yourself further. No, no. You were fine. Everything was fine.
But everything was not fine.
Because you couldn’t see the delicate way Bob stepped into your room, his heart fluttering. You didn’t see his hands clench up or watch his eyes scan over the open sketchbook on your bed. And you didn’t see the dark reflection staring back at him, practically jumping off the page. The subtle glow of gold in his eyes wasn’t so subtle now. Something was happening.
And Bob was…well, Bob did what he did best. He panicked.
He was long gone when you turned off the sink and left the bathroom. You let the towel in your hands drop. The only things that remained were the untouched sandwiches and a sketch smeared into nothing.
Little did you know it was the start of something much bigger.
Bob avoided you. Like the plague. He kept to himself and his books. He was talking to himself again.
He ignored you until the others returned, basking in their loud, abrasive attitudes. The ache in your belly only grew as you watched him walk by you, skirting around you while you tried to say hi.
Did you have the heart to confront him? Had you done something wrong?
“Give him time,” Yelena offered one night. “He is like a wet cat now. No use trying to capture him.”
Not that it made you feel any better.
It didn’t help that you knew that everyone else knew. How could they not with your rag-tag bunch? And no one felt qualified enough to intervene.
Bob…he didn’t want to hurt you. He just didn’t know what to do. He hung around Ava and John more, handling their snarky digs and half-assed attempts at including him because it was easier than admitting he felt something he shouldn’t. He felt something he couldn’t afford.
And you were the collateral damage.
He didn’t mean for it to cause you to throw yourself back into your work. And he didn’t mean for it to get you captured.
“Bob?” Yelena yelled, bursting into his room in the middle of the night. He jumped from a dead sleep, foggy as he came to. “Bob!”
“What’s - is there a fire?” He mumbled with those doe eyes.
Why else would she be so alarmed? He could hear the commotion outside his room, hear the shuffling of gear. What time was it?
“No fire. There’s no fire.” Yelena shushed him, but he was more distraught by the different voices talking over each other in the hall. Something was thrown. “Here, shush. Listen -” She persisted, pulling herself over to him to keep him calm.
But it was too late. Bob heard your name among the ruckus. Your recon mission with Ava fell apart; Ava was the only one who checked in. Something about being outnumbered. Something about being all alone. And that’s all he could hear.
You were all alone.
And he pulled himself up, only for Yelena to push him back down again.
“Hey, hey,” she snapped. “It’s going to be okay. We’re gonna find her.” Her voice was softer.
But Bob knew a lie when he heard one.
“W-where?” He panicked. Adrenaline spiked, his blood turning to ice. “Where are they?”
“What?” Yelena asked harshly.
“Where?”
“The check-in was somewhere outside Vegas-” And her words fell short, not realizing the change in his cadence.
His eyes were...well, she wasn’t looking at Bob anymore. And in a blink, she wasn’t looking at anything anymore.
And all that was left behind was the imprint of a shadow fading into the sheets.
You didn’t think twice about pushing Ghost outside when the sirens went off. Her powers would be useless if she got too close to the noise. But it meant she was locked outside the gated campus, and you were locked inside.
You could still hear the sirens as the door closed in front of you. But Ava had the data, and dammit, you were proud that she was able to collapse their network from the inside. She really was listening to your advice.
The smuggler’s den was crude, but they were tough. They brought in all kinds of military-grade equipment and gear from outside the states. And you could hear footsteps closing in.
You were locked in. Trapped.
Time to get going. Leveling your gun, you scoured the hallway for another exit strategy. There were so many rooms, a puzzle of pathways and ventilation tunnels if you could just -
“We’ll smoke her out.”
“No, we need her alive. Get the lights.”
No. Shit - you took to the closest room when the building went dark. You bashed your thigh against a table and stopped. There were no emergency lights overhead and no red exit signs. This place was definitely not up to code.
But it was familiar to you in its way.
In the dark, you had found bitter solitude and unspeakable fear. You had felt an overwhelming peace and notion of comfort. It was calming, like the strokes of charcoal against the page. Filling in the empty space with shadows.
But now, all you felt was anger. This was different. The darkness was an adversary, and you could hear the clunk of footsteps coming down the hall. In the dark, you were trapped like a mouse in a cage, waiting for the cat - heavily armed smugglers - to strike you down.
Cowards.
You were out in the open. Feeling around blindly, you scowled at the obstacles. Chairs lined a long table, and there were cabinets against the walls. Nothing big enough to climb in. Nowhere to hide. But you kept searching, feeling around. And when you felt another door at your back, you turned the handle before hearing voices at the other end of the room.
“We have a visual -”
And stumbling through the door, you made a blind run for it. And you were frustrated, bashing into more chairs and tripping over your feet.
When footsteps rushed in, you blindly shot out in the direction of the noise before more shots echoed through the room. And your heart ached. You couldn’t go down without a fight, not now. Not against some brutes with shipping data. Not after everything you had done.
Not when this was your idea - when you needed to get as far away from the Watchtower as possible.
Not when - a renegade shot struck your shoulder, reeling you back. You were frantic, emptying your gun into the dark. The bastards.
But even with your aim and your anger, the thugs could see with their night vision goggles. And you couldn’t. You heard it over the roar of your own breathing; one man got too close. You lunged on instinct, rolling around and landing a punch to his throat, feral for escape, before being pulled off.
“No!” One man commanded. “Alive - we need her alive.”
But the man you hit was angry. In a cowardly display, the man charged, coughing and staggering, landing a hit to your stomach. You struggled for breath, clawing back and fighting for footing.
“Alive!” The other man ordered.
There were too many of them. There were too many of them, and a fear bubbled up your throat.
This was your idea. It was your idea to throw yourself into the mission and distract yourself from...Well, there was no use in denying it now.
Your belly ached. Your heart was in ribbons. You did this to try to forget how desperately you missed Bob. You missed the scrunch of his nose and the meticulous way he ate popcorn one kernel at a time. You missed his bad jokes and the clumsy way he filled the dishwasher. You missed the smell of his mahogany shampoo and the underlying ozone that wouldn’t wash away.
Goddammit.
You couldn’t die down here.
But your spiraling thoughts had to come to a messy halt. In this case, it was in the form of the building shaking all around you, like it had been struck by a meteor shower. The men called out with fright, then screamed.
You knew this part. The lights would come on, and Ava would come barreling in at any moment. So you waited. And waited.
But it never came. The screams stopped mid-breath. The handprints digging into your arms were gone in a flash. The heavy breaths and stomping steps disappeared. Perking up with a groan, you dragged your feet forward. What was this?
And then déjà vu jolted through you.
You were dreaming. You must have fallen asleep or maybe been knocked out cold.
You were in the dark, but you weren’t alone.
“Where are you?” You called out bravely, squaring your shoulders. You knew what was lurking in the shadows. “Show yourself!”
But the emptiness stretched on. You stepped around in a circle. Your feet were still firmly planted on the ground. This was your dream. This was your attachment latching into the hooks of your subconscious. You were losing it.
“You’re reckless.”
It was a simple observation. One you dared laugh at.
“Reckless,” you mirrored with a snicker. “Hopeless. Delusional. Desperate. Isn't that why you're here? Isn't that what you feed on?”
Listing off your inner thoughts, feelings you wouldn’t admit when awake. You were comfortable, too comfortable. Engaging now wouldn’t make any difference.
“No.” It was a warning. “I feel it.”
The slow timber of words carried a weight all their own. Each syllable was intentional, pronounced. But feel it? Feel what? You turned in the dark.
“I’m not naïve to what he feels.” But this wasn’t Bob. It was the other closing in.
“Oh, Robert. He has hero dreams. Dreams of pushing me away. Thinking you could forget about me.”
His words were tormenting, chastising his counterpart.
In your dreams, this monster never spoke to you. You were used to quiet, lingering touches. You were used to watching from the rafters. And then there was a firm pause. Your fingers flexed. The reverberations of his words in your head were heavy.
“He will fail you. He can’t keep you safe.” he continued.
He was riling you up, and the proximity was not lost on you.
“Your shame is harrowing. Ongoing. Buried, deep in your subconscious.” The swish of fabric behind you was intentional. He was urging you to tilt your head. He was close now, hovering right over your shoulder. And then a whisper. “It’s precious. Don’t you want to know what it is?”
Goosebumps littered up your arms.
No.
“You do.” He coaxed.
No.
“You know. You already know why I can’t leave,” and feeling hot under the collar, uncomfortable at the bluntness, you gave in. Tilting your chin up, two pinpricks stared back. Unblinking. Unfazed.
He was frightening.
“You care for him,” he pressed. You couldn’t hide even if you wanted to. “All of him. And that means you care for -”
“Void.” Your call was a warning.
Raising your hand defensively, you turned to face him head-on. And where your hand should have caught nothing but air, it rested against the hard expanse of his abdomen. You took a sobering breath. It was too close, too human.
He closed his eyes briefly, satisfied, before finding yours again. There was no heartbeat. But there was a flex of movement, of his silhouette under your fingertips.
“And why wouldn’t you?” He tormented. “When my name is so sweet from your lips. You're reckless," he reminded. "You care.”
And shame zipped up your spine. That was it; he was your shame.
“You hurt him.” You deflected, thinking of Bob.
“We hurt each other.” Void acknowledged carefully, head tilting ever so slightly. Then, shifting closer, added, “But I am not the one who left you.”
And it felt like another jab. You were waiting for the pin to drop, for you to wake up from this dream. There was no other explanation for it. It wasn’t real.
You pulled your hand back, embarrassed and nervous, only to be stopped as his grip clasped over yours. He wasn’t warm, not like Bob. He wasn’t cold, like the ice in your veins. Your eyes looked where you could imagine his hands were before letting them drift up.
Gold light peered back. Where a face should be. Too human. And your free hand carefully reached up, grasping where you could imagine the curve of a jaw. Your breath caught in your throat when you found it. The touch was grounding.
“And he is not the one who found you.”
Silence.
“Then why are you here?” You challenged, prodding for an answer. “You could have left me in the dark.”
Pinhole eyes narrowed.
“You called for me. Not him,” The admission held a heavy weight. “You called. For me.”
Your cheeks were warm. He spoke it like it was a siren's call. And it was dangerous.
“You care.” You realized, whispering now. “You feel.”
“What I feel is irrelevant.”
But that wasn’t true. You were convinced he could see your smug expression even in the pitch-black room.
“You’re bleeding.”
Ah. Deflecting again. You knew that game but were through with the charade.
“Fine,” you conceded. “I do care. You win. I care about Bob. I care about his fucked up mind. So sure, I care about you - even if you destroy and create loathing and shame. Perhaps that’s my shame.” You admitted, pulling your hand away from his face.
It wasn’t real.
And it was time to wake up.
“This has been nice,” you admitted. “But if I’m going to die alone in the desert, I better face it.”
The Void offered no words of comfort. You weren’t expecting any. And as you stepped back and out of his hold, the cold seeped in.
Your breathing was uneasy, and the dull ache in your shoulder bloomed into hot pain. You were bleeding. The lights flickered on. The lights…
And he was still there, a dark figure in an empty room. Where there had been men, dark shadows cast along the ground. There was a tick in your jaw. You felt seasick.
And you realized then that it wasn’t a dream. Stoic and observant, the Void was still. His curled hair and the shape of his nose were too uncanny. Pinhole eyes stared back at you even then.
You hiccupped out an uneasy breath. Emotion pummeled into you. Fear. Abandonment. Solitude. Pain. Hope. No. NO.
He didn’t make a move, but observed. And then, at last, the low call of your name had you buckling at the knees.
He had been there all along, skirting around your mind. He met you in the dark, draping his cape around you and holding you in the quiet moments between sleep and wakefulness.
The Void was real. A tangible threat. Bob knew it. And then it clicked; that was why he pushed you away.
A hand reached out.
You had borne witness to the destruction and affliction it caused, and yet…
“You’re bleeding.”
And as you looked down from where his hand extended, red blossomed from the top of your shoulder down to your navel. Oh god.
“Let me,” He stopped, grounding the words. “Let me in.”
It was an offer of help, and you didn't think. You didn’t look up as you nodded. The movement was slow, slight, but deliberate. And he took action before you could blink.
A firm hand to the wound was all it took, the other wrapping around your hip to keep you planted. And in front of your eyes, inky tendrils replaced the bloodied stain. Where the Void’s touch lingered, it mimicked the charcoal smudges from your sketches.
He was your bad dreams and late nights. He was there the whole time, carving a hole for himself. And it left behind an imprint for you to remember.
He will fail you. He can’t keep you safe.
But now you could read between the lines.
“You can’t keep me safe either.” You whispered. He was no hero. No savior - he said it himself.
The grip tightened at your hip, his hair clouding your peripheral vision. He was pulling closer, the hand at your shoulder moving to hook under your chin. He was forcing your attention on him. Bob might have put up a fight, but the Void was inevitable. He wasn’t going anywhere.
And as he drew closer, you smelled it.
Mahogany and ozone. Bob was there, too. The visage changed.
In front of your eyes, the Void flickered in and out of focus. You could see all of them like frames in a set of photos.
The Void. Bob Reynolds. Sentry. Powerful blue eyes, golden eyes, and pinhole eyes locked in. They were drawing closer still until you were a breath apart. And before you were swept under the current, the three of their voices overlapped in unison.
It was not a kiss, but just on the cusp. It was a promise.
“You don’t know what I am capable of.”
