currently editing a bucky (kinda) forced (but not really) proximity summer fake dating fic that i made like 6 months ago......... should i just post it
synopsis : You’re a pop star, and the world is convinced you and Steve Rogers are the ultimate it couple. So when you headline a festival, everyone expects the final song to be about him, especially when you start walking through the crowd.
But you don’t stop in front of Steve, you stop in front of Bucky Barnes.
pairing : james/bucky barnes x reader , winter soldier x reader
content : popstar!reader, boyfriend!bucky, SLIGHT secret dating ??
warning/s : none fs, pure flufffff
word count : maybe around 5.8k oh no
The hotel suite sat on the top floor of a glass-walled tower overlooking the Coachella Valley, where the desert was already bleeding into gold and violet dusk. The floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living space, turning the entire room into a glowing box of sunset and distant festival haze.
Inside, everything looked expensive in a way that was almost too clean to feel real: cream linen couches, a marble coffee table cluttered with water bottles, VIP passes, and half-open packaging from last-minute wardrobe fixes. The faint thrum of bass from the festival outside pulsed through the glass like a heartbeat the entire city shared.
Before any of them even spoke, your presence was already everywhere in the room... not physically, but in the way every screen seemed to orbit around you. On Sam’s phone. On Natasha’s tablet. On the muted hotel TV looping entertainment news. Your face kept appearing in fragments: rehearsal clips, paparazzi shots, fan edits already dissecting your outfits for the night. It was always like this around you, even when you weren’t there.
You weren’t just performing at Coachella that night.
You were the headline.
You weren't just famous in the way most celebrities were famous. You were globally unavoidable. The kind of pop star whose songs didn’t just chart, they lived in public memory like landmarks. Every comeback broke streaming records. Every tour sold out in minutes that felt almost suspiciously fast. You were called the “princess of pop” by magazines that ran out of new ways to describe your consistency: flawless vocals, cinematic concepts, stage presence that made arenas feel intimate and personal even from the nosebleeds.
And then there was the other layer, the internet.
The one where your image became mythology. You were a sweetheart in interviews, soft-spoken when you wanted to be, laughing easily in a way that made people think they knew you. Fanboys adored you openly. Fan edits multiplied daily. Entire corners of TikTok treated your expressions like lore, slowing down your smiles like they were clues.
And somewhere in all of that, the Steve Rogers narrative had taken root and refused to die.
Bucky stood near the couch, one boot resting on the edge of the coffee table like he had forgotten furniture was not decorative. He wore a fitted black henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, dark tactical pants that somehow looked more casual than military now, and his hair was pulled back into the low bun you had texted him about earlier that day. It was neat. Intentional. And unfairly attractive in a way that made Sam visibly suffer the moment he saw it.
“You look like you fix motorcycles and ruin women emotionally,” Sam had said immediately.
Natasha was lounging on the arm of the couch in a black satin slip dress with a loose robe half-tied around her waist, red hair still damp like she’d rushed through getting ready just to avoid being early to anything. She held a champagne flute like she was already bored of the evening and waiting for something interesting to happen. Steve stood near the glass wall in a plain gray shirt and baseball cap he was doing absolutely nothing to hide behind, sunglasses hooked lazily in his hand. Sam was slouched in a chair, phone in hand, scrolling with the intensity of someone trying to argue with the internet.
Bucky’s phone lit up, your contact photo filling up the screen immediately.
His expression changed before he could stop it, softening instantly.
Sam noticed. “Oh no. That’s the face again.”
Natasha leaned slightly to look over his shoulder.
It was a mirror selfie. Backstage. You, already in your first outfit of the night. You wore a baby pink rhinestone corset, tiny white fur trim, glitter catching in the corners of your eyes like stardust. Your hair was pinned up messily, strands falling loose around your face. You looked like trouble disguised as perfection.
The message read:
first outfit <3 u ready? :)
put the bun back exactly how i showed you or i’m ignoring you tonight
Bucky exhaled through his nose, then typed: that a threat?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
it’s a guarantee.
Then another message:
i can tell when you’re overthinking. stop it. just do the bun right.
Sam leaned forward. “She talks to you like you’re her emotional support soldier.”
Natasha didn’t look up. “That’s because he is.”
Steve finally turned from the window. “She’s very particular.”
Bucky muttered, “She’s bossy.”
Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You like it.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Instead, he adjusted a loose strand near the bun automatically, like his body had already decided it was going to obey you whether he admitted it or not.
Then Bucky’s phone buzzed again.
send proof of bun.
He angled the camera and took a quick photo—bun tight, hair cleanly pulled back, black henley framing his shoulders under the warm hotel light.
Sent.
Three seconds later:
okay wow. don’t let anyone else look at you tonight :P
Sam groaned. “I hate this relationship.”
Natasha smiled into her glass. “No you don’t.”
Steve adjusted his cap again, glancing at the time. “We should head out soon. Traffic will be bad.”
Bucky barely had time to lock his phone before it started lighting up again, except this time it wasn’t you.
It was TikTok.
He didn’t even open it before Sam pointed. “Oh no. Don’t do that. That’s how you lose peace.”
Bucky ignored him and tapped anyway.
Immediately—
A video loaded.
A fan edit of you and Steve at last year’s gala, slow-motion, cinematic filter, soft piano music layered over it.
Text on screen says, "she looks at him like he’s home.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
Swipe.
“You cannot convince me Y/N isn’t dating Steve Rogers. look at this.”
The clip starts with you laughing at something Steve says during an interview, head tilted slightly toward him, crowd noise fading into romantic audio.
they’re literally endgame!
this is america’s royal couple idc
Swipe.
A compilation titled: “moments Y/N forgets she’s not in love with steve rogers”
It showed clips of you and Steve walking a red carpet side by side. Steve adjusting your microphone at an event. You touching his arm briefly during a charity appearance camera zooming in on shared smiles that were probably nothing and everything at once depending on who was watching
Bucky’s thumb paused for half a second longer than it should have.
Natasha noticed immediately. “Don’t do that thing.”
“What thing.”
“The thing where you let TikTok convince you reality is optional.”
He didn’t respond, just kept scrolling.
Another video loaded.
“Okay but be serious for a second,” a girl said into the camera, “Y/N and Steve are literally built like a romance novel. like she’s the princess of pop and he’s captain america, that’s insane storytelling.”
Cut to another clip: your interview answer about “admiring people who do the right thing no matter what.”
Bucky read the big bold text overlay flashing right in front of him: "SHE MEANT HIM."
Sam laughed from the chair. “They’re doing narrative analysis on her like it’s a thesis.”
Swipe. Another.
This one had a million likes already.
Steve smiling at you during a press event, and you smiling back. The caption: “if they’re not together what is this energy? mom and dad fr"
Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened slightly.
Swipe.
Another video immediately autoplayed.
A compilation of fan comments scrolling too fast to read fully, but the gist was clear: Steve and Y/N are perfect, Steve is so respectful, they’re both America’s image, this is what healthy looks like.
Bucky finally locked the phone for a second.
The screen went dark.
Silence in the room held for maybe two seconds.
Then it lit up again.
Your name.
Another message from you, like you could feel the shift through the silence.
i’m going on soon. don’t get weird about anything online. can't wait to see u after the show :)
Bucky stared at it.
Sam leaned forward slightly. “That’s… actually kind of unfairly calming.”
Natasha smiled faintly. “She knows him.”
Steve exhaled, almost relieved. “She really does.”
Bucky put his phone down this time, properly, like it had weight now.
“Let’s go,” he said again, quieter.
The roar of the crowd hit them before they even reached the VIP section. It wasn’t just noise, it was pressure, like the entire desert had turned into a single living thing that reacted to your name. Thousands upon thousands of people packed into the festival grounds beneath flashing lights and towering LED screens, the air itself vibrating with bass so heavy it felt like it was coming from inside the ribs. Giant spotlights swept across the audience in slow, cinematic arcs, catching waves of raised phones and glittering signs, while drones hovered above like silent eyes recording every second.
Your name illuminated the entire stage in pink and gold lettering: Y/N. It wasn’t just a title above a performer anymore, it looked like a monument. The stage design stretched wider than anything Bucky had seen in person before, all layered platforms and moving risers, with a long catwalk slicing straight into the crowd like a runway built to swallow distance. LED panels wrapped around everything in shifting visuals with soft pink hearts one moment, sharp metallic glitch effects the next, already cycling through aesthetics that matched your eras like chapters in a story.
The audience even screamed every time a crew member so much as stepped into view because they thought it might be you. Even shadows got mistaken for you. Even your absence felt like anticipation.
Bucky stayed close behind Natasha as security pushed them through a side corridor into the VIP barricaded area near the front. The closer they got, the more overwhelming it became—heat from bodies, the smell of desert dust mixed with perfume and sweat and smoke machines already testing their cues. The bass wasn’t just heard anymore; it physically pressed against his chest in rhythmic pulses that matched nothing but the scale of what he was about to watch.
People noticed them almost instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Is that—?”
“The avengers! They're here!”
Phones lifted like a wave cresting all at once, screens glowing as they tilted upward. The reaction spread through the crowd in ripples, turning heads, pointing fingers, half-shouted guesses bouncing between strangers who suddenly had something else to look at while waiting for you to appear. Steve pulled his cap lower instinctively, shoulders tightening as cameras caught sight of him from every angle. Sam, on the other hand, grinned and gave a casual wave like he was at a neighborhood barbecue instead of standing in front of tens of thousands of screaming people, which only made the reaction louder.
Bucky kept his head down, moving with Natasha’s lead until they reached the side-stage viewing area. From here, everything opened up.
The catwalk stretched out like a glowing spine into the crowd, cutting through the sea of people and ending in a circular platform surrounded on all sides. Above it, suspended lighting rigs hovered like mechanical constellations, shifting colors in slow gradients that bathed the audience in pinks, reds, and deep electric blues. The main stage loomed behind it like a skyscraper of screens, layered with moving visuals. Your past music videos are playing in edited loops, clips of choreography, close-ups of your face slowed down into something almost unreal.
Bucky could feel the crowd more than he could see them from here. It wasn’t just cheering anymore, it was anticipation stretched to the breaking point. A thousand conversations all happening at once, all orbiting the same name, the same expectation.
And then he started hearing it.
“Steve Rogers is here too, right?”
“I swear I saw him backstage earlier—like at that charity thing with her—”
“He's definitely here for her, I wonder if she knows"
Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly at that, subtle but immediate, his attention shifting without him meaning to. Another cluster of fans nearby, phones angled toward the stage, voices rising over the bass.
“Now that he’s here it’s literally confirmed though.”
“Right? Like why would Captain America be at her show unless—”
“Unless it’s real. It HAS to be real.”
Bucky’s hand flexed once at his side, metal fingers twitching faintly before he forced them still. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the empty stage as if looking anywhere else would make it worse. Natasha, walking just ahead of him, didn’t turn around, but her voice dropped slightly anyway, just enough for him to hear.
“Don’t spiral,” she said simply.
“I’m not spiraling,” Bucky muttered automatically.
“Sure,” she replied, dry.
Behind them, another fan voice carried, louder this time, almost excitedly convinced of itself.
“I’m telling you, this is like the official confirmation episode. Steve’s here, she’s performing, it’s literally going to happen on stage.”
That one hit a little differently, like it landed heavier than the rest.
Bucky looked down for half a second, then back up again, steadying himself without acknowledging it.
Steve, who had been quietly taking in the scale of everything with a more reserved expression, shifted slightly closer. He had heard enough by then, enough repetition of his name next to yours, enough certainty in strangers’ voices that didn’t match reality.
He glanced at Bucky briefly, then stepped in closer beside him as they stopped at the viewing rail.
“Hey,” Steve said quietly.
Bucky didn’t look at him. “It’s fine.”
Bucky looked at him then, sharp but controlled. Steve met it without flinching, tone steady, grounded in something calmer than the crowd.
“She’s performing,” Steve said. “That’s all this is right now. The internet is going to build stories no matter what happens in front of them.”
Steve glanced back toward the stage, then toward Bucky again. “Plus, you're the one she’s texting during all of this,” he said quietly.
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze returning to the empty stage where every light was now building toward your entrance.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment, quieter than before. “I know.”
And then the entire stadium lights shifted again, as if the desert itself had decided the waiting was over.
The stadium went black like someone had pulled the plug on the entire desert at once. No light, no movement, just a suspended silence that lasted half a heartbeat too long— long enough for eighty thousand people to hold their breath without realizing they were doing it. Then the screen above the stage flickered once, twice, and burst open in a wash of neon pink, yellow, and white strobe. Your name didn’t appear this time. It announced itself.
A single note hit first. It was low, distorted, almost like it was being dragged through glass. Then another layer stacked on top of it, brighter, faster, until the sound built into something unmistakable. The opening of your set. Your signature intro. The one every fan recognized instantly even before the visuals fully resolved. The desert lit up in pulses, synchronized like a heartbeat trying to catch up with itself.
And then you appeared.
Not immediately center stage, but elevated, on a platform that rose slowly through the floor like it had been waiting beneath the world the entire time. White light hit you from below first, turning you into a silhouette before the color fully caught up. Then everything snapped into focus: you in a structured, crystal-studded bodysuit that shimmered between soft pink and chrome under the lights, a matching sheer cape that moved like liquid behind you, hair styled in soft waves that framed your face like it had been painted there on purpose.
The crowd screamed.
The sound wasn’t just loud, it was physical. It rolled through the VIP section like a shockwave, vibrating through the barricades, through the stage, through Bucky’s chest before he even fully processed that you were there.
Natasha tilted her head slightly. “There she is!"
Sam let out a low whistle. “Yeah, okay. That’s insane.”
Steve didn’t say anything at first, just watched as the stage transformed around you—lights shifting into synchronized geometry, dancers appearing in layers behind you like they had been hidden in the architecture itself. Moving platforms rose and fell in time with the beat, and the entire stage felt less like a set and more like a living system built entirely around you.
Bucky wasn’t speaking either.
He just watched.
Because you didn’t stand still for even a second. You moved like the stage was reacting to you instead of the other way around, every step triggering a shift in light, every turn pulling the audience deeper into the performance. The camera screens flashed between close-ups and wide shots, cutting between your face and the sea of people losing their minds in real time.
Your voice came in clean, controlled, effortless over the production. It was bright and teasing, already fully in command of the crowd. You weren’t easing into it. You were owning it from the first second.
A few songs later, the set started building.
The visuals shifted. Pink turned into deeper reds. Glitter into sharp light beams. The choreography tightened. The energy changed... not slower, just sharper, like something was about to pivot.
The music kept rising, playful but charged now, that familiar teasing tension threading through the arrangement as dancers moved in formation behind you, creating shapes that looked almost like they were spelling something the crowd couldn’t read yet.
You paced toward the end of the catwalk, still singing, still smiling, completely unbothered by the scale of what you were doing to the audience.
Bucky’s grip tightened faintly at his side without him realizing it.
This was where the performance stopped being just performance and started becoming something else entirely.
The lighting softened.
The crowd screamed louder because they could tell what was coming even before it arrived.
“Coachella,” you said into the mic, and the desert answered instantly. The crowd erupted so loudly it felt like the ground itself shook in response, a wave of sound rolling through the VIP barricade and into the night sky.
You laughed softly, letting it breathe for half a second before lifting your gaze across the sea of lights.
“Before my final song I just wanted to ask something.”
The cheers grew louder immediately, scattered screams turning into a single rising roar.
You tilted your head, pacing slowly at the end of the catwalk like you were thinking out loud.
“Has anyone of you become obsessed with something?”
A beat.
“…or someone?”
The crowd exploded.
Even the Avengers section reacted. Sam let out an impressed “ohhh,” Natasha smirking into her drink, Steve raising his eyebrows slightly like he already knew where this was going. Bucky, though, just stared at you like the rest of the world had disappeared behind your voice. There was something soft in his expression now, something almost disbelievingly fond, like he still wasn’t used to the fact that this was his life.
“…cause I have.”
The scream that followed was deafening.
You smiled into it, unbothered, glowing under the lights.
“I wanna dedicate this song to someone…”
You paused, letting the anticipation build, eyes drifting across the stadium before landing right on the camera.
“You know who you are.”
The jumbotron cut to your face instantly. Close-up. Soft lighting. Glitter in your lashes. You smiled directly into it like you were speaking to one person in a stadium of thousands.
Bucky saw it on the screen and smiled without meaning to, small and quiet, like it slipped out of him before he could stop it.
Sam immediately leaned in. “Oh my god, she’s about to emotionally ruin you in 4K.”
Bucky didn’t look away from the screen. “Shut up.”
The beat dropped.
“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing / Oh yeah, you just get it”
The crowd screamed again, louder than before, immediately locking onto the energy shift. Cameras flashed everywhere. Somewhere in the audience someone yelled, “SHE’S SINGING THIS FOR STEVE!” and it spread fast.
Steve actually heard it this time.
He gave a small sideways glance toward Bucky, something calm and almost reassuring in it, like he wanted to cut through the noise before it built into something heavier.
Bucky met his eyes briefly.
A silent exchange.
Then Steve gave a faint nod, like ignore them, like it’s not what they think.
Bucky nodded back once, understanding without needing more.
“You make me wanna make you fall in love”
The crowd roared, lights shifting pink and gold across the stage as dancers moved in tight formation behind you. You didn’t miss a beat, voice steady, playful, teasing the entire stadium like it belonged to you.
Bucky’s gaze followed you instinctively, softer now, fully locked in. There was something almost unreal about watching you like this, and the fact that with thousands of people screaming your name, every light in the desert pointing toward you... your expression still felt personal in the way it always did when you texted him stupid things at 2 AM.
He didn’t even realize he was smiling again.
Sam noticed anyway. “Yeah, okay, he’s in love.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky said again, but there was no bite in it.
Steve’s attention flicked back toward the crowd as another wave of chatter rose near the barricade.
“Steve and Y/N are literally happening tonight, I swear—”
“That’s why he’s here, look at him—”
Steve exhaled quietly, then leaned just slightly closer to Bucky so only he could hear him.
“For the record,” Steve said, calm, steady, “I’m not confused about any of this.”
Bucky glanced at him.
Steve added, “And neither should you be.”
Bucky held his gaze for a second, then nodded once, slower this time.
The music pulsed forward.
“I know you want my touch for life”
The crowd erupted again, phones rising like a wave. Bucky watched you move across the catwalk, lights catching on your outfit, your smile sharp and bright as you played with the audience like it was second nature.
And despite everything, the noise, the theories, the constant wrong assumptions, there was something grounding in how clearly you were performing for this moment, not for the narrative being built around it.
Sam bumped Bucky’s shoulder lightly. “Hey. Eyes up. She’s literally doing her thing.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “Yeah. I see her.”
“...let you lock me down tonight”
The beat softened into something more teasing, more dangerous, the kind of rhythm that made the crowd lose their minds without fully understanding why.
Bucky felt it anyway. That pull. That focus. Like the entire show was narrowing in real time.
He didn’t notice the comments anymore. Not really. He keeps on watching you.
That was it.
“Can’t help myself, hormones are high / Give me more than just some butterflies”
Your eyes lowkey swept the VIP section.
Scanning.
A little slower this time.
Bucky straightened slightly without thinking, like he felt it before he understood it.
The crowd took it differently.
A ripple went through them instantly.
“Is she looking for Steve?!”
“She’s literally scanning for him—”
Sam groaned. “Oh my god, they’re narrating again.”
“Wanna try out some freaky positions?”
The crowd screamed so loudly it almost swallowed the next beat.
You suddenly ran forward toward the camera, playful, grinning like you were about to break the entire internet on purpose.
“Have you ever tried this one?”
You blew a kiss directly into the lens.
The screen cut instantly.
Steve.
Close-up on the jumbotron.
The crowd lost it completely. Even louder than before.
Sam wheezed. “OH NO—”
Steve blinked once, clearly caught off guard, then let out a short breath through his nose like he had accepted his fate.
Bucky heard it now—different pockets of the crowd reacting exactly how the internet had trained them to.
Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly before Sam immediately leaned in again.
“You okay man?”
Bucky didn’t respond.
Because you had already moved.
A quick glance, again, towards the VIP section.
Toward him.
Not long, but enough.
And then you turned back to the crowd and started walking.
“... you know I just might / let you lock me down tonight”
You moved toward the stairs now, still singing, still perfect, still fully in control of the entire stadium.
Bucky’s attention tracked you immediately.
You passed the barricade slowly as you sang, cameras following, security adjusting as you descended into the crowd-level walkway.
The audience went feral, reaching out, screaming your name as you moved closer and closer to the VIP section.
And then—
you walked past Steve.
Steve shifted slightly aside instinctively as you passed, more out of awareness than anything else.
And then you stopped...
Right in front of Bucky.
The sound didn’t drop, but it sharpened. The crowd saw it at the same time.
“No way—”
“WAIT—”
“OH MY GOD.”
You continued singing.
“Adore me… hold me and explore me…”
And you sang it directly to him. Eyes locked.
No crowd in your face anymore.
Just him.
Bucky froze for half a second, breath catching, expression softening immediately like he didn’t know how to function under that kind of attention.
Steve, just behind, stepped slightly closer behind Bucky, not pushing, just guiding the moment forward as the barricade tightened with security and movement.
“mark your territory, tell me I’m the only only only only one…”
The stadium erupted again, louder than anything before it.
Bucky didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because you were looking at him like there was no one else in the world.
“...hold me and explore me”
Your voice softened slightly, still carrying, still perfect.
And then your hand lifted.
Pressed gently to his chest.
The crowd absolutely detonated.
Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes flickering for just a second like he felt everything at once.
“tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one…”
Your hand slid down his chest slowly as you finished the line, deliberate and controlled, the entire stadium screaming like it was witnessing something irreversible.
Sam made a sound like he had given up on life entirely. “OH MY GOD.”
Steve let out a quiet, almost amused breath behind them, like he couldn’t believe the internet was about to implode this hard.
And you—
You just smiled at Bucky like it was easy.
Then you stepped back and let go.
Turned.
And ran back toward the stage.
Still singing.
Still owning every second of the chaos you had just created.
You were already moving back toward the stage as the moment at the barricade dissolved into chaos behind you, security guiding the flow but never touching you. The bass never let up, carrying you forward like you were still fully inside the choreography even off-center. Fans reached out as you passed, screaming your name into the desert night, phones shaking as they tried to keep up with you.
“I know you want my touch for life”
Your voice stayed steady as you stepped up toward the stage, the camera catching you mid-motion, glitter flashing under the lights as you glanced once toward VIP before turning back.
Bucky hadn’t moved. Just watched you like everything else had gone quiet around him.
Sam leaned slightly. “She’s really just acting like that didn’t happen.”
Natasha hummed. “It did. Just not for her.”
Steve stayed quiet now, eyes on you, expression softer than before.
You reached the stage again, lights snapping back into full intensity as dancers fell into place behind you.
“If you love me right, then who knows?”
The crowd roared instantly, the energy snapping back into full performance mode.
"I might let you make me Juno"
You moved across the stage with ease, smiling like you never left.
Bucky’s gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking now.
Sam muttered, “Yeah, she’s enjoying this way too much.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Because you were still looking his way sometimes.
"Let you lock me down tonight"
The lights shifted warmer, fireworks beginning to glow faintly in the distance as the crowd built toward the end.
Bucky exhaled slowly, shoulders easing without him noticing.
“One of me is cute, but two though?”
The crowd screamed the lyric back at you, phones rising higher.
“Give it to me, baby”
You pointed out over them, playful, effortless, in control of every second.
And then—
“You make me wanna make you fall in love!"
The Avengers Tower common floor was doing its usual post-viral-event routine: pretending everything was normal while the TV on the wall refused to stop replaying Coachella like it had become permanent programming. Your performance looped again in glossy slow motion. The pink-gold lights, the barricade moment, that frozen frame of Bucky with your hand on his chest played while a scrolling headline insisted beneath it:
FANS STILL DEBATE BUCKY BARNES VS STEVE ROGERS AFTER COACHELLA MOMENT.
On the coffee table, someone’s phone was just running TikToks on its own at this point.
Yelena sat curled up on the couch with a bowl of cereal, watching like it was live sports. “She is very dramatic walker,” she said flatly as another slowed edit of you crossing the stage played again.
Alexei nodded seriously from the armchair, scrolling. “No, no. This is artistic movement. Very precise. Like ballet, but with internet consequences.”
Yelena glanced at him. “You are enjoying this too much.”
“I enjoy truth,” Alexei said, immediately liking a zoomed-in edit of your hand on Bucky’s chest set to cinematic music.
Natasha stood in the kitchen making tea like none of this qualified as emergency behavior. Steam curled up as she finally said, “You two are going to give yourselves headaches.”
Then—
the elevator dinged.
Bucky stepped out and stopped immediately upon seeing the TV.
His face. Your hand. Crowd screaming.
Frozen in the worst possible angle for someone trying to have a normal morning.
Yelena lifted her cereal bowl slightly. “Oh good. The internet’s boyfriend is here.”
Alexei waved. “Hello, prince charming.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He just walked toward the glass wall instead, like distance could somehow reset reality.
Outside, the city below the tower entrance was already packed. Fans. Cameras. Press vans. All clustered tightly like the building had become a landmark overnight. Phones pointed upward. Waiting.
Natasha watched him over her mug. “So, what did her publicist say about this?”
“I don't know, haven't checked,” Bucky said immediately.
Yelena tilted her head. “You are staring very hard at outside people.”
“I’m observing.”
Alexei leaned forward. “They are observing you back. Very intense social ecosystem.”
Before Bucky could respond, the TV switched to live footage.
LIVE: Y/N L/N ARRIVING AT AVENGERS TOWER
Yelena sat up instantly. “Oh. She is early.”
On screen, your SUV door opened. The crowd outside surged like it had been waiting for that exact moment all morning.
Bucky turned fully now. Watching despite himself.
You stepped out calmly. Sunglasses on. Hair loose. Outfit too put-together for 7 AM and paparazzi chaos. Security formed instantly, but microphones still pushed forward.
“Y/N! IS THIS ABOUT BUCKY BARNES?”
"ARE YOU HERE FOR STEVE ROGERS?”
"WHY BUCKY?”
You paused, then said, very calmly, “I forgot my coffee upstairs.”
Silence.
Then chaos exploded.
Yelena pointed at the screen. “That is worst answer. I respect it.”
Before anyone could recover, you added casually, “Also, I’m here for Bucky.”
That did it. The crowd detonated again in real time.
And then another clip cut in on someone’s phone at the coffee table, this one already going viral: a girl in front of a messy bedroom setup, speaking like she was delivering sworn testimony.
“I knew y’all got the wrong guy when I saw her wearing Bucky’s hoodie months ago at that Starbucks,” she said, pointing at the camera like it was evidence in court. “Y’all are just in DENIAL.”
The video zoomed in aggressively on a screenshot of you in an oversized hoodie, coffee in hand, walking beside Bucky months earlier.
Text overlay says:
RECEIPTS WERE RIGHT IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME
Yelena leaned forward slightly. “Oh this one is confident.”
Alexei nodded approvingly. “Strong argument. Poor grammar, but strong conviction.”
Bucky didn’t say anything.
Because he was already moving.
Natasha called after him, “Hey, you don’t need to—”
But he was already gone.
The lobby felt louder than it should have been, even for Avengers Tower. Security radios crackled. Cameras clicked outside the glass doors. The crowd pressed forward like the building itself had become a stage.
Bucky came down too fast, then slowed immediately when he saw you.
You were already inside.
Just past the entrance zone. Calm in the middle of moving chaos, surrounded by security and microphones and overlapping questions.
“Have you ever dated both of them?”
"Why Bucky Barnes specifically?”
"What happened at Coachella?”
You removed your sunglasses just as the doors closed.
And Bucky was there.
Ten feet away.
He stopped.
You stopped too.
Everything behind you stayed loud, but the space between you was oddly quiet. Like it didn’t belong to the internet.
You looked at him and smiled.
“Hi,” you said.
Bucky blinked once. “Hey.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the chaos behind you. Then back.
“You said coffee?" he added, quieter.
You nodded.
That got him. A small laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He stepped forward.
You met him halfway and took his hand like it was obvious you would.
Behind you, the lobby exploded again—cameras, shouting, headlines being born in real time—but it stayed outside the moment.
Bucky looked down at your hand in his, then back at you.
“You’re kinda early,” he said.
You shrugged slightly. “Traffic was emotional.”
His smile softened properly now.
“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”
A/N: im backkk?!?! this is like a warm-up one shot cuz i haven't written in a long time lol // anw how r yall??? // will probs write again for bob just bc i kinda miss him
May I request a Bob Reynolds x Villain!Reader who -despite being a villain and doing villain things- they treat Bob really well,?
Like- if they heard about how Walker treats Bob, they'd already be planning to go after him first or smthng,?? Idek,,, just food for thoughts()
ferra (r.r.)
synopsis : You’re a weapon, feared, used, and long past redemption. The jobs don’t feel like victories anymore, just noise between silences. Then you meet Bob Reynolds. Too quiet, too powerful, and far too familiar. You should have walked away. Instead, you saved him, and now you’re in deeper than you meant to be.
warning/s : violence, swearing, mentions of past trauma
word count : 3.5k
A/N: thank you sm for the request! @d3adbr3inc3lls teehee i hope u like this one !!
You weren’t born a weapon.
But metal always loved you more than people did.
You learned that early, maybe too early. When your mother screamed and the bullet bent before it hit her, twisting midair like it had changed its mind. You remember her terrified face more than anything else. Not the blood. Not the man who ran. Just her, backing away from you like you’d grown claws.
You were seven.
That’s how it started.
Your power didn’t manifest gently. There was no warm glow, no magical accident. It wasn’t kind. It was messy and sharp and loud. You were loud. You cried for days afterward, not because you hurt someone—but because no one ever held you again.
By nine, you stopped flinching at sirens.
By eleven, you stopped waiting for help.
By thirteen, you were untraceable. Gone like smoke through every foster file, every underground program that wanted to “train” kids like you. The labs wanted you. The recruiters whispered your name like it was prophecy. The mercenary networks put a price on your head before they even met you.
Not because you were dangerous.
Because you were useful.
You learned quick that the world didn’t care if you were scared. Only if you were strong.
So you became strong.
By sixteen, you stopped caring about names altogether. You didn’t need one when they called you “the Iron Witch,” “the ferromancer,” “the girl with the gods-damned mind-magnet hands.” You didn’t care what they thought, as long as they feared you. Fear was safe. Fear made people back off. Fear paid the bills.
And the bills were always coming.
You’ve twisted steel into chains and walls and coffins. You’ve stopped bullets mid-flight, melted guns into slag while still in their owner’s grip, crushed skulls inside helmets without lifting a finger. You’ve dropped tanks from the sky. You’ve walked through warzones and left no survivors. You’ve been paid in gold, blood, and silence.
Because someone asked you to.
And that’s the thing about power. Once people know you have it, they stop asking if you want anything else.
No one ever asked what you wanted.
Not peace. Not forgiveness.
Certainly not love.
For a while, you thought you didn’t want anything else. You made a home out of silence. Built your bones out of iron and called it evolution. You convinced yourself that this—this mercenary, steel-skinned, blood-washed life—was freedom.
But freedom starts to rot when it’s just isolation in a prettier cage.
Then came the nights where even metal couldn’t drown out the silence. The weight of your own armor started to feel like a coffin. The kills got too easy. The jobs got too clean. You stopped sleeping well. Stopped laughing. Stopped pretending you liked the person you saw in the mirror. All you saw were sharp edges. All you heard was the sound of your own breath and the hum of weaponized walls.
You started to wonder if you’d always feel this alone.
And now?
Now you’re standing in a half-collapsed weapons facility in the Balkans, chasing something that might be worse than all the other jobs you’ve done put together. A “graviton pulse stabilizer” with phase-bending capabilities—something the wrong buyer could use to rewrite physics. To erase the laws of reality like a chalkboard. You don’t even want it. You told yourself you took the job because it was dangerous, and because if you didn’t get there first, someone worse would.
That’s the excuse you gave yourself.
But really?
You came because the Thunderbolts were coming too.
Because he was coming.
You wanted to see what second chances looked like.
You wanted to see him.
Bob Reynolds. The golden boy turned nuclear ghost. You’d read about him. Watched the footage.Somehow both the strongest and the most unstable of the bunch. You heard the whispers. The rumors. The fear that trembled behind closed doors.
He wasn’t what they called him.
Not just “The Void.” Not just a bomb in human skin.
No. You’d seen his file.
You saw the way he disappeared from fights more than he started them. The way he volunteered for backline duty, always carrying what the others needed. The way he stood slightly behind the rest, as if afraid of taking up space. The way he looked down in every surveillance clip, like the camera might flay him open if he met its gaze.
Someone like that… you understood.
Power that big didn’t come without breaking something first.
You wonder what broke in him. And whether it was the same thing that broke in you.
You move silently through the rusted remains of the upper floor, your boots gliding over warped steel catwalks. The old facility breathes around you—metal pipes groaning, floor beams shifting beneath the weight of history. The air is heavy with the scent of damp concrete, rust, and something darker beneath it—gunpowder, old smoke, dried blood trapped in stone.
Your fingers ghost along the wall. The pipes hum beneath your skin. There’s iron in the paint, copper in the wire, fragments of old blood in the dust. It listens when you touch it. The whole building does. The girders shiver at your passing. The screws twist a little looser, as if happy to see you.
This broken, half-dead ruin of a war machine. And for now, you’re the only god it worships.
But you didn’t come to rule, you came to watch.
You came to find the one man who might understand what it feels like to be a weapon no one asked to make.
You came to see if there’s still something in this world that doesn’t turn to steel when you reach for it.
And if there isn’t?
Then at least you’ll know.
Far below, across the fractured ribcage of the facility, something shifts.
Not the team. You’d recognize their weight—too heavy, too clumsy, too loud in the way soldiers always are. This is something else. Quieter. Hesitant.
You pause at the edge of a collapsed stairwell and feel the breath of metal shift through your lungs. It tells you before your eyes do.
He’s close.
Bob doesn’t hear her at first.
He feels her.
The echo of something magnetic. Not literal magnetism—he’s immune to that. But something more primal, like a thread tugging at the corners of his awareness. His skin prickles beneath the sleeves of his black tactical shirt, the borrowed Thunderbolts insignia feeling suddenly too snug across his shoulder blades. The weight of the portable containment unit slung across his back should ground him, but it doesn’t.
Something’s off.
He’s not one to say that aloud—he’s already the weird one, the twitchy one, the backliner with a temperamental nuclear god curled up in his ribcage—but he knows what it means when his instincts twist like this.
He’s being watched.
He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and slows his steps. His boots scuff against the concrete, careful and measured. The corridors here are tight, long-abandoned, gutted of anything valuable decades ago. Walls of peeling paint, corroded metal, broken signage in Cyrillic. The lights on his suit flicker faint blue against rust and shadow.
He doesn’t call for the others.
If something’s waiting for him, it’s not for them.
He rounds the corner. And there she is.
Propped casually against the metal frame of a broken doorway, arms crossed, a lazy smirk blooming like a bruise across her mouth.
She’s not dressed like the mercs they were briefed on. No heavy gear, no visible weapons. Just combat boots scuffed silver at the soles, black utility pants cinched with magnetic buckles, and a dark fitted jacket with plates of reinforced alloy glinting faintly beneath the fabric. She looks like she built her own armor and made it look good doing it.
Her eyes are lit with something half-feral, half-amused.
“Hey, cutie,” she says, voice silk-wrapped iron. “Bob, isn’t it?”
His mouth opens. Closes.
He blinks like a man short-circuiting.
“You have something I want.”
The containment unit on his back suddenly feels very, very heavy.
He shifts slightly, posture tightening. “We can’t just give it to you.”
“I figured you’d say that.” She shrugs, lazy and unbothered, like she’s got all the time in the world to toy with him. “But I thought it’d be polite to ask first. You seemed like the polite one.”
“How do you know who I am?” he asks, quiet but direct.
She grins wider. “Oh, Bob. You don’t know how many people watch you. Most of them are scared.” Her gaze rakes him—slow, analytical, amused. “I’m just… curious.”
He swallows hard. The hallway is too narrow. The air too thick. And her presence is loud without raising her voice—metal curls toward her like ivy to sunlight. The rusted screws in the wall vibrate when she shifts her weight. Even the broken pipes seem to listen.
Then—
“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cracks through his comm. Distant, somewhere on the west wing. “Do you copy? Got movement near Sector C.”
His head turns slightly, just for a second. But when he looks back—
She’s gone.
Just a faint vibration in the walls. A memory left in the air.
He breathes out slowly.
And for some reason, it almost feels like disappointment.
Bob stands frozen, his chest heaving slightly, still staring at the empty space where she stood a second ago. His ears ring from the silence she left behind, sharper than any explosion. Then the comms crackle again—Yelena’s voice cutting in, crisp and impatient.
“Bob? You’re lagging. Talk to me.”
He forces a breath out, fingers tapping his earpiece.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“You sound weird.”
He hesitates, gaze still searching the shadows.
“Just… thought I saw someone.”
There’s a pause on the line. Then, with the unmistakable smirk in her tone:
“Was she hot?”
He doesn’t reply. Because yes. She was. But it wasn’t just that.
She felt like an unfinished sentence—both unsettling and magnetic. Something about her clung to the edges of his thoughts, even after she’d slipped back into the dark like she’d never been.
He breathes out through his nose, tension tightening between his shoulders.
That’s when the first shot cracks through the air.
Far off at first. Then closer.
It’s followed by another. And another—until the air is vibrating with it. A shuddering percussion of automatic gunfire rattling through the steel skeleton of the building.
“Contact! Third floor west—twelve targets, at least!” Ava’s voice bursts through the comms, loud over the staccato gunfire. “Unknown affiliation. They’re not on our list.”
“Copy that.” Bucky, already moving.
Bob spins toward the source of the noise, his boots scuffing over cracked concrete. His grip tightens on the sleek black pack strapped to his chest—the one carrying the weapon they were sent to retrieve. He can feel it pulsing faintly beneath the reinforced layers, like something alive is trying to wake up.
The hallway stretches ahead in ruin, flickering lights casting erratic shadows across warped steel beams. Dust filters down like ash from the upper levels, stirred by the footfalls of something heavy. Bob breaks into a run, rounding the corner—
And freezes.
Dozens of them.
They move like a hive— dark armored figures flooding into the space from a breached service door, their weapons raised. No symbols. No identifiers. No hesitation. They aren’t part of any team he’s briefed on. These guys don’t want the weapon for a mission, they want it for power.
Bucky is already engaged, trading blows with two attackers. Ava blinks in and out of visibility, phasing through solid walls and reappearing behind enemies with knives drawn. Yelena throws a flashbomb that sends sparks scattering. Alexei grabs a man by the torso and slams him into the ceiling like he’s swatting a fly.
Bob ducks behind a crumbling pillar, heart pounding, trying not to crush the pack as stray bullets ricochet dangerously close.
Another burst of gunfire—closer now—sends debris raining over his head. He risks a glance toward Ava, just in time to see a sniper lining her up in their sights.
And then the bullet stops.
Not misses.
Stops.
Frozen in midair like it hit a wall made of thought.
Time doesn’t stop. But for a moment, the air feels thick with static—every sound distorted, every motion just a fraction too slow. Bob’s eyes snap to the origin.
And there she is again. Unannounced. Unbothered.
Standing in the chaos like she belongs to it.
The bullets hover around her like planets orbiting a sun. She doesn’t even flinch. Her hand is raised lazily, her fingers poised like she’s playing a piano only she can hear. Her coat—black leather, long and battle-worn—flares around her knees. Dust settles in her hair like a crown.
She turns her wrist. The bullets drop.
One by one. A clattering rainfall of lead hitting the floor.
Bob stares. Not just at what she can do, but at the way she chooses to do it.
She stopped them.
She didn’t retaliate. Didn’t redirect. Just… stopped it all.
“She’s not with them!” Bob shouts, rising from cover. His voice is loud, cutting through the gunfire—but whether the others hear him or not, they’re too deep into the fight to pause.
Walker’s already mid-charge. His shield slices the air in a clean arc, sailing toward her like a buzzsaw.
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t need to.
The shield twists midflight—snatched from its path and slammed down at her feet with a sharp clatter, controlled like it never belonged to him in the first place.
She doesn’t speak.
But her expression shifts—irritation blooming across her face like a storm cloud.
Her eyes flick to Bob.
Walker doesn’t back down. He lunges again, faster this time, less thinking, more brute force.
And that’s when she lifts her hand, just two fingers, and the metal beneath Walker’s boots rises.
A spike of iron twists out of the floor like a fang. It slices through his tactical vest and cuts a shallow line across his ribs, stopping just short of real damage.
He stumbles back, wide-eyed.
“Enough!” Bob’s voice breaks through again. He pushes forward, hand out, trying to reach her before this gets worse.
She doesn’t raise another weapon. Doesn’t retreat.
She turns to face him fully for the first time.
And in that moment, Bob sees the truth that the rest of the team is missing.
The set of her shoulders. The control in her stance. The restraint on her face.
She’s helping them.
She’s choosing not to kill them.
Before he can say anything else, the wall behind her explodes—mercs breaching from the south wing. Three of them, armed with heavy artillery, firing wildly.
She doesn’t flinch.
Instead, she yanks an entire sheet of ceiling metal down with a sweep of her arm, twisting it into a makeshift shield that curves around Bob, Yelena, and Ava before the bullets can make contact.
The noise is deafening. Rounds hitting steel like a drumline.
And she holds it.
One hand. Breathing steady. Eyes locked on Bob the entire time.l
He watches the metal glow faintly red from the heat of impact, then cool beneath her control. When the storm dies down, she lets it fall with a thunderous slam.
She’s covered in dust now. Smudges of soot on her jaw, blood on her sleeve—someone else’s, he thinks.
She takes a single step forward.
Bob does too.
Then Walker, furious, yells from behind them, “She’s right here and you let her go? What the hell do you even do, Reynolds?!”
And before Bob can answer—before he can even breathe—
The shield twitches.
Lifts.
Spins in the air like it remembers who really listens to metal.
And flies straight back at Walker.
But it stops—midair—hovering just an inch from his sternum.
Held there by invisible strings.
She’s glaring now, shoulders tight, mouth hard with fury.
“You want to try that again, asshole?” she snaps.
Bob doesn’t think. He moves—crossing the few feet between them and grabbing her wrist before she can hurl the shield with lethal force.
Her pulse thrums under his hand.
Her gaze flicks to his.
And just like that—the metal drops.
The air stills.
And in that space between violence and choice, something clicks.
They’re the same kind of dangerous, but maybe not to each other.
The moment her fingers leave the edge of Bob’s wrist, she’s moving again.
No words. No thanks. Just a flick of her eyes toward the scattered remains of the facility and the sharp metallic whine of something rising.
Bob whirls around just in time to see the security vault breach open—twisted apart like a peeled tin can. The weapon they were sent to retrieve, the one tucked behind five layers of biometric locks and reinforced alloys, floats to her open hand.
It’s not what he expected.
No glowing core, no sleek casing. It looks almost ancient—cylindrical, faintly humming, etched with equations even he can’t parse in the second he glimpses it. Like it doesn’t belong in any timeline.
“Wait—!” Bob starts.
But she’s already backing away, the weapon cradled against her hip like it was always meant for her. She gives him a look—equal parts regret and something warmer, softer, like she had considered staying.
Then she vanishes.
Metal peels back from the ceiling above her, forming a narrow escape tunnel. She rises with it—her shadow trailing like smoke—until the darkness swallows her whole.
This time, she doesn’t leave a bullet behind to stop.
Two hours later. Thunderbolts debrief room.
Val paces in front of the team like a drill sergeant with a caffeine addiction, tablet in one hand and sarcasm in the other.
“So let me get this straight,” she begins, boots clicking sharply across the metal floor. “You all fought off an unknown mercenary group, nearly died, and then let some goth scrapheap Barbie steal the very weapon we were sent to secure?”
Yelena slouches in her seat. “Technically, she helped.”
“She robbed us.”
“She saved us, then robbed us,” Ava offers flatly. “Important difference.”
Alexei grunts. “She was… very fast.”
John scoffs, arms crossed. “She made me bleed.”
“Good. You’re overdue.” Yelena doesn’t even look at him.
Val pinches the bridge of her nose. “You guys are unbelievable.”
Her eyes dart to Bob. He’s seated at the far end, hands folded too neatly, staring at the dark smear of dried blood on his boot like it’s got answers.
“And you,” Val barks. “Our backpack boy. The hell were you doing while she made off with the prize?"
Bob looks up. Quiet. “Trying not to get anyone killed.”
“Oh, well, round of applause,” she snaps. “Maybe next time you try a little harder not to help the enemy.”
“She’s not the enemy,” Bob says without thinking.
Val freezes. “Oh no?”
“She didn’t shoot us. She stopped them from killing us. She had our backs.”
“She had our weapon.”
Val’s voice rises. “For all we know, she’s going to sell it to the highest bidder or crack open a wormhole in her living room. We don’t know anything about her—”
A door hisses open behind them.
They all turn as a figure steps through the threshold, calm as a gunshot in the dark.
Long coat. One eye.
Nick Fury.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just strolls in, takes in the chaos, and raises a brow.
Val gestures wildly toward the screens behind her, which are replaying grainy footage of you stopping bullets mid-air and folding a blast door like paper. “Do you know what this is? Who the hell helped who out there?!”
Fury doesn’t flinch. He steps forward, tilts his chin at the paused screen.
“We call the subject: Ferra,” he says evenly. “Real name: unknown. Age: estimated early twenties. First surfaced in Moscow when she was around thirteen, leveling a black market tech ring in under five minutes. SHIELD’s been tracking her ever since.”
Yelena blinks. “You mean you knew she existed this whole time?”
Fury nods. “She’s a ghost with a kill record that puts most of your dossiers to shame. She doesn’t work for anyone. She doesn’t like anyone. Which means if she showed up, it wasn’t for the money.”
Bob straightens. “Then why?”
Fury glances at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Val sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re telling me SHIELD’s Most Wanted just walked into our mission, saved your asses, stole the target, and now we’re just—what—gonna go look for her like a goddamn scavenger hunt?”
Fury just turns to the team, hands behind his back.
“Next mission’s simple. You find her. You figure out what she wants. And if there’s even a chance she’s planning to use that thing—”
He meets Bob’s eyes again.
“—you stop her.”
Silence settles again.
Bob exhales slowly.
And for the first time since she vanished, something flickers behind his sternum.
scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that
synopsis : You hate Bob Reynolds. Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself — ever since he pulled away and got closer to Yelena. Now you spend most of your time ranting about him to Bucky…
Meanwhile, Bob spends most of his time avoiding you. (Because he’s pretty sure you like Bucky. And he’s very sure he’s in love with you.)
pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader
content : pure fluff (again lol don't hate me on this), slight enemiestolovers!au , friendstolovers!au , jealous!bobreynolds
warning/s : kinda cheesy idk
word count : 4.6k
You hate Bob Reynolds.
You hate the way he walks into a room and won’t look at you. You hate the way his eyes flicker toward you when he thinks you’re not watching. You hate how he always chooses the furthest seat from yours now, even though (once) you were the person he chose first.
And worst of all?
You hate how much you still want him to come sit next to you.
The common room smells like popcorn and vaguely burnt pizza. Ava’s cracked the windows again, letting in the cool night air from the New York sky outside. Dim overhead bulbs cast the room in warm yellow light that barely competes with the flickering horror movie on screen.
Yelena is curled on a beanbag chair with her legs tucked under her like a smug cat, hoodie two sizes too big. John’s hogging the recliner, a beer in one hand and his dumb Stars-and-Stripes socks visible from where his boots sit discarded nearby. Ava’s lounging in the corner with a bowl of gummy worms and a knowing smirk.
You walk in behind Bucky, both of you still talking about a mission briefing that had somehow turned into a discussion about raccoons with knives.
“Do not pretend a raccoon could take you down,” you mutter as Bucky snorts.
“I’m just saying, it’s more dangerous than you think,” Bucky deadpans. “Especially with a butter knife.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugs. “I’m not the one who got chased through a compound last week by a genetically engineered goose.”
“That goose had rage in its soul,” you hiss, before realizing the entire room is listening. Yelena snorts into her sleeve. Ava just shakes her head.
You clear your throat, cheeks warm. Your eyes instinctively scan the room—and stop.
There. Couch. Right side.
Bob.
He’s sitting low, one leg crossed over the other knee, navy-blue sweater sleeves bunched up his forearms. His posture is slouched, but his eyes are sharp, focused on the screen, until you catch the briefest glance your way.
Your stomach tightens.
He looks back at the screen before you can even smile.
You hesitate, then move toward the couch. The big popcorn bowl is balanced between him and Bucky. You think about sitting next to Bob, think about all the nights you used to sit shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing, fingers grazing accidentally over the same handful of popcorn.
Maybe you can fix this. Maybe he’ll say something. Maybe this silence he’s been giving you for weeks will finally end.
You hover by the bowl. “Hey,” you say, careful and light. “Can I grab some?”
Bob doesn’t look at you. His hand tenses slightly on the bowl’s rim. He shifts it toward you in silence.
Your fingers brush his.
He pulls back like he’s touched a hot stove.
You feel it like a slap.
You grab the popcorn, mutter a stiff, “Thanks,” and move to sit next to Bucky instead.
Bucky shifts slightly to give you room. You slump beside him, chewing angrily.
“Well that was painful,” Bucky mutters under his breath.
You don’t respond.
“He flinched,” Bucky continues, almost in awe. “Like your fingers were poison.”
You keep your eyes on the screen. “Maybe they are.”
“Strike four,” he whispers.
You glance at him. “You’ve been keeping count?”
“Of every tragic interaction, yes.”
You throw a kernel of popcorn at him. He catches it mid-air.
You lean in slightly, voice low. “Do you think he’s mad at me?”
“I think he’s a dumbass.”
You smile, but it’s hollow.
“I just—don’t get it. We used to talk. Like… a lot. He used to laugh at my dumb jokes. Now he acts like I stole his dog.”
“Maybe you did.”
You blink. “What?”
“Maybe you stole his metaphorical dog.”
You stare at him. “That’s the worst theory I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s still better than yours,” Bucky mutters.
From across the couch, you feel Bob shift. You glance—he’s still watching the screen, but his fingers have stopped moving. The popcorn bowl rests untouched now, perfectly still in his lap.
The movie flickers into a tense silence.
Then John, voice flat, says, “Can the lovebirds quiet down?”
Your entire spine stiffens.
“Excuse me?” you hiss.
“Shh,” John says, not even turning.
You stare ahead, cheeks burning. Bucky looks halfway between smug and offended.
“Lovebirds,” he whispers, amused.
“Don’t even—”
“I mean, if the shoe fits…”
You elbow him sharply. “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” he says, still smiling.
You risk another glance toward Bob.
His jaw is tight. His eyes are still on the screen. But there’s a twitch in his cheek. The kind he gets when something’s bothering him.
He doesn’t look at you.
You look away first.
The meeting room is too cold.
The A/C’s on full blast, humming above the fluorescent lights. You swear Val keeps it that way just to remind you she’s in charge of everything—including your blood circulation.
You’re running late.
You shove the door open with a muttered apology, the metal creaking slightly, and step inside—boots still muddy from training. Your hair’s barely dry from your post-mission shower, damp strands sticking to your neck. You tug at the collar of your jacket, feeling both underdressed and overstimulated.
Everyone’s already seated.
Yelena’s halfway through a protein bar and somehow still managing to lounge in a government-grade steel chair like it’s a beanbag. Ava’s scrolling her tablet, boots on the table despite multiple prior threats from Val. Walker’s twirling a pen and looking like he’s about to make a comment no one asked for.
Then your eyes land on him.
Bob.
Second from the right. Notebook closed in front of him. Shoulders hunched slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, or maybe disappear altogether.
Two empty chairs beside him.
You hesitate.
The little voice in your head—the one that’s gotten crueler lately—says, Don’t bother. But you ignore it.
You step around the table, slow but deliberate.
Your pulse kicks up as you approach. You wonder—stupidly, hopefully—if maybe this is the moment. Maybe today, he’ll look up. Maybe he’ll say “Hey,” like he used to, voice low and warm. Maybe you’ll sit beside him and feel something like before.
You stop beside the chair next to him.
Bob looks up.
Your breath catches.
And then—
He blinks. His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not even close.
He closes his notebook.
And he stands.
Your eyes widen. He murmurs something to Yelena—too low for you to hear—but she raises one eyebrow and gives him a look that says Seriously? Bob says nothing else. He walks around the back of the table, silent and swift, and drops into a chair across the room.
Your throat tightens.
You sit down heavily in the now-empty chair next to Bucky.
You just shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “What the hell was that?”
Bucky leans in. “He looked like you were holding a knife.”
“Maybe I should start holding one.”
Val walks in, clapping her hands once. “Alright, Thunderbolts. Everyone awake? Good. Let’s make this quick. I’ve got meetings stacked higher than Walker’s ego.”
Walker scoffs. “Hilarious.”
“Quiet, star-spangled disaster,” Val says dryly.
You try to focus. Val drones on about the last mission—errors, improvements, recon notes. Words blur into static.
Bob doesn’t look at you. Not once.
You glance at him—he’s leaning back, hands clasped in his lap, eyes fixed on the slide deck like it owes him something. He’s not scribbling notes like he usually does. He’s not twirling his pen. He’s not moving.
You grit your teeth and turn to Bucky.
“He’s ignoring me again.”
Bucky side-eyes you. “We’re mid-briefing.”
“I’m going to strangle him with his own hoodie.”
“That’s dramatic. Effective, though.”
Val clicks to the next slide.
You whisper, “Why is he like this? He used to talk to me.”
“Used to eat lunch with you too,” Bucky murmurs. “Used to laugh.”
“I know that.”
“And now he’s pretending you don’t exist.”
“Exactly!”
“You think maybe… that’s the opposite of what’s happening?”
You blink. “What?”
Bucky just smirks.
Then—
Val slaps a hand on the table. “Hey. Lovebirds. Try keeping the domestic bickering to a whisper?”
Your soul leaves your body.
You blink. “I’m sorry—what?”
Walker snorts. Ava doesn’t even look up from her tablet.
Val waves a hand. “Whatever. Just pay attention. I’m not repeating myself for your unresolved sexual tension.”
The room falls quiet.
Bucky leans into his hand, elbow on the table. “I think we’ve just been outed.”
You bury your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”
You chance a glance at Bob.
He hasn’t moved.
He’s staring at the table. Not at you. But his knuckles are white where they rest on his knee.
You’re too stunned to say anything.
The rest of the debrief is a blur.
The training room smells like rubber mats and frustration.
Sweat beads at the back of your neck as you pace toward the punching dummies, your left ankle throbbing with every step. You rolled it bad—stupidly—during a dodging drill with Ava and Walker. You’d laughed it off at the time, brushing dirt off your shoulder like it was nothing.
But now that the adrenaline’s fading, it hurts.
The sun’s just beginning to dip behind the compound’s reinforced windows, casting the entire gym in a low, orange haze. Yelena is by the far wall, throwing knives at a wooden dummy’s face like she’s flirting with murder. Ava’s perched on a bench with her headphones in, scrolling through footage on her tablet. Walker’s long gone, probably off to inflate his ego somewhere else.
And there’s Bob. Across the room.
He’s standing by the free weights, curling a bar like it weighs nothing. His hair’s damp at the edges, sticking slightly to his temples. He’s in his navy long-sleeve again—his favorite, the one that’s worn thin at the elbows. His eyes flick toward you as you limp slightly past.
Your breath catches.
It’s the first time he’s looked at you today.
You feel it. That familiar flutter in your chest that you keep trying to kill.
You open your mouth—to say anything—but hesitate. He looks like he might say something, too. Like he’s going to take a step forward. His fingers twitch slightly against the bar.
And then you hear it:
“You alright?”
You turn.
Bucky’s walking over from the hallway, towel slung around his shoulders, brow furrowed as he catches your limp.
“Oh. Yeah. Just twisted it earlier. It’s not bad.” You wave a hand like that makes it true.
“Let me see,” he says, already crouching down beside the bench. “Sit.”
You hesitate. “I was gonna—” You glance back toward Bob.
But he’s still standing there. Still watching. Frozen in place.
Whatever he was going to say—if he was going to say it—dies.
He takes one slow step back.
You sigh, quietly, and sit down beside Bucky instead.
He pulls your boot off gently, inspecting the swollen ankle.
You wince. “I’ve had worse.”
“Doesn’t mean you should ignore it.” Bucky digs in a nearby locker for an ice pack. “You planning on training through this like a moron, or letting me tape it?”
You roll your eyes, but smile. “Fine. Doctor Barnes.”
“I’ll add that to the list of titles I never asked for.”
Across the room, Bob hasn’t moved.
His jaw’s tight. His hands open and close once, then again. He watches the two of you quietly, unreadable.
He takes a breath, like he’s about to come over anyway.
But Yelena appears behind him without warning. “You’re glaring again,” she mutters.
Bob startles, just barely. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I wasn’t—” He glances over at you and Bucky. Bucky’s crouched now, wrapping your ankle in gauze, your hand on his shoulder to keep balance. You laugh at something he says.
Bob turns away.
Yelena raises an eyebrow. “You gonna keep lying or just explode already?”
“Shut up,” Bob mutters.
“Sure,” she says, biting into an energy bar. “Just let me know when you’re done pining like a 17-year-old Victorian widow.”
He shoots her a look, but she’s already walking away.
He turns back toward you, just in time to see you toss Bucky an appreciative smile and say, “Thanks, Buck.”
And then you’re gone—hobbling off toward the lockers with Bucky trailing beside you.
Bob stares at the door long after you’ve disappeared.
Bob’s hands have been sitting still for too long.
One of them rests on the disassembled sidearm laid out in front of him, the other curled tight against his jaw as he leans on the table. His brow is furrowed. His brain hasn’t registered a single thing in the last fifteen minutes. The room is quiet, except for the distant hum of the overhead lights and the occasional thud of Yelena dropping gear somewhere behind him.
He stares at the gun like it’ll reassemble his thoughts for him.
“You’re sulking again,” comes her voice, sharp and dry as vodka.
He doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
“You’re brooding in the dark, surrounded by dangerous objects,” she replies, stepping closer and leaning against the metal counter with a crunch of her granola bar. “That’s called sulking, Bob.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
He exhales, long and slow. “I’m just… thinking.”
“About her?” Yelena chews. “Or are we pretending you don’t do that every three hours?”
He doesn’t answer. Just picks up a screwdriver, flips it once in his palm, then puts it back down like it’s too heavy to hold.
She softens a little. “What happened this time?”
He doesn’t know where to start. He could say, I saw her ankle give out and didn’t move fast enough. Or maybe, I saw her smile at Bucky again and it felt like a kick to the ribs. But none of that explains how badly he wants to rewind everything. Go back to when you used to wait for him after missions. When you’d lean on his shoulder while teasing Walker or smirking at Yelena like you were in on some inside joke Bob would never understand.
He remembers the sound of your laugh. That full-bodied, uncaring laugh that only came out when you felt safe. You used to laugh like that around him.
“I think she hates me,” he says eventually, voice low.
“She doesn’t,” Yelena says without hesitation.
“She used to talk to me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Every day. About random stuff—TV shows, your neighbor’s dog, the vending machine being rigged. And I was stupid enough to think it would last.”
Yelena quirks an eyebrow. “What changed?”
“I did.”
And he did. Somewhere in the space between trusting you and falling for you, he got weird. He started pulling back, dodging eye contact, brushing off conversations before they could start. He didn’t know how to handle it—how to want you without scaring you away.
So instead, he scared himself into silence.
You’d walked into the common room that night with Bucky at your side, your laugh trailing behind you like perfume. You were trying to get popcorn—just a normal thing—but then your hand brushed his and his whole body tensed like he’d touched fire. He pulled back before he even thought about it.
Your smile faded so fast it made his stomach turn.
He should’ve said something. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—
But instead, he just froze, watching you walk away, bowl in hand, settling on the couch next to Bucky like that was where you belonged now.
He couldn’t focus on the movie. He couldn’t even hear it over the pounding in his ears. Every time you leaned into Bucky’s side, something bitter tightened in his throat. You didn’t even look his way after that. Why would you?
He hadn’t just pulled away. He’d disappeared.
Yelena watches him quietly now, like she knows where his mind is drifting. “Did something else happen?”
He nods. “Debrief, a few days ago.”
She waits.
“I walked in and saw her scanning the room,” he says. “She looked like she was gonna sit next to me. She almost did. But I… I moved.”
“You ran.”
He winces. “Walked. Quickly. To the other side of the table.”
“Coward.”
“I know.” He leans back, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “I couldn’t do it. I was going to say hi. Ask about her shoulder—she took a hit on the last mission—but I panicked.”
Yelena hums in that way she does when she’s judging him quietly.
“She sat next to Bucky instead. Again,” Bob adds, bitterness creeping into his voice. “They were whispering to each other, laughing during Val’s rundown, and then Val says—” His voice shifts, mocking: “‘Can the lovebirds pay attention?’”
Yelena snorts.
“She didn’t deny it,” Bob says quickly, like he needs her to know this part. “Didn’t laugh, didn’t say, we’re not a thing. Just turned red and glared at Val, like it was a thing and she was embarrassed about it.”
Yelena doesn’t answer right away.
Bob lets his head drop forward into his hands. “I know it sounds stupid. It is stupid. But I keep seeing them together, and it’s not just the proximity. It’s the way she looks at him. Talks to him.”
“You mean the way she used to talk to you?"
He goes still.
Yelena softens, voice less teasing. “Bob… maybe she’s just trying to fill the space you left.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that.
Then yesterday happened.
He saw you limp into the gym and his entire nervous system lit up. You were trying to play it cool, but he knew that look—you were in pain and trying not to show it.
He took one step forward, almost called your name.
But Bucky beat him to it.
Hey, you alright?
Bob watched, rooted in place, as you let Bucky guide you to the bench. Watched you let him take off your boot. Wrap your ankle. You laughed at something he said again, that same sound Bob used to hear on accident—when you were scrolling your phone on the couch beside him, or teasing him over his “weird cult-leader” handwriting.
Bob’s hands had clenched. His chest felt hollow.
And still, he hadn’t moved.
“Every time I try to fix it, I mess it up more,” he says now, his voice ragged with frustration. “And every time I don’t fix it, I lose her a little more.”
Yelena tosses her granola wrapper in the bin. “So what, you’re just going to keep watching her from across the room like some tragic Regency novel?”
Bob glares weakly. “I just… I don’t know what she wants anymore.”
“Well,” Yelena stands, dusting off her pants. “Maybe she doesn’t either. You’ve given her nothing to work with.”
He swallows.
She’s right.
He remembers the way you used to look at him—eyes full of challenge, of trust. You don’t look at him like that anymore.
Now, when you glance his way, there’s hurt in your eyes. And confusion. And maybe—just maybe—a little hope you haven’t managed to kill off completely.
Bob wants to believe it isn’t too late.
But he also knows he’s running out of chances to find out.
The med bay is quiet except for the gentle whir of the portable stim unit on your ankle. You should be focusing on your recovery, on resting, but your mind’s pacing in circles. Restless. It’s been days since the last mission. Days since you sprained your ankle and Bob almost helped you.
Almost.
The sound of that one step he took toward you is burned into your skull. You heard it. Saw the flicker of concern in his expression. The way he looked like he might finally say something. But he didn’t. Again.
Instead, Bucky helped you. Like he always does.
And maybe you’re just exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically—but tonight, as the pain pulses dully through your foot and frustration simmers in your chest, you decide you’ve had enough.
You’re done letting Bob hide behind silence.
You leave the med bay the moment your foot can bear weight and stalk the halls with too much purpose for someone supposed to be recovering. You know exactly where he’ll be. The observation deck. He always retreats there after missions, like he’s hoping the stars will answer something the rest of you can’t.
Sure enough, you spot him through the glass, silhouetted in the cool blue glow of the night sky beyond. Hood up. Shoulders hunched. Like the world’s sitting on his back.
He doesn’t hear you enter. Or maybe he does and chooses not to turn.
You stop a few feet behind him.
“Why do you keep avoiding me?”
His shoulders stiffen.
No greeting. No pleasantries. You don’t have the patience for any of it.
He doesn’t turn.
You take another step closer. “Seriously, Bob. What the hell did I do to make you act like I’m some kind of ghost?”
Nothing.
You force a breath. Your voice cracks. “You used to be my best friend.”
That finally gets him. Slowly, he turns, the hood dropping back just enough to let you see the guilt carved into his features. He looks tired. Paler than usual. And yet somehow still impossible to read.
“I’m not avoiding you,” he says, too quiet to be convincing.
You scoff. “Bullshit. You can’t even look me in the eye anymore. I try to talk to you, you bolt. I reach for the popcorn and you practically teleport away. You leave the room when I sit down. You change training shifts to avoid me.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to, or you didn’t want to be around me?”
He winces. His mouth opens like he wants to explain. But nothing comes out.
You hate how much it hurts.
“Do you hate me now?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He jolts. “What?”
“Just tell me,” you snap, covering your pain with anger. “If I did something wrong—if I messed this up somehow—just say it.”
“Then why?” You’re breathing harder now. “Why did you just… drop me? You let me think I was crazy for feeling the distance when you were the one building it!”
“I had to,” he mutters.
You step closer. “Why?”
He shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”
“No, it’s not. You either care or you don’t.”
“I do care,” he blurts, suddenly louder, voice cracking like thunder off the glass.
Silence falls between you. Heavy. Fragile.
You blink. “Then why do you treat me like I don’t exist?”
Bob runs both hands through his hair, pacing away from you, then back, like he’s coming apart.
“Because it’s easier than wanting something I can’t have,” he finally breathes.
You stare.
He exhales like he’s been holding that in for months. “You and Bucky… I see the way you look at him. I hear the way you talk to him. I thought maybe if I backed off, I could deal with it. But every time I see you with him, it’s like my ribs are caving in.”
You’re stunned.
“Bob—”
“And then Val calls you ‘lovebirds,’ and you don’t deny it. You blushed. I thought…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “I thought I missed my chance. That I’d already messed it up. And if I couldn’t be what you wanted, the least I could do was get out of your way.”
Your voice comes out gentler. “You thought I was with Bucky?”
“Aren’t you?”
You stare at him. “No. Of course not.”
He blinks. “But you’re always with him. Laughing. Whispering. You lean on him.”
“Because he listens. Because you wouldn’t.”
“I was trying to protect myself.”
“And I was trying to understand why the person I care about most started treating me like a stranger!”
That lands like a punch. Bob’s shoulders sag. He looks like he’s about to fold in on himself.
You step forward. Hesitate. Then place a hand on his chest—just over his heart.
“You idiot,” you whisper. “You really thought I wanted Bucky?”
Bob doesn’t answer. His eyes are wide, vulnerable. Your touch stills him completely.
“I wanted you.” You say it quietly. Gently. Like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
He exhales shakily. His hands twitch at his sides, then lift—hesitant, slow—as if he’s terrified touching you might break the moment.
But when he finally presses his palm over yours, the tension breaks.
Neither of you says a word for a long time.
Then, finally, he leans forward, forehead resting against yours, breath shallow.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes.
“I missed you,” you whisper.
His breath hitches. “I never stopped.”
You weren’t planning on sitting next to him. Not really. You told yourself you’d play it cool. Casual. Normal. You were going to walk in, nod politely, and take your usual spot next to Bucky like the last three weeks.
But tonight… you hesitate at the door.
Bob’s already there. Hood down, for once. Jacket draped over the back of the couch. He’s wearing that old faded band tee you once teased him about—the one you said made him look like a roadie, not a superhero. And he’s looking around the room like he’s searching for something.
For someone.
Your pulse kicks up.
Yelena’s on the far couch, legs tucked under her, already spoon-deep into a pint of ice cream. John’s half asleep in the armchair with a beer balanced precariously on his thigh. Ava is floating just above the beanbag pile, watching the screen like she’s trying to decipher code. Bucky’s leaning against the back wall with crossed arms, waiting to see where you sit before he picks a seat.
And Bob… Bob catches your eye and doesn’t look away.
Not for a second.
It’s nothing like before.
There’s no flinching. No retreat. Just that soft, unsure gravity you’d missed so badly.
Your feet move before you think about it. You take the empty spot beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It feels terrifying.
And then Bob shifts, ever so slightly, to give you more space. Or maybe to meet you halfway. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t pull back.
You glance sideways. His fingers twitch against the blanket on his lap.
Yelena lets out an exaggerated gasp.
“Oh my God.”
You freeze.
John jerks upright. “What?”
Bucky just huffs a quiet chuckle and takes the nearest beanbag. “Took them long enough.”
You blink. “What are you—”
“Oh, please,” Yelena drawls. “This has been a six-act drama and we’re finally at the resolution. Do not deny me this.”
Bob lets out a groan and sinks lower into the couch.
Val, from somewhere in the hallway, calls out without even looking in: “If anyone makes out during the opening credits, I’m kicking you off the mission roster.”
You bury your face in your hands.
Bob coughs into a laugh beside you.
Bucky leans over and mutters, “So, when’s the wedding?”
You elbow him, face burning.
Bob’s hand brushes yours—light, hesitant—and then doesn’t move. Fingers barely touching. Like a promise he’s still too shy to make out loud.
The movie starts. Everyone settles.
You stay exactly where you are, shoulder to shoulder with the man you thought you lost. The man who is still here.
And even with the teasing, the knowing glances, and the smug looks from across the room—you’re smiling.
Finally.
A/N : another blurb before i do a request and continue finishing psyche 3 (i just have no creative juice to squeeze anymore)
A/N 2 : i love bob so much i want to write him in every trope there is LMAOO
A/N 3 : bucky barnes one shot, anyone? non-smut because i physically cannot bring myself to write smut i get very uncomfortable while writing and they end up being SO BAD
summary : He came in on Thursdays. Always looking for new books to read. Always smiled like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. Then, you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend for one night. And he said yes.
Then you found out he’s the Sentry —
and suddenly, pretending doesn’t feel so simple anymore.
pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader
content : basically just fluff, fakedating!au, fakeboyfriend!au
warnings : none
word count : 7k
Thursday, 10:43 am.
You glance up, and there he is.
You’ve seen him before. Always on Thursdays, always around the same time. Always with that same energy — like he doesn’t quite belong to this world, or maybe just doesn’t expect to be noticed in it.
He has messy hair, a too-worn jacket, and the kind of posture that says please don’t ask me anything, but I’m also not in a hurry to leave.
Today, for the first time, he meets your eyes.
You smile. “Back again. That’s three Thursdays in a row.”
He blinks, like he’s surprised you’ve been keeping count.
“…I like it here,” he says, voice quiet but not shy. Just gentle.
“Most people say that when they’re avoiding something,” you joke lightly, leaning your elbows on the counter. “Bad day?”
He shrugs. “It’s a day.”
Fair.
He heads toward the fantasy section, the same corner he always drifts to. You try not to stare — you really do — but it’s hard not to watch the way he slows down at the shelves like they’re familiar terrain.
After a few minutes, he returns with two paperbacks — both epic fantasy, both with weathered covers and dramatic titles like The Hollow Crown and Ash and Sovereign.
You ring them up, sneaking a glance. “You like the ones where the world almost ends?”
He gives a faint smile. “Sometimes I like when it doesn’t.”
You pause, curious. “You a writer?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just… a fan.”
“I get it,” you say, handing him the bag. “Books are a safer way to live dangerously.”
He smiles at that. A little more real.
Then, on impulse, you ask, “So, what do you do?”
He hesitates just a second longer than most people would.
“…Sometimes I help save the world,” he says, deadpan.
You blink. And then you laugh, because there’s something about the way he says it — so dry and sincere — that it’s obviously a joke. Or at least… you think it is.
“Wow,” you grin. “That’s bold. You a firefighter or a Marvel cosplayer?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that.”
You hand him his receipt, eyes narrowing playfully. “Well, mysterious world-saver, if you ever want book recommendations, let me know. We’ve got a great section for heroes with identity crises.”
He nods, turning toward the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He’s almost gone when he pauses and looks back.
“What’s your name?” he asks you, and you tell him.
He nods once. “I’m Bob.”
Then he’s gone.
The bell chimes again — sharper this time. Final.
You stand there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind him. Then you shake your head and go back to restocking the display.
Still, for some reason, you keep thinking about him.
Bob.
⋆˙⟡
Your phone lights up with the most dangerous contact in your list: Mom.
You stare at it for a second, debating whether to let it go to voicemail.
Then you sigh, hit accept, and brace yourself.
“Hi, sweetheart!” your mom’s voice practically sings as you answer. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to use a phone.”
You smile, mouth full of lukewarm noodles. “Hi, Mom. You called me yesterday.”
“I know, I just missed you. So sue me.”
There’s a beat where you brace yourself. And sure enough—
“So, listen,” she continues, far too casually. “Next Saturday we’re doing dinner at our place. Just the usual — your aunts, cousins, possibly Grandma if we can coax her out of her crosswords. Nothing formal, but, you know, nice.”
“Mmhmm.” You sip your drink, waiting.
“We were thinking 6 o’clock. And of course we’ll do something vegetarian for you—oh, and listen, your cousin Chelsea is bringing that new boyfriend. Super cute. Works in finance. Wears suits on weekends. Can you imagine?”
There it is.
“Anyway,” she adds, far too lightly, “I just thought I’d ask — are you seeing anyone these days? Anyone worth bringing?”
You snort. “Bringing where? Into the lion’s den of a family dinner?”
“Oh come on,” she laughs. “We’re not that bad.”
You give her a look she can’t see. “Last time Aunt Diane tried to set me up with her neighbor’s chiropractor, and Uncle Marty asked if I’d frozen my eggs.”
“She meant well. He didn’t, but—still.”
You roll your eyes. “No, Mom. I’m not bringing anyone.”
“You’re not?” Her voice dips into gentle disappointment. “Not even just as a friend? You have such a sweet personality. I feel like people must just gravitate to you.”
You hum noncommittally, casually glancing toward your bookshelf. Your eyes drift to the spot where you keep returns and holds — including two fantasy books still waiting for a certain quiet customer to pick up.
You think of Bob, his soft smile, the way he said “Sometimes I help save the world” like it wasn’t even strange.
But you say nothing.
“Anyway,” your mom chirps on. “No pressure. Just… you know. You’re not getting any less amazing with time.”
“That’s not how time works, Mom.”
“Semantics. Just let me know, okay? We’ll keep a seat open. Just in case.”
You sigh and mutter, “Okay.”
She’s already launching into a story about a raccoon in the neighbor’s shed by the time you close your eyes and groan into your throw pillow.
You definitely don’t have a date.
You definitely don’t need one.
…But your brain is already wondering what Bob looks like when he’s not rain-damp and bookstore quiet.
⋆˙⟡
Tuesday, 11:07 am.
The bell over the door rings, and — like clockwork — you glance up.
There he is.
Bob.
Same as always, but also… not. His jacket’s still weathered, but he looks a little more put-together today. Hair slightly neater. Like maybe he didn’t get caught in a wind tunnel on the way over. Less cryptid, more mysterious traveler passing through town.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives a quick scan of the room before heading straight for the back... for the fantasy section. His usual.
You try not to smile.
Try.
“Tuesday this time?” you call out from behind the counter, tone light. “Switching it up?”
Bob glances over, mouth tugging up slightly. “Had some time.”
You nod, watching as his hand drifts over the table display near the entrance — new paperbacks, some with gold foil titles and overdramatic taglines. He doesn’t stop there long. Just a brush of his fingers across the covers before moving on.
“You sure it’s not just the emotionally damaged swordsmen calling to you again?” you add, moving toward a nearby shelf with a stack of returns.
He raises a brow, pausing in front of a familiar book. “Maybe I like consistency.”
“Bold choice in this economy.”
That gets you a huff of amusement, soft and unexpected.
He picks up The Lantern War — you know the one. Mid-trilogy. Sad prince. Betrayals. You’ve read it twice and cried both times. He opens it, flipping through the first few pages with surprising care, like he’s searching for something he might have missed the last time he held it.
You lean against a nearby shelf, casually.
“You know,” you begin, tone half-teasing, “you don’t talk much, but you’ve got this whole mysterious loner with a tragic past thing going on.”
Bob looks up — startled, but not annoyed. Just a little caught off guard.
“People pay for that kind of vibe on dating apps,” you add quickly, before you lose your nerve.
He blinks.
You wince. “Sorry. That was weird. I’ve just… been talking to my mom too much lately. She’s on this campaign to get me to bring someone to a family dinner and now I think I’m starting to project ‘potential boyfriend material’ onto every semi-normal customer.”
Bob doesn’t laugh, exactly — but something close. A breath. A smile. Small and real.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, gently placing the book under his arm.
You nod. “It was meant to be one.”
The air shifts then. Not awkward — not yet — but quieter. You both stand there for a beat too long, not speaking. The store is still around you: soft music playing low, dust motes catching in the light near the windows, the occasional creak of the building settling. Cozy, lived-in quiet.
You watch him for a second longer than you should.
He always lingers when he’s here. Not like he’s killing time. Like he’s… catching his breath.
You don’t say it — not aloud, not now. But something clicks. The beginnings of an idea. Stupid, insane, utterly desperate.
Still.
As he approaches the counter, you glance at him sideways.
He wouldn’t. That’s insane. Would he?
He pays in cash, always cash, and nods politely.
“Thanks,” he says.
“See you Thursday?” you ask, voice light, playful.
He pauses, then shrugs. “Maybe.”
You watch him step back out into the sunlight, his silhouette framed by the door before it swings closed behind him. The bell chimes again. He disappears down the street, a figure in motion.
And you’re still watching the door when the next customer steps up and gently clears their throat.
Right. Work.
You turn back to the register, hands moving automatically — scanning books, making small talk — but your brain’s somewhere else.
⋆˙⟡
“Hi, honey!” she sings the second you answer. “Don’t panic — this is not a ‘guilt you into bringing a boyfriend’ call.”
You snort. “You literally said the word ‘boyfriend’ in the first sentence.”
“Okay, technically,” she says, unfazed, “but I’m just calling about the family dinner this Saturday.”
You sigh and lean against the counter. “I know, I know. 6 p.m., casserole, deeply invasive questions from Aunt Diane—”
“Oh, speaking of Aunt Diane,” she says sweetly, which should’ve been your warning, “she knows this great guy from her pickleball league—works in insurance, divorced once, only a little bitter. She wants to bring him to dinner for you to meet.
Your stomach sinks.
You stare at your fridge like it might offer an escape hatch.
“I—Mom, no.”
“Well, honey,” she says, trying for innocent, “you haven’t said you’re bringing anyone. And if you’re still single—”
“I’m not.”
Silence.
Your heart drops into your socks. You scramble.
“I mean. I am. Seeing someone. Kind of. It’s been, like, a month.”
A pause. Too long.
“You are?” she says slowly.
You wince. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bring him because, you know, the whole interrogation-by-relatives thing. I didn’t want to scare him off. He’s… kind of shy.”
Your mom gasps like you just told her she’s finally getting a grandchild.
“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! What’s he like? Is he nice? Where did you meet? Does he like dogs?”
“Mom, calm down,” you say quickly, pacing now. “He’s just… quiet. And really kind. And, you know. Nice.”
You mentally kick yourself.
“Well, now you have to bring him,” she insists. “If he’s already survived a month with you, he’s clearly got staying power.”
You laugh sharply. “Gee, thanks.”
She chuckles. “I’m just saying — you never bring anyone. This is a big deal.”
You force a smile into your voice. “Let me talk to him first, okay? I’ll see if he’s up for it.”
“Promise me you’ll try.”
“…Promise.”
You hang up, staring at your reflection in the microwave door.
Mouth open. Brain screaming.
You just fake-dated someone in a conversation.
Now all you have to do is actually find someone to play the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for a month.
You think of Bob. The quiet guy who reads about broken heroes and once joked about saving the world.
And for some godforsaken reason…
…you think he might actually say yes.
⋆˙⟡
Thursday, 12:45 pm
It’s raining again.
Of course it is.
A slow, steady drizzle beads against the front windows, softening the city outside into watercolor shapes. Inside, the shop smells like paper and cedar polish, with a hint of peppermint from the tin you cracked open after lunch. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar plays from the old speakers near the register, barely audible over the patter of rain and your quiet muttering.
“Two days late on the shipment, again, and if they swap my fantasy order with true crime one more time—” you grumble under your breath, balancing a stack of returns against your hip as you shuffle toward the front display. “Who even wants twelve copies of Stabbing for Dummies?”
You sigh, crouch to fit the bottom shelf, and toss a glance at the fogged-up door.
“I swear, if one more teenager asks where we keep the smut, I’m moving to the mountains. I’ll sell rocks. I’ll become a rock girl.”
The bell above the door chimes.
Right on cue.
You straighten just a little too fast and nearly drop a paperback. “Welcome in,” you call absently, trying to sound composed — but you already know.
It’s him.
You don’t need to look.
Still, you do — and there he is.
Bob stands just inside the doorway, rain misted in his hair, the shoulders of his dark green hoodie slightly damp beneath a black denim jacket. His jeans are worn in the knees. The laces of his boots are uneven. He looks like he walked through the rain on purpose, like the storm outside didn’t even try to stop him.
There’s a quietness to him that doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just familiar.
“Back to your usual Thursday shift?” you ask, setting a book down and turning toward him fully now.
He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “It felt wrong not to.”
There’s something steadier about him today. He still carries that bone-deep kind of tired — like his body’s been holding something heavy for too long — but his gaze doesn’t flick away as fast when your eyes meet. He lets the quiet settle for a beat before moving deeper into the store.
You catch yourself smoothing your shirt before following him.
“Let me guess,” you say as he veers toward the back. “Fantasy section?”
“Always.”
You trail a few paces behind, grabbing a book that’s been reshelved in the wrong genre. There’s no one else in the store right now. Just the two of you, and the occasional whisper of rain against the windows.
He stops in front of a display and picks up The Sword Beneath the Throne. Studies the cover like it holds some secret he hasn’t cracked yet.
You rest your elbow against a shelf. “That one’s going to wreck you emotionally,” you warn, teasing. “But, you know. In a noble sacrifice kind of way.”
Bob glances over. “Good to know.”
You hesitate — just for a second. Then you inhale, let the moment linger, and say: “Hey… can I ask you something kind of weird?”
His eyes shift to yours — cautious, but open.
“Sure.”
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of every sound in the store. “So… hypothetically,” you begin, with what you hope is a breezy tone, “if someone were being — let’s say — aggressively pressured by their entire family to bring a boyfriend to a dinner—like, a big one—”
“Okay,” he says slowly, still holding the book.
“And they may or may not have panicked and told said family they’d already been dating someone for a month… someone who does not, technically, exist—”
Bob’s brow arches slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Go on."
“Would it be completely unhinged to ask you to maybe… pretend to be that person? Just for a night. Three hours max. There’s pie.”
Silence.
Bob doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t recoil.
He just watches you.
And you, of course, rush in to fill the quiet.
“I know it’s weird. And probably creepy. And I swear I’m not dangerous. You don’t even really know me. But you’re the only person I know who could pull off being quiet and normal enough to not scare my mom or make my aunts think I’m secretly dating a war criminal.”
His expression shifts — thoughtful now, not unreadable. Still holding the book, but not looking at it anymore.
“And if it helps,” you add quickly, “I already told them you’re shy. So you wouldn’t even have to say much. Just… look human. Maybe compliment the stuffing. Smile once. Pretend I’m charming.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?”
“Just for a night,” you say. “No pressure. No long con. Just mashed potatoes and survival.”
“…Because your mom threatened you with a pickleball player.”
You blink. “Wait. How do you—?”
“You talk while you shelve books,” he says simply, mouth quirking. “I pick things up.”
You gape at him for a beat. Then snort.
And then laugh. A real one. It escapes before you can stop it — bright and ridiculous and yours.
Bob… smiles.
It’s small. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing. But it’s there.
“So?” you say, biting your lip. “Would you consider it? I can’t offer much. Just pie. And probably embarrassing levels of gratitude.”
He sets the book down.
Looks at you.
A long moment passes.
“Okay,” he says.
You blink. “Wait — really?”
He nods, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Why not.”
“You didn’t even ask what kind of pie.”
“I trust your judgment.”
You squint at him. “You’re either the nicest person alive, or wildly unhinged yourself.”
Bob shrugs. “Can’t it be both?”
Something in your chest tightens — in a good way.
“Dinner’s Saturday,” you say softly. “At my parents’. Here's... the address?” you added as you handed him a yellow post-it note with your parent's address in red ink, which was actually written not even ten minutes before.
You wrote it thinking that there's an 80% chance he'll accept it.
And he actually did.
He nods. “Should I wear something nice?”
“Honestly,” you say, “if you show up looking like less of a cryptid than usual, my family will be thrilled.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He turns to leave, hood pulled up lazily as he disappears into the rainy street — a figure blurred by drizzle and glass.
And you?
You stand behind the counter, staring after him.
Your hands are a little shaky. Not from nerves.
From relief. And something else.
Excitement, maybe.
Because somehow, against all logic and odds —
Bob said yes.
⋆˙⟡
Saturday, 5:49 pm
“Not too much sugar,” your mom says over your shoulder, peeking into the mixing bowl as if she doesn’t trust you with a spoon.
You hold the measuring cup up dramatically. “Mom, you’ve raised me. If I die of poor pie proportions, it’s on you.”
She snorts and hands you the nutmeg. “Don’t tempt me.”
You smile, despite yourself. The kitchen is warm in that nostalgic way — cluttered, golden light filtering in through the curtains, something soft playing from the old speaker by the fridge. You’re elbow-deep in pie filling, sleeves rolled up, and trying not to think about how insane this all is.
You’ve told everyone you’ve been dating someone for a month.
That he’s meeting your family.
That he’s sweet and shy and real.
And in about fifteen minutes, Bob — your fake boyfriend — will be at the door.
You’re 85% sure he’ll show up. Maybe 90.
…Okay, 75.
“Do you need help with the crust?” your mom asks, and for once, she sounds like she’s trying not to pry.
You glance at her. She’s avoiding eye contact. She definitely wants to pry.
“Nope,” you say, pressing the dough into the pan. “Unless this is a metaphor for my love life, in which case, yeah, I could use a full support team.”
She hums noncommittally and starts slicing apples, her back to you.
“So,” she says, “you never told me how you met him.”
You hesitate. “The guy I’m—bringing tonight?”
She nods. “Mhm.”
You stall by rinsing your hands.
“It’s kind of a quiet story,” you say carefully. “We kept running into each other. Same place, same time. It just… kind of happened.”
“Hm.” She tosses apple slices into the bowl. “And you like him?”
You look down at the dough beneath your fingers. Think about his awkward smile. The way he listens like it costs him something. The warmth in his voice when he said, “Thanks for inviting me.”
You nod. “I think I do.”
Your mom looks over, something soft in her face now.
“Well,” she says gently, “I can’t wait to meet him.”
You smile and slide the pie into the oven just as the doorbell rings.
Your heart stops.
Your mom turns toward the sound.
You wipe your hands on a towel and take a breath.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, “moment of truth.”
You walk to the door.
And open it...
You expected nerves.
You did not expect him to look like this.
Bob stands on your porch like he walked out of a cologne ad and got lost on the way to GQ. His dark button-up is rolled at the sleeves, fitted just enough to draw attention to muscles he normally hides under worn hoodies. His hair—usually floppy and rain-wrecked—is now styled neatly back, just messy enough to look effortless.
You blink. “H-hi.”
He smiles—bashful, but sure of himself. “Hi.”
Before you can gather your thoughts or your dignity, he leans in and kisses you on the cheek. It’s warm, brief, but confident. His hand grazes your waist like muscle memory.
“I hope I’m not too early,” he murmurs.
“No—uh—no, perfect. You’re perfect. I mean, the timing. The timing is perfect.”
You step back to let him in, praying no one heard that.
As he crosses the threshold, he glances around, eyes scanning photos on the walls, shelves stacked with family memories. You take his coat. His scent lingers — fresh and faintly minty.
“My mom’s in the kitchen. Brace yourself.”
He chuckles. “Noted.”
You walk him into the war zone of casserole dishes and cousin chaos.
Your mom spots you both from the dining room and gasps like she’s just been cast on a reality show. “There he is! You must be Bob!”
Bob blinks for a moment, surprised she already knows his name. You shoot her a look that says Mom, please, I am begging.
He recovers quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And polite!” she says, delighted, patting his arm like she’s already ordering him to call her ‘Mom’ by dessert.
Dinner unfolds in a blur. Plates are passed, stories fly around the table like darts, and somehow Bob navigates it like a pro. He even laughs at your uncle’s tired jokes. When your grandma comments on his posture, he adjusts with a quiet “Yes, ma’am” that makes her beam.
At one point, your youngest cousin, Milo, squints at him from across the table.
“You look really familiar,” Milo says, tilting his head.
You freeze mid-chew. Bob’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.
And about halfway through dessert, something happens.
The TV is on behind your mom’s head, low volume. Just the news playing — no one’s really watching. Your dad’s closest to it, half turned in his chair, focused on his pie.
You’re listening to your aunt ramble about her new garden mulch when the news anchor’s voice shifts tone.
“—dramatic footage of the Thunderbolts’ mission this past Wednesday—”
Your brain barely registers it.
You glance at the screen.
Explosions. Screaming. Concrete cracking like bones.
A familiar flash of red and black—John Walker. Then Ghost phasing through debris.
It’s not grainy enough to deny. The face is clear. The posture. The jawline.
You choke on your pie. Eyes widening.
Bob.
You snap your gaze toward him.
He doesn’t move, but his fork slowly lowers.
Your eyes dart to your dad. He’s starting to turn toward the screen.
Before he can react—click.
The TV cuts off.
Silence.
Your dad frowns. “Did the TV break again?”
Bob shrugs, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
Your relatives resume their conversations without a second thought. Bread is passed. Laughter resumes. No one’s the wiser.
Except for you.
And Milo, who is now staring at Bob with slack-jawed awe.
You place your fork down slowly. Your pulse is in your throat.
Bob meets your gaze across the table. Calm. Cautious.
You clear your throat.
“Hey,” you say sweetly, plastering on a smile. “Can you excuse us for a second? I just need to talk to my boyfriend for a minute.”
He rises without protest.
You grab his arm, steer him down the hallway... past photos of you in braces, past the coat rack, past everything normal, and into the dim, quiet hallway near the laundry room.
Then you turn, look up at him, and whisper—
“What the hell, Bob?”
You shut the door behind you.
Bob leans casually against the wall — too casually — like he isn’t literally the man you just saw hovering over a burning building on national television.
You cross your arms. “Okay. Start talking.”
He looks down at his hands, fingers laced. There’s a strange stillness to him, like he’s waiting for a storm he knows is coming.
“I didn’t lie,” he says quietly.
You stare. “Bob. I watched you on the news. You turned off my parents’ TV. With your mind.”
“I said I help people,” he replies, looking up at you now. Calm. Earnest. “Sometimes I help save the world.”
You gape. “I thought you meant you were a firefighter. Or a teacher! Or like, I don’t know, a really good therapist!”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Sorry. That probably would’ve been easier.”
“You’re—” You lower your voice, leaning in. “You’re The Sentry. You’re an actual Avenger. Or—Thunderbolt. Or—whatever the hell team you’re on.”
“Technically, I’m sort of on loan.”
You give him a look. “That's not the point.”
He’s quiet again. But not defensive. Not evasive. Just… waiting. Letting you process.
And you are processing.
All the little things you overlooked:
The quiet strength in how he moved.
The weird evasiveness.
The stormy energy he sometimes carried like he was trying to keep it bottled.
You exhale, the adrenaline finally catching up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, softer now.
“I didn’t want you to treat me differently,” he says. “I liked the bookstore. I liked that you didn’t know. You talked to me like I was just… Bob.”
You blink. “Is that your real name?”
“Yes.”
“And you really read fantasy novels?”
He actually smiles. “Especially the sad ones.”
You hesitate. Your heart is still pounding, but your voice softens even more.
“You came to dinner,” you murmur. “You sat through my uncle’s knee replacement story. You complimented my grandma’s brooch.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t hard. I meant it.”
You stare at him.
The man who eats lemon muffins on Thursdays.
The man who shyly kissed your cheek.
The man who casually shut off a television with his brain.
You rub a hand over your face. “I dragged The Sentry into a fake dating scheme because my mom thinks I’m undateable.”
His voice is gentle. “You didn’t drag me. I said yes.”
You glance up at him. “Why?”
His gaze softens. “Because you asked.”
You swallow.
He takes a step closer. His voice lowers, almost shy again. “If you want to call this off now, I’ll understand. I’ll tell them we broke up before dessert. I can cry if it helps.”
You laugh — a short, startled sound — but it breaks some of the tension.
You look up at him. “You’d really do that?”
“I’m a very convincing fake ex.”
You’re quiet for a moment. He’s still standing there — not defensive, not cocky — just Bob. The same Bob who buys fantasy novels and waits for you to recommend the good ones.
The same Bob who just blew your entire reality to pieces.
And yet…
You find yourself saying, “Let’s just get through dessert.”
His brows raise slightly. “You sure?”
You nod. “We can panic later.”
He smiles. A real one. Small. Grateful.
“Okay,” he says. “Back to the pie.”
You nod, open the hallway door, and walk back toward the dining room together — fake-dating The Sentry, one awkward spoonful of whipped cream at a time.
You return to the dining room with Bob beside you, and despite the mini-crisis that just played out in the hallway, somehow… everything continues like nothing happened.
The pie’s been sliced. Plates passed around. The table is filled with the comforting hum of your family talking over each other, laughing, sneaking bites of dessert before their coffee cools.
Bob slips into his seat beside you, and when your mom asks if he wants whipped cream, he nods and says, “Yes, ma’am,” with a small smile.
She beams.
You stare at him for a second longer than you should.
He’s calm. Almost too calm. Like he’s pretending to be human in a sitcom, and somehow nailing the part.
Milo won’t stop glancing over, like he’s replaying the Thunderbolts footage in his head. But thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.
You press your knee against Bob’s under the table.
He glances at you.
You mouth: Thank you.
He just nods.
⋆˙⟡
When the dishes are finally cleared and your aunts start hunting for their coats, you help your mom carry plates to the kitchen. She’s humming. Actually humming.
You try not to let guilt claw at your chest.
After a few minutes, coats are zipped, goodbyes are exchanged, and your mom pats Bob’s arm like he’s already part of the family. Your dad claps him on the back and says, “You handled the chaos pretty well, son. That’s promising.”
You’re still not sure whether that’s a compliment or a threat.
Finally, it’s just the two of you at the door.
You walk Bob out onto the porch. The sky’s dark, but the porch light gives his face a warm glow. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly from the cool air, partly because you don’t know what to do with them anymore.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, leaning against the railing. “I dragged you into that mess because I panicked and lied to my mom and I never expected you to actually say yes or look like that or—”
Bob steps forward and kisses you.
Soft. Sure. Warm.
It happens in the span of a heartbeat — his hand resting gently on your cheek, the kiss itself lingering just long enough to make you forget where you are.
When he pulls back, he whispers, “Sorry.”
You blink, stunned.
He jerks his thumb toward the window beside the front door.
You turn.
Your mom is standing there, mostly hidden behind the curtain — watching. Her expression is somewhere between victorious and smug.
You groan. “Oh my god.”
Bob chuckles. “She’s committed. I respect it.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile. “That was mean.”
“That was method acting,” he teases.
You hesitate, then reach out and fix the collar of his jacket. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to,” he says. “I meant what I said — I liked being asked.”
A beat.
“I still do.”
The air between you shifts — warmer now, quiet but honest.
You nod once, not sure what to say. Not sure what this is becoming.
He opens the gate and starts to walk down the path. Just before he disappears into the dark, he turns back.
“I’ll see you Tuesday?”
You smile. “Tuesday.”
And then he’s gone.
You close the door gently, heart fluttering like it’s trying to tell you something. You lean against the wood for a second, exhale, and whisper to no one:
“…Oh no.”
⋆˙⟡
Sunday, 7:36 am
It starts like any other day.
You stop at your usual corner café, order your iced coffee (half sweet, extra ice, just the way you like it), and wrap your hands around the plastic cup like it might ground you.
For a moment, the world feels normal.
You walk the next block with your earbuds in, the playlist soothing, the city humming gently around you. It isn’t until you pass the magazine stand by the subway entrance that something feels… off.
Your eyes drift lazily over the covers as you walk by.
And then you see it.
Front and center. Bold red font. A full-page photo.
“WHO IS THE SENTRY’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?” (Shocking New Romance Revealed — Civilian Involved?)
You stop mid-step. Your breath catches.
Your own face stares back at you from under a blur of porch lights and lipstick smudged from a very real, very public kiss.
You nearly drop your coffee right there.
But it only gets worse.
Because as you turn the corner toward the bookstore — just a normal Tuesday morning — you don’t see the usual handful of early customers waiting for the shop to open.
You see a crowd.
No — not a crowd. A swarm.
Microphones. Cameras. People standing on tiptoes, phones raised high, shouting questions at… nothing, because the store isn’t even open yet.
Your stomach drops.
Your name gets shouted from somewhere in the noise.
And then, mercifully — your brain does the one logical thing.
It panics.
You spin around. Your foot hits the curb. Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the sidewalk, and explodes in a cold, sticky splash.
“Hey—hey! That’s her!” someone yells behind you.
You don’t look back.
You duck into the narrow alley between the bookstore and the laundromat, heart hammering, air slicing sharp into your lungs.
Your mind is racing with every terrible headline, every awkward question your mom is probably getting right now, and how very not normal your life has become.
And then—
“Hiii.”
You scream.
A figure drops from the fire escape like it’s nothing, landing in front of you with the elegance of a spy movie villain and the expression of someone who just finished a cinnamon roll.
Blonde. Tactical jacket. Combat boots. Sunglasses perched on her head like she accessorized mid-mission.
She smiles. “So. You’re the girlfriend?”
You stumble back a step, heart in your throat. “I—I’m—who are you?!”
“Yelena,” she says cheerfully, offering a hand like this is a brunch date. “Bob’s teammate. Sometimes assassin. Don’t worry, I’m nice-ish.”
You don’t take her hand. You just stare.
“I was sent to retrieve you,” she continues, already walking past you like she owns the alley. “Big mess. PR nightmare. Possibly global. Thought you might need help.”
“I—I’m fine,” you lie, inching toward the wall.
Yelena glances down at your coffee-covered shoes. “You’re not fine.”
You exhale shakily. “How is this real?”
She grins. “You kissed The Sentry on your porch. Now you’re in a tabloid warzone. Welcome to superhero dating.”
You press your palms to your face.
Behind you, the voices are getting louder.
Yelena tilts her head toward the street. “Wanna escape this circus?”
“…Yes.”
“Come on.” She tosses you a hoodie from her bag — black, oversized. “Put this on. You’re going to Thunderbolts HQ.”
“What?”
“Bob’s waiting,” she adds casually, “and he looks very stressed. It’s adorable.”
Your heart thumps harder.
You pull the hoodie over your head, the scent of leather and something faintly metallic catching in your nose. Yelena nods approvingly, then leads you toward a black SUV idling around the corner — quiet, sleek, and somehow completely unnoticed by the mob.
As you duck into the backseat, she climbs in beside you and shuts the door.
She tosses a protein bar in your lap.
“You’re going to need energy,” she says. “They’re gonna love you.”
The SUV pulls away.
The shouting fades behind you.
And your life? Well. It’s never going to be quiet again.
The SUV glides through a checkpoint, into an underground tunnel, then up a ramp. You think you see a guard tower disguised as a billboard. Or maybe you’re hallucinating. That’s possible too.
Yelena’s sitting casually beside you, texting someone, while you clutch your protein bar like it might shield you from public scrutiny and government agencies.
Finally, the vehicle stops. The door swings open.
Yelena hops out and waves you after her. “Don’t look nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
“Then pretend you’re not. That’s what we all do.”
You step out into a huge glass and steel atrium. Sleek floors. Tall ceilings. Giant screen with the Thunderbolts logo rotating in slow, dramatic fashion. Men in suits, agents in gear, someone zipping by on rollerblades like this is normal.
You? You’re in someone else’s hoodie, dried coffee on your pants, and your brain’s still processing “Bob is the Sentry.”
Yelena leads you through a corridor like she’s returning a library book. “Try not to look directly at Valentina unless you want to end up as the face of the team’s diversity initiative.”
“…What?”
“Just smile and nod.”
Yelena leads you down a bright hallway, past glass walls and security doors, through what feels like the inside of a top-secret airport crossed with an IKEA showroom. You’re still in someone else’s hoodie, your coffee’s long gone, and you haven’t quite recovered from the kiss-seen-round-the-world.
She swings open a door, and inside it’s surprisingly normal — couches, a kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring. A few Thunderbolts glance up.
Ghost gives you a quiet nod from her seat at the counter.
John Walker grins, already sharpening a teasing remark.
Bob stands awkwardly by the sink, like he just got caught sneaking a cookie.
“Well, damn,” Walker says, leaning against the counter. “I thought Bob was making you up. Or buying girlfriend stock photos online.”
“John,” Bob says flatly.
“I’m just saying, we’re happy for you, man. It’s cute. Weird, but cute.”
Ghost sips her tea. “He’s been checking his phone like a teenage girl since Saturday.”
Bob looks like he wants to phase through the wall. You try not to laugh — and fail. A little.
Then the doors behind you slide open, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine enters like the final boss in heels.
She smiles, perfectly calm. “Glad you made it. Cute outfit. Hope you like government buildings.”
You blink. “Uh… thanks?”
Val flips open a sleek tablet and doesn’t look up. “So here’s the deal. We can’t exactly walk this story back without making it worse. You’re already part of the narrative. The kiss happened. The porch photos are out. Bob looked… well, shockingly competent.”
Bob mumbles, “Thanks?”
Val finally meets your eyes. “So. Option one: go home, brave the cameras, and let Reddit guess your social security number. Or option two: we give you a place to stay. Quiet. Safe. With a door that locks and, if you ask nicely, a reading lamp.”
You glance at Bob. “Would I… be staying with him?”
Bob visibly stiffens.
Val shrugs. “You’d have your own space. This isn’t The Bachelor. We’re not trying to force anything.”
Bob relaxes.
You think about it for a long moment. The tabloids. The porch. The look on his face when he saw you today.
“…Okay,” you say. “But I want a real lock. And maybe snacks.”
“Done,” Val says, already walking away. “Yelena, get her something from the vending machine. And no shrimp chips.”
Once the others drift off, you find yourself alone with Bob again — sort of. You’re standing near the couches, and he’s holding a mug like it’s a prop he forgot how to use.
You glance at him. “So.”
He looks up. “So.”
“You, uh… handled that well.”
“I was sweating the entire time.”
You smile. “Didn’t show.”
There’s a pause. The good kind.
“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” he says.
“I’m not,” you admit, then quickly add, “I mean—not the whole national-news part. That sucked. But, you know. The bookstore. The pie. That stuff.”
He looks at you like you just handed him a book he didn’t know he needed.
He fidgets. “For the record, I didn’t just kiss you because your mom was watching," he says. You tilted your head.
Then, again, he softly says: “Do you think… once this blows over… maybe we could try the real thing?”
You consider it, heart full but calm.
“…We’ll see,” you say.
He grins.
So do you.
A/N: i have SO MANY prompts/scenes in my head for bob that i had to list it down on my notes (this is one of them). PS i wrote this when i was suffering from a writers block in the middle of writing the second part of Psyche. PSS i cant stop writing about bob (not that i want to) it's making me crazy
— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."
— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader
— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression
— word count. 6k+ ?
masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6
⋆˙⟡
The next day crawled by.
You told yourself it was just another shift: just stitches, scans, the usual rhythm of organized chaos. But every time you passed a window or a shadow flickered across the sterile ER light, your gaze drifted outside.
Around 4:30, Christine caught you doing it.
She slid up beside you at the nurse’s station, holding a clipboard she wasn’t reading. "You keep staring out there like you’re waiting for a spaceship.”
You didn’t look at her. “I’m not.”
Christine leaned, squinting toward the street. “Mmhm. Because the tall guy in the hoodie across the street is just loitering for fun?”
You froze. Just for a half-second.
“Oh my god,” she said, grinning. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
“Christine—”
“No, no, I’m just trying to understand,” she said, hand raised like she needed physical stability. “You, brilliant trauma surgeon, have a potentially world-ending crush on New York’s most unstable demi-god.”
“I do not—”
“He looks like a kicked puppy,” she mused. “Kind of cute, in a ‘please don’t vaporize me’ way. You’re into that?”
You checked the clock sitting in the wall beside you before you turned to her, unamused. “I’m going outside.”
“What if he is a danger?” she called after you, mock-dramatic. “Blink twice if you need Thor!”
You flipped her off without looking back.
“I’ll take that as a maybe!”
Bob Reynolds was easy to spot.
He stood awkwardly by a lamppost outside the Starbucks on 8th and Greenwich, hoodie low over his face. But subtle? Not a chance—he was massive, twitchy, and radiating tension like a downed power line.
As you approached, you spotted them: two men in dark suits, sitting at opposite corners of the café patio. One had an earpiece. The other had a jacket bulge too square to be anything but a weapon.
“They with you?” you asked quietly.
Bob hesitated. “They’re with them. Standard protocol.” He raised his wrist, showing you a sleek black band, barely wearable tech. “If I go red, they move in.”
You nodded. Quietly. Then opened the door.
Inside: burnt espresso, the hum of capitalism, and ambient indie pop. A universe away from the void in Bob’s head.
You both got drinks. His had more sugar than coffee.
You took a seat by the window. Light sliced across the table in gold strips. Outside, the bodyguards watched without moving. You could feel the hum of tension under the table— his, not yours.
Bob stirred his drink with a shaky hand.
“So,” you said. “This the part where you tell me why you wanted to meet?”
He didn’t answer immediately. When he looked up, his eyes were unreadable.
“I wanted to try again. With the mind stuff. But not today. I thought we could just... talk. Like people.”
You sipped. “Talking’s a good start.”
“They don’t trust me,” he said. “Not really. Not even the Thunderbolts.”
“You’re wearing a tracker.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “They call it a proactive risk mitigation device. Translation: ‘please don’t explode in public.’”
You snorted. “We love euphemisms in medicine.”
His smile flickered, but dropped fast. “I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t trust me either.”
You studied him. Not nervous, but frayed. Like a person unraveling thread by thread. The kind of damage you recognized from trauma wards. Combat. Survivors.
“I read your files,” you said gently. “What you were. What you did. You’re still here, Bob. That has to mean something.”
He looked away. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t.”
Silence fell. Not awkward. Heavy.
“I don’t want to be the Void,” he said. “Or the Sentry. I just want to be someone else. I don’t know who that is yet.”
You nodded. “That’s what I’m here for.”
His gaze lifted. Really looking at you, for the first time since you’d sat down. "You think you can fix what’s in my head?”
“I’m not here to fix you,” you said. “I’m here to help you understand yourself. There’s a difference.”
Something broke in his face. Just a crack. A shift.
“That’s the first thing anyone’s said that didn’t sound like a warning.”
You slid a leather notebook across the table. “Homework. Dreams, thoughts, stuff that doesn’t feel like it belongs. Write it down. We’ll use it to map the next entry point.”
He stared at the notebook like it might vanish.
Then nodded. “Okay.”
Across the street, Yelena sipped black coffee and grimaced.
“Why does this taste like regret?”
“Because you’re drinking Starbucks,” muttered the agent next to her—Jones, ex-SHIELD, now Ross’s clean-up crew.
She ignored him.
Through the café window, she watched Bob Reynolds fiddle with his cup like it might explode. The doc leaned in slightly, listening, not prying.
Bob was still. Still. Not hiding. Not unraveling.
Yelena almost smiled.
“What?” Jones asked.
“Nothing,” she lied. Then, “Actually— yeah. You ever seen him like that?”
Jones snorted. “You call that calm?”
“For Bob? That’s borderline sedated.”
She watched as Bob gave a shy smile. The doctor responded with something gentle. Grounding.
Then Torres’s voice crackled through her comms: “Okay, hear me out... what if they start dating?”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “Please. She’s way out of his league.”
“Bob cleans up okay,” said Mack. “Give him a haircut and some therapy? That’s boyfriend material.”
Yelena snorted. “You’re all insane.”
“Maybe,” Torres said. “But admit it. You’re rooting for them.”
Yelena didn’t answer.
Because in that moment, every HUD alarm screamed red.
Incoming.
“Status?” she barked, already moving.
“Not Bob,” said Jones. “Tracker’s green. Pulse steady. Elevated, but stable.”
"Unidentified extraterrestrial just entered the atmosphere. Heading straight for their position.”
Yelena didn’t curse. She didn’t need to.
She ran.
⋆˙⟡
The light outside bent.
It wasn’t metaphorical. The air warped like heat off asphalt, and for a moment it felt like the world forgot how to hold its shape.
Your cup stopped halfway to your lips.
Across the table, Bob froze. His fingers clenched tight around his drink, knuckles paling, breath caught in his throat. That buzzing tension under his skin, the one you’d noticed before. It was like static before a storm.
Then the glass behind you rattled. A soft, eerie tremble—barely a whisper at first.
You turned, instincts kicking in. “What was that?”
Bob’s eyes were wide, locked on something past you, out the window. His voice dropped.
“Something’s here.”
The sky cracked.
It wasn’t lightning. It was a sonic boom tangled with the shriek of tearing metal and the roar of something wrong.
The front windows blew inward.
A wall of noise hit first—glass exploding, tables flipping, people screaming. You flinched, a hand half-raised—but before you could think, Bob grabbed you, yanking you behind the counter in one rough, desperate motion.
Heat. Noise. Dust.
The air became smoke and rubble. You ducked low beside him, back against the cabinetry, breath coming hard. Shouting filled the room—fear, confusion, that unmistakable pitch of panic.
Somewhere to your right, a child screamed. One of the agents in suits launched over a table, shielding them with his body.
Bob didn’t speak. He was crouched in front of you, shielding you with his frame like instinct, not decision.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
The quiet intensity in his voice chilled you more than the chaos outside. He was calm, yes—but in the way a loaded weapon is calm, seconds before it fires.
You opened your mouth to ask—what the hell was happening, what was that thing—but didn’t get the chance.
The ceiling groaned.
Something outside detonated. A deep, thud, followed by a ripple of force that knocked over chairs and sent another cloud of dust into the air. Bob pulled you back again—closer this time—just as a support beam buckled.
CRACK.
Concrete fell.
The café was coming apart. You stumbled backward, disoriented, heart hammering in your chest. And then—
You were separated.
A massive slab of ceiling crashed down between you, the impact deafening. You staggered, coughing, eyes stinging. “Bob!”
No response.
You dropped low, crawling under dangling wires and fractured drywall. Your knees scraped against broken tile. Somewhere, espresso machines were hissing steam like dying engines.
You turned a corner of twisted debris, and—
Something moved.
A shadow in the smoke.
Bob.
His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, and in the next heartbeat he pulled you hard— arms locking around your waist, both of you diving behind a half-toppled support column.
Another blast hit.
The place where you’d stood was now a crater of pulverized flooring and fire-scorched plastic. Bits of light fixtures rained down like sparks.
His grip lingered.
You were pressed against him, your heartbeat hammering loud enough to drown the world. His breath hitched. Not fear, but something else. Focus.
Your eyes met, just for a second, and the world went still.
Then the ceiling gave way.
A roar above. More concrete. More fire. More sky where a roof should be.
“Clear a path! I want eyes on them now!”
Yelena’s voice, sharp and slicing, cut through the wreckage. Outside, chaos reigned—sirens, screaming, dust thick as fog. The world had gone full warzone. Agents swarmed like a coordinated blur of movement.
The Starbucks was gone.
Torres tossed a Wakandan pulse drone into the wreckage. It zipped into the mess, scanning. Vibrating pulses hummed through the air like sonar. Yelena didn’t wait for the readout.
“There!” Torres called. “Two signatures—beneath the west column!”
Yelena didn’t hesitate. She ducked low, slid under twisted beams and broken glass, ignoring the cuts on her hands. Concrete crunched under her boots.
And there you were.
Bob was crouched over you, arms braced around you like a shield, his body tense, face streaked with blood and soot. His shoulders were curved like he could hold up the sky if it meant keeping you safe. His eyes were still glowing. Not fully. Not yet.
You looked up at Yelena, dust in your lashes. Your breath came in short, controlled bursts. Your calm wasn’t fake. It was survival.
Yelena knelt beside you, unfazed. “You two look cozy,” she said, voice breezy, like the world wasn’t actively caving in around her.
Bob jolted. You cracked a smile despite yourself.
Yelena extended a hand. “Come on, lovebirds. Time to go.”
He didn’t let go of your hand.
Even as rubble was lifted. Even as the agents tried to separate you to assess your leg. He just kept holding it, fingers tight around yours like a lifeline.
Even when Torres offered to carry you, Bob’s voice dropped low. “I’ve got her.”
He didn’t just say it. He meant it. With everything in him.
As you ran, above you, the sky burned red.
The alien creature that had crash-landed glowed like a dying star—jagged limbs, twisting light, moving in ways your mind rejected. A walking contradiction. Massive. Impossible. Real.
Sam Wilson dropped from the clouds.
“Target locked,” came his voice over comms. “Thunderbolts, keep it away from civilians. Hit it hard and fast.”
The street became a war zone. Red Guardian hurled slabs of debris like baseballs. Yelena loaded shock rounds into her gauntlets. Bucky’s rifle lit up the sky.
And still—Bob hovered just outside the line.
Not running. Not fighting. Just... watching. Fists clenched. Breathing shallow.
Watching you.
You’d found cover behind a crushed table, trying to triage a broken ankle and keep your head low. Every explosion shook your ribs.
“Bob!” you called. “We can’t stay here!”
He was already looking at you when you spoke—like he hadn’t looked away once.
Then something above groaned. Concrete shifted.
You looked up—
Too late.
A mass of steel and stone broke loose from a ruined rooftop, plummeting fast—too fast.
Bob moved.
No hesitation.
He tackled you, dragging you behind a broken pillar. You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs. Concrete exploded behind you.
“You good?” he asked, voice tight, scanning you.
You nodded. “Thanks.”
The next explosion came even closer.
“We need to move,” you said, pointing toward a side alley. “Now.”
You led. He followed.
You made it three steps.
BOOM.
Something struck the building next door. The shockwave tore through the wall. Debris separated you again. A fireball lit up the alley behind you.
“BOB?!” you screamed.
“I’m here!” His voice, rough, coughing—but he was out of view.
You turned—only for a pair of arms to grab you, yank you behind another wall of rubble.
It was Bob. Again.
He was shaking. Glowing faintly. Breathing like he was holding back a hurricane.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t think. Just—reacted.”
You gripped his arm. “We need to regroup. Now.”
He nodded, jaw clenched.
But then—the ground beneath you gave out.
A creaking groan. Then collapse.
The floor dropped. You both fell.
The impact hit like a body slam. You gasped, stunned, pain flaring through your hip and shoulder as you landed in a pitch-black corridor—half-collapsed, filled with rubble and smoke.
“Where are you?” you croaked.
“I’m here.” He coughed. Shifting sounds. A grunt. “You okay?”
“Fine, just bruised. ”
He was already moving, trying to shove a slab off his shoulder. Muscles straining. Gold flickered in his eyes again—dangerously bright.
“Wait,” you said, but he wasn’t listening. He pushed harder, jaw tight, that pressure building inside him like a bomb with no safety.
The slab didn’t budge.
His breath shuddered. He clenched his fists. Power hummed, dangerously close to breaking free.
Then—he stopped.
Backed off. Shook the glow from his eyes. Swallowed hard.
“I can’t,” he said. “Not here. Not now.”
Footsteps above.
A mechanical whir.
Then—a hand reached through the wreckage.
Vibranium.
Bucky.
You exhaled for the first time in minutes.
“Got ‘em!” Bucky’s voice rang out. “They’re down here!”
With practiced coordination, the team sprang into action. Red Guardian cleared a path through the rubble while Torres and Ghost dropped into the crevice, lifting debris with precision. You and Bob were pulled free in tandem—bruised, covered in ash and soot, but miraculously intact.
You coughed hard, blinking through dust. Bob stood beside you, silent, brushing grit from his sleeves. He looked… steady. Shaken, yes, but composed. Like a man who had just walked to the edge of something deep—and pulled back.
There was no time to breathe.
Above, the battle had escalated.
More of the creatures were falling from the sky, each more twisted and unnatural than the last—eyes that shimmered wrong, limbs that bent in impossible directions. The air itself seemed to ripple where they moved.
The Thunderbolts were already repositioning. Yelena, Red Guardian, Ghost, and Bucky formed a defensive line near the collapsed street, weapons at the ready. Sam hovered overhead, scanning the area, his voice crisp over comms:
“Eyes up! More incoming—big ones!”
The team exploded into motion.
Red Guardian charged one of the creatures, driving it through a rusted-out truck with a bellowing war cry. “How many of these things ARE there?!”
Ghost blurred into phase, vanishing through a wall and reappearing behind a snarling brute, jamming a destabilizer into its spine.
Yelena spun and flung an electrified disc; it latched onto a creature’s neck and detonated, staggering the thing back into the flames.
You and Bob kept low behind an overturned SUV. Every explosion drew a protective twitch from him—his hand would snap out instinctively to shield you, or he’d pull you tight against cover just before debris rained down.
He didn’t speak. But his body language said everything: You are not getting hurt again. Not on my watch.
His face was unreadable—no fear, no panic. Just tension. Like he was holding back a tidal wave with nothing but sheer will.
Another creature burst through a wall behind you—close. Too close. You spun, and Bob spun with you. The thing raised a jagged limb, lurching for your throat—
And Bob moved.
Something in him snapped.
His hand lifted on instinct. A golden wave of heat and force beamed from his eyes, raw and sudden, with a high-pitched pulse like a detuned frequency.
The creature didn’t even scream. It vaporized instantly—dissolved into dust and burning air.
Half the wall behind it disintegrated.
Silence.
The battlefield paused. Heads turned.
Bob stood frozen, arm still half-raised, breathing hard. His eyes glowed faintly now—not the full flare of the Sentry, but unmistakably not normal. Not just Bob.
Red Guardian ducked behind a concrete slab, blinking. “Okay. That’s new.”
Sam landed nearby, visor dark over his eyes. “Everyone saw that, right?”
No one answered.
Bob didn’t speak. He just stared at the scorched concrete, at the smoldering space where the creature had stood.
Then his gaze shifted—to you. Not proud. Not afraid. Just... frustrated. Like he'd tried so hard not to be this. And now it was too late to hide.
The moment passed.
Another wave of creatures screamed from above, dropping through the broken skyline. The Thunderbolts surged forward again. Sam took to the air. Ghost vanished into the ground.
Bob stayed close to you. He didn’t flare again—but the edge was there, humming just under his skin.
Minutes later, the battle was done.
The last alien fell, its corpse twitching as black smoke curled from its bones. The street was a crater of fire, shattered glass, and blood. The Avengers and Thunderbolts stood among the wreckage, battered but upright.
Bucky leaned on a crushed lamppost, dragging a sleeve across his face. Yelena holstered a sidearm, scanning the scene with sharp, methodical eyes.
And that’s when she noticed it.
The pattern.
These creatures—whatever they were—hadn’t attacked at random. It hadn’t been chaos. They’d been focused. At first, she'd assumed they were after Bob. The power signature made sense. The flare of energy would’ve drawn attention like a beacon.
But the timeline didn’t add up.
The creatures had zeroed in before Bob unleashed anything.
Her eyes flicked across the destroyed café, the alley, the cratered street where you had been pinned—over and over again. It was subtle. Too subtle for a civilian to catch. But she’d seen it.
They weren’t targeting Bob.
They were targeting you.
Yelena kept the thought to herself. No need to rattle the team yet. No need to rattle you. But a weight settled on her shoulders, colder than the blood drying on her gloves.
Why you?
As the team regrouped, Sam jogged over, shield on his back, scanning faces.
“Everyone accounted for?” he asked, voice firm but calm.
Yelena nodded once. Her expression was unreadable. “These things weren’t just here to cause mayhem.”
She didn’t look at you when she said it.
“They were after something. Or someone.”
A silence settled over the team—uneasy, thick with the realization that the worst might not be over.
⋆˙⟡
The soft whir of machines and the gentle clinking of medical tools filled the space. You stood beside the medical cot where Bucky Barnes sat, his shirt ripped and a gash just beneath his cheekbone still fresh and bleeding.
"Hold still," you muttered, dabbing antiseptic onto a cotton pad. Bucky flinched but didn’t complain.
Across the room, Sam Wilson stood with his arms crossed tightly against his chest, watching the activity with sharp eyes. Yelena Belova leaned against the far table, eyes narrowed, her mind clearly still deep in the chaos they’d just left behind.
"You saw how coordinated they were," Yelena said, breaking the silence. "That wasn’t random. That kind of attack—it wasn’t just some alien beast dropping into the wrong city."
Sam nodded. "They were tracking something. Or someone."
"They came straight for us," Bucky added, his tone more serious now. "But not just us."
Yelena looked at you subtly, not yet calling attention to what she suspected. "They didn’t make a beeline for Bob, though everyone assumed that’s who they wanted."
You looked up from cleaning Bucky’s wound, sensing the shift in the conversation.
"They weren’t after Bob?" you asked, voice low.
"No," Yelena replied, her gaze meeting yours briefly. "It looked like it. But they moved past him more than once. They weren’t focused on taking him out. They were circling around him."
"That doesn’t make sense," Sam muttered.
"It does if they weren’t after him at all," she added.
In the corner of the room, Bob Reynolds stood silently, arms folded. His posture was rigid, eyes flicking between you and the others. There was a tension in him, like a wire stretched too tight. Red Guardian sat nearby, bruised but still full of energy, watching Bob with a smirk creeping across his face.
"You’re sure?" Sam pressed. "Not the Sentry, not Bob—"
Yelena nodded. "I’m sure. The pattern was too consistent. Every time they moved, it was toward her position."
You froze briefly, your hands halting as you pressed a fresh bandage on Bucky’s cheek.
"What?" you asked, unsure if you'd misheard.
There was silence for a beat—until Red Guardian broke it with a teasing chuckle. "Looks like you’re more popular than you thought."
He nodded toward Bob, who had been watching you with an unreadable expression. Bob’s eyes flicked away immediately, his jaw tightening.
Alexei, catching the exchange, raised a brow. "You alright, Bob?"
Bob blinked. "Yeah. I’m fine."
"Because you’ve been staring a hole in the back of her head for five minutes," Red Guardian muttered with a laugh.
Before Bob could answer, Bucky turned to you, holding out his hand with exaggerated innocence. "By the way, I think I’ve got another wound. Somewhere around here…" he said, pointing vaguely to his neck with a smirk.
Without catching the teasing tone, you responded automatically. "Look this way."
Red Guardian leaned back, thoroughly entertained.
"You’re not subtle, Barnes," he chuckled.
As you worked, Yelena and Sam continued their conversation, now joined by Bob, who was still half-listening while glancing your way.
"This changes our strategy," Sam said. "If she’s the target, we can’t leave her unprotected. We got lucky this time. We won’t always be in position to respond."
Yelena nodded. "She stays here. Under our watch."
You finally looked up, uncertain. "Are you sure? I don’t want to get in the way."
"You’re not in the way," Sam said firmly. "You’re in danger. We don't ignore that."
Bob’s voice came quietly but with steel behind it. "He’s right. You’re not leaving until we understand what they wanted."
You met his eyes again—and this time, he didn’t look away.
⋆˙⟡
The tower had finally grown quiet. The adrenaline of the day’s battle had worn off, replaced with heavy silence and the low hum of the tower’s systems. Most of the team had either crashed in their rooms or were nursing bruises and silence on the far end of the hall.
You sat alone on the long couch, shoulders sore, a shallow cut across your arm that you'd ignored until now finally getting your attention. You held a small medkit on your lap, disinfectant pad in hand, phone tucked between your shoulder and cheek.
"Yeah, I’m okay," you said softly into the receiver. Christine Palmer’s voice crackled gently on the other end.
"Are you sure? You sound like you’ve been through a building collapse."
"I’ve been through worse," you half-laughed, wincing as the antiseptic stung. "But this was... different."
"You need rest. Let them help you for once, will you?"
"Trying," you murmured.
As you pulled a bandage tight around your arm, a glass of water was set down in front of you on the coffee table. You looked up to see Bucky, already turning to walk away.
"Get some rest," he said simply, no smile, just quiet sincerity in his voice.
You gave a soft, tired nod. "Thanks."
Across the room, Bob Reynolds had been lingering by the hallway, watching. He didn’t understand the feeling crawling up the back of his neck—wasn’t anger, wasn’t fear. Just... something uncomfortable when he saw Bucky looking out for you. He wasn’t even sure why it got to him.
He stepped forward, his hands in his jacket pockets, tone neutral.
"Yelena said I should show you to the room you’ll be staying in tonight. Said you shouldn’t be wandering around alone after... everything."
You nodded, standing slowly. Your body ached more than you expected. Bob noticed.
"You can take one of my hoodies, if you want. Tower gets cold at night."
You blinked. "Oh. Sure, thanks."
He nodded awkwardly, gesturing for you to follow him.
As you both walked down the corridor, your limbs heavy with fatigue, you didn’t catch the way Bob glanced your way now and then. He kept his thoughts to himself, but they were loud in his head.
Not romantic, not possessive. Just unsure. Something had shifted—and he didn’t know what it meant yet.
The door creaked open softly, revealing a modest but comfortable guest room. Neutral tones. A window that looked out into the city skyline. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed.
Bob stepped in first, flicking the light on. “It’s not much,” he said, his voice low, careful not to disturb the silence the rest of the tower had settled into. “But it’s safe. And... yours for now.”
You gave a tired nod, stepping inside behind him. The tension was subtle but present—like neither of you knew exactly what to say, or whether saying anything at all was the right call.
Bob held out the hoodie—navy blue, oversized, sleeves a little too long. “Figured you’d rather sleep in something that doesn’t smell like concrete dust.”
You gave a small huff of a laugh and took it. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
He nodded again, lingering in the doorway. “You sure you're okay?”
You paused, one hand tightening on the hoodie. “Yeah. I mean... I’m trying to be.”
He looked down at the floor for a second, his hands tightening into loose fists at his sides. “I wanted to—when everything was collapsing—I thought I’d be able to stop it. Or help. But I couldn’t. It’s like... I wasn’t fast enough. Or strong enough.”
You looked at him. “You still ran toward it. That counts.”
Bob let out a breath. “Maybe.”
Silence stretched again. Not awkward, just heavy with the kind of weight only shared danger brings.
You shifted, the soreness in your shoulder tugging at your attention. “You can go rest. I’ll be fine.”
He nodded slowly, stepping back toward the hallway—but hesitated at the doorway, his hand resting against the frame.
“If you need anything,” he said, not looking at you, “just knock on the door across the hall. I won’t be sleeping much anyway.”
You offered a faint smile. “Alright. Goodnight, Bob.”
“Night.”
He closed the door behind him with a quiet click. For a moment, you just stood there, alone in the quiet, holding the hoodie in your hands. It was warm.
You sat on the bed, pulling the hoodie over your head, staring blankly at the city lights beyond the glass.
Somewhere down the hall, Bob leaned against the doorframe of his own room, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, jaw tight.
Neither of you said it, but both of you felt it.
Something had changed.
⋆˙⟡
The sunlight filtered through reinforced glass, painting golden lines across the tower’s modern interior. A quiet hum of the building’s systems underscored the calm.
You stepped into the common room, still tugging one sleeve of Bob’s hoodie over your hand. Your own clothes were in a bag nearby, but you hadn’t changed yet — you weren’t ready to slip out of the safety of comfort.
Bucky sat at the island, quietly eating cereal straight from the box. Red Guardian was nursing a mug of something steaming and aggressively black. Sam was already in uniform, arms folded, staring at a holo-projection of last night’s wreckage.
Yelena was the first to notice you.
“Morning,” she said, leaning against the kitchen counter, half of a protein bar in her hand. “Sleep?”
“Eventually,” you replied. “You?”
She just smirked.
Bob was already there, tucked in one corner with a tablet in his hand, pretending to scroll through post-incident reports. His eyes flicked up at you briefly, then back down.
“Coffee’s over there,” Sam said without looking up, gesturing to the machine behind him. “You’ll need it.”
You nodded, padding quietly toward it.
As you poured yourself a cup, Sam continued. “We went over the footage again. The creatures — they weren’t targeting Bob. Not directly.”
That made Bob finally look up.
Bucky, still munching cereal, raised an eyebrow. “You think they were tracking someone else?”
Yelena’s gaze slid toward you.
Sam caught it. “That’s what we’re trying to confirm.”
You turned, coffee in hand, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why would they be after me?”
Red Guardian gave a grunt. “Better question — what are they?”
“We’re still working on that,” Sam replied. “Alien, definitely. But their energy signature doesn’t match anything on file from past invasions.”
“Great,” Bucky muttered. “Another mystery species that wants someone dead.”
Bob leaned forward, voice quiet but firm. “If they’re after her... we need to know why. Now.”
“We will,” Sam said. “But for now, safety comes first. That means sticking together. No solo walks, no wandering off.”
You nodded slowly. “So what now?”
Yelena looked at you with a serious expression. “We talk. About your past. Where you’ve been. Who you’ve seen. Anything strange happen before this?”
You hesitated, but then nodded.
You sat across from the team. A whiteboard filled with scribbled alien markings was in the background. Sam, Bucky, and Yelena watched as you recounted what you could, just strange dreams. As you spoke, Bob sat at the far end, arms crossed, brow furrowed — trying not to let the worry show on his face. But he wasn’t good at hiding things.
Eventually, your voice trailed off.
“That’s everything I can think of.”
The room went still. Then Bucky spoke.
“We need a bigger picture. SWORD should get a look at this. Maybe even Carol.”
Sam nodded. “Agreed. I’ll contact Fury. Meanwhile—” he looked at you, “—you’re staying here. Until we figure out what’s going on.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but stopped. You knew better. This wasn’t stubbornness. It was safety.
“Fine.”
Yelena pushed a bottle of water across the table to you. “We’ll figure it out.”
You glanced at Bob briefly. He didn’t say anything. But he gave a small nod.
As the meeting wrapped, Red Guardian nudged Bucky with his elbow and whispered, “Still think they were after golden boy?”
Bucky smirked. “Nope. But he sure wishes they were.”
They both looked toward Bob, who was walking beside you again — not too close, but never too far.
The room was dim. A soft hum came from the ventilation system, the faint buzz of the city below barely audible through reinforced glass.
⋆˙⟡
You tossed in the bed, tangled in blankets, face twisted in distress.
A low rumble echoed in your dream — buildings collapsing, eyes watching from a sky that wasn’t the sky, voices whispering your name in languages your ears couldn’t understand. Heat, shadows, pressure—
BOOM.
Your eyes snapped open.
You were drenched in sweat. Breathing hard.
A knock on the door came just as you sat up, pushing off the covers.
Tap. Tap.
Then a voice, quiet but concerned. "…Are you okay?”
You hesitated, running a hand down your face. “Yeah. Just—bad dream.”
The door cracked open a bit, and Bob stepped in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy like he’d been half-asleep too. His expression was unreadable at first — not too soft, not too intrusive — but his eyes flicked briefly to the bed, to you, then back.
“You were… yelling.”
You looked away, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and exhaustion. “Did I wake anyone?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Just me. My room’s down the hall.”
A beat of silence passed.
He stepped a little closer, careful. “Was it… the creatures?”
You nodded.
“They weren’t chasing me in the dream,” you murmured. “They were talking to me. Or maybe warning me. I couldn’t tell.”
Bob didn’t respond right away. He sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over. “Whatever it is… we’ll figure it out.”
You gave a tired nod.
Then— DING. An alert chirped through the comm system in the corner.
Bob frowned, already rising. “That’s from the hangar.”
Sam was already there, pulling a jacket over his shoulders as the doors to the hangar slowly opened with a hydraulic hiss.
A tall figure stepped through, flanked by two S.W.O.R.D. agents.
The eye patch, long coat, and no-nonsense aura were unmistakable. It was Nick Fury. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, which probably meant he had slept exactly that much.
“Morning, Wilson,” he said, already walking past him.
“It’s 2 a.m.”
“I don’t care.”
Fury’s eyes swept the space until they landed on Bob and you stepping in from the far corridor. You were still in Bob’s hoodie, eyes bleary.
Fury gave you a long, calculating look.
“You,” he said.
“…Me?”
He nodded once. “We need to talk.”
Bob immediately shifted, almost stepping between you and Fury instinctively.
Fury raised a brow. “Relax, Sentry. Not an interrogation. Just a conversation.”
You looked at Bob, then nodded. “It’s okay.”
Fury led you somewhere empty, just down the hall. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at you.
You awkwardly stood in front of him, nerves just beneath your skin, trying to hide them.
“I’ve seen a lot of strange things,” Fury began. “Gods falling from the sky. A teenager fighting purple aliens with Legos. But those creatures last night? They weren’t here for Bob Reynolds.”
You swallowed.
“You felt that, didn’t you?” he asked.
You nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Fury leaned in slightly. “Then we need to figure out why you’re suddenly on some cosmic radar. Because if something’s coming — something big — I need to know whether you’re the beacon, or the fuse.”
The lights buzzed faintly overhead.
“Either way,” Fury said, pushing off the wall, “you’re not going anywhere.”
The same morning, you found yourself in the sword facility. Nick Fury being the reason. The walls buzzed faintly with electromagnetic hums. You stood in the center of a circular analysis chamber surrounded by tall pylons, each pulsing with light as scanners passed up and down your body.
On the other side of the reinforced glass, Fury stood, arms folded, eye focused like a laser beam. Analysts typed quietly behind him, data flickering across screens in shifting colors and graphs.
One tech murmured, “We’ve got something unusual.”
Fury didn’t look away from the glass. “How unusual?”
“There's a layer of dormant energy under the surface-level readings,” the analyst replied. “It’s not active, but it’s there. Deep. Consistent. Like a compressed node of potential—genetic, maybe. Or quantum.”
Fury’s jaw tightened. “Translation?”
“She’s carrying something that hasn’t activated yet. Not mutant, not enhanced tech, not alien symbiote. It’s internal. Part of her.”
Another analyst leaned over. “It might be tied to the energy spike from yesterday. Her body registered a surge milliseconds before the Sentry moved. She didn’t react to danger—something inside her did.”
Fury turned to them, voice calm but sharp. “You saying she’s sitting on a trigger?”
“More like... a locked door,” the tech answered. “And something is rattling the handle.”
Few moments later, you sat across from Nick Fury in a small debriefing space, white walls and a large screen behind him showing your recent scan data. He didn’t speak at first, just studied you with that familiar, unreadable gaze. Then...
“You ever feel like something’s been following you your whole life?”
You blinked. “Is that a question or a metaphor?”
Fury smirked faintly. “Little of both.”
You shifted in your seat. “I’ve had... moments. Things I couldn’t explain. Like my instincts were two steps ahead of me. I used to write it off as adrenaline.”
“It wasn’t adrenaline,” he said simply. “And it wasn’t luck. Our scans show something inside you—something we’ve never seen before. Not alien tech. Not radiation. Not even magical. It’s part of you. Deep in your cells. But it’s sealed.”
“Sealed?” you repeated.
He nodded. “Locked. Like your body’s been holding it back. But something triggered it to stir. Maybe proximity to other enhanced individuals. Maybe stress. Maybe just time.”
You looked at the display screen. Complex waveforms danced across it in patterns you didn’t understand.
“I’m not dangerous,” you said, more to yourself than him.
Fury didn’t challenge you—but he didn’t confirm it either.
“I don’t think you are,” he replied. “But whatever this is? It might not care what you want. And from the looks of it, it hasn’t even started yet.”
A pause.
“You’re not under arrest,” he said, standing. “And you’re not a threat. But until we understand what’s inside you, I’m keeping you close.”
“Because something might want it?” you asked.
He looked at you over his shoulder.
“No. Because something might want to wake it up.”
⋆˙⟡
The halls were quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that comes after chaos, when everyone’s pretending things are back to normal but the walls still hum with tension.
You stepped out onto the upper level’s balcony with your phone in hand. The view below showed the sleek hangar bathed in blue-white lights, equipment being reset, weapons being cleaned. Normal… if you didn’t know better.
Christine picked up after two rings. “Hey,” you greeted, voice low.
“Well if it isn’t S.W.O.R.D.’s latest mystery case,” she replied dryly. “How’s the new life in a top-secret concrete bunker?”
“Still figuring out if I’m a guest or a lab rat,” you muttered with a tired smile. “Fury offered me a job. Officially. Said it was smarter to keep me here. Let me work. Said it gives them a reason to monitor me without making it feel like surveillance.”
“You took it?” she asked.
“Yeah. Better than sitting in lockdown. And… I need the money.”
Christine was quiet for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“No,” you admitted. “But this way, at least I’m doing something. They give me medical clearance. I patch up soldiers, field agents, whoever. But really... they just want me close in case something happens again.”
“And you?” she asked. “Do you think it’ll happen again?”
You didn’t answer that.
The front doors hissed open — a familiar sound now — and in walked the returning squad. The team looked beat to hell. "I'll call you back," you quickly told Christine on the phone right before you ended the call. You looked at the team, mud, torn gear, and exhaustion in every step. But your attention snapped to Yelena the moment you saw the blood seeping through her sleeve.
“Seriously?” you said, already pulling gloves on.
“Missed you too,” Yelena grumbled, lowering herself onto the med cot.
You peeled back the material. A long gash ran down her upper arm — not deep enough to panic, but deep enough to sting like hell. You worked quickly, disinfecting and stitching.
“Did the mission go sideways?”
“Not really. Just messy,” Yelena replied through gritted teeth. “Things don’t like being detained by ex-Russians with attitude problems.”
She glanced at you, studying your face. “You’re still here.”
You met her gaze. “Still under observation. But working now.”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “Of course Fury would find a way to turn this into employment.”
You finished wrapping her arm, then asked, “You talked to Bob lately?”
That got a pause.
“No,” she admitted. “He’s been... distant. Quiet. More than usual.”
You nodded, already peeling off your gloves.
“I’ll check on him," you said as you hurriedly set everything aside.
You strided down the hallway, stopping on your tracks as soon as you arrived at his door. You knocked once. No answer.
When you cracked the door open, Bob was sitting near the window, half in shadow, half in the flicker of a desk lamp. His gaze lifted slowly, as if it took effort.
“Hey,” you said gently. “You up for company?”
He nodded once. No smile, but no resistance.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you.
“You’ve been quiet,” you said, settling into the chair across from him. “Even more than usual.”
Bob looked down at his hands, then back at you. “I’ve been… sorting things out.”
“Mind if I help?” you offered.
He hesitated — but didn’t say no.
You leaned forward slightly. “We could mindwalk. Nothing deep. Just... see where things are now. Since everything’s shifted.”
Another pause.
Then finally, a quiet, “Okay.”
You both sat on the floor, hands lightly pressed together. The air between you almost hummed with something unspoken.
The world rippled. The sterile quarters vanished.
You opened your eyes to a darkened dreamscape. Still, but not empty — like standing at the edge of something massive and unseen.
You were in Bob’s mind.
But this time, the space didn’t resist you. It welcomed you in, cautiously — like a door cracked open instead of slammed shut.
The world around you flickered — jagged fragments of thought floating in open air. Hints of memory, color, sensation. But there was no center. No order.
Bob appeared beside you, more present than in previous walks. His features were clearer, steadier.
“You’ve changed,” you said softly.
“So have you,” he replied.
You felt it, deep in your chest — a weight, a quiet pull. Not romantic. Not even emotional, exactly. But connected. As if that strange, shared chaos — the panic, the aliens, the energy — had woven something between you both.
He looked at you.
“There’s something inside you,” he said. “Something more than we thought.”
You nodded.
“I know.”
And in the quiet void of his mind, you both sat — not analyzing, not pushing. Just existing. Connected in ways neither of you fully understood yet.
The storm had passed.
The quiet stretched between you.
Then, gently, you spoke. “Can we go further?”
Bob didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched the flickering fragments suspended around you — jagged shapes, drifting pieces of thought, a few holding faint images that shifted the longer you looked.
You noticed one — a memory shard glowing faintly blue, pulsing like a slowed heartbeat. You stepped toward it, and Bob followed.
The closer you got, the more it formed a scene: a wide-open snowy field. A younger Bob stood in the distance, shoulders hunched against the wind, clutching something in his hands — a photograph? A name tag?
When you reached out, your fingers brushed the edge of the fragment, and it dissolved like smoke.
The scene around you shifted instantly.
Now you stood inside a steel corridor, dark and claustrophobic. Lights blinked red. You heard shouting. Bob’s voice: younger, panicked. Soldiers running past. An explosion shaking the ground. Then silence again.
It snapped back to the blank mindscape.
Bob’s jaw was tight. “That was... the first time I lost control.”
You didn’t press. You just stood next to him.
He turned toward you slowly. “Do you ever feel like something inside you is… coiled? Like it’s waiting?”
You nodded. “Especially after that day.”
He gave a faint breath of agreement. “Same.”
He raised his hand slightly, and a wave of thought — warm, golden — expanded around you. The fragments around you drew closer together. They began arranging themselves, as if pulled by invisible thread. Patterns began to emerge — not perfect, but purposeful.
“You’re organizing,” you observed.
“I don’t know how,” he admitted. “But you’re making it easier.”
You felt something shift again — a pulse underfoot, like the ground in his mind was waking up.
You stepped forward, into a newly-formed corridor. Unlike the earlier chaos, this one was quiet, clean, strangely peaceful. Memory doors lined the hall.
Bob hesitated, then opened one.
Inside: a soft scene. A garden. A sunny day. He was laughing — not the man you knew now, but younger, freer. Someone before the pain.
You looked at him. “This is you too.”
“I forget sometimes,” he said.
You stayed in the memory a while — not invading, just existing. Letting him feel what it was like to be seen, without expectation or force.
Eventually, he spoke again. “You’re different from the others.”
You tilted your head. “Because I walk in your mind?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Because when you do… you don’t judge what you see.”
You both stood in the center of the quiet mindspace, not speaking for a moment. The air around you shimmered — not from him, not from you, but from the strange alignment between you both.
Maybe it wasn’t just the aliens that triggered what happened that day.
Maybe it was the two of you — together — that woke something up.
And in that unspoken realization, the mind around you expanded — vast, open, no longer chaotic.
Like something was waiting there.
Still quiet.
Still buried.
But no longer hiding.
⋆˙⟡
A/N sorry for the late update! will be uploading third chap today as well (or tomorrow... or later idk)
— taglist. @asteria33 @witch-of-letters @avylanchce @stillinracooncity @venus-armote @jeanietales @faithxyu @ivedonemywaiting13 @natasha887 let me know if u wanna be tagged on the next!
— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."
— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader
— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression
— word count. 5.1k
masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6
⋆˙⟡
“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.
You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.
In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.
You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.
Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”
That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.
“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”
Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”
“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”
“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”
Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.
“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”
“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”
You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.
“They just sent me this.”
Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.
Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.
Robert Reynolds.
You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.
You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”
Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”
You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.
“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”
But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.
“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.
Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.
“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.
⋆˙⟡
The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.
Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.
Bob Reynolds.
You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.
He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.
That was what the message had said.
But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.
They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.
You had no intention of being that someone.
Not anymore.
It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.
The hallway was quiet. Empty.
And then, something shifted.
You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.
You looked up.
There he was.
Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.
Your fingers hovered over the tablet.
“Subtle,” you said dryly.
He didn’t smile.
“I’m not here to make a scene.”
“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”
“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”
Of course he did.
You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”
“You would’ve ignored it.”
He wasn’t wrong.
You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”
“No,” he said. “I want you.”
That gave you pause. He saw it.
“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”
You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”
“It saved people.”
“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”
He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”
“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”
“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”
Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.
“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”
“He’s not just the Void.”
“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.
“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”
You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.
“You care about him.”
His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”
You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.
“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”
He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”
That stopped you.
Your throat went dry.
“You think he wants me?”
“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”
You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.
The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.
Robert Reynolds.
You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.
"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.
Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.
He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."
You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.
"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."
Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”
You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.
But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.
"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.
"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."
You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.
“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."
The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.
You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”
Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”
You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”
You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.
“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”
Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”
You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.
"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."
You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”
Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”
You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.
And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.
⋆˙⟡
The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.
"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."
You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”
Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”
The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.
Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.
“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”
You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.
“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.
Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”
Bob. That nickname.
You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.
Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”
At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.
“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”
You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.
Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”
You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.
“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.
Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”
You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”
Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.
“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.
You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.
With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.
The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.
Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.
When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.
“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.
Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”
Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.
“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.
You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”
Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.
The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.
“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”
Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.
You closed your eyes.
At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.
And then—
You were in.
It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.
And then you felt it.
Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.
The Void.
It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.
Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.
“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”
And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.
He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.
You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.
Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”
You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”
He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”
You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”
Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.
“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”
You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”
Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.
Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”
Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.
Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.
For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.
You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.
You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.
Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”
You turned to him, surprised.
He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”
Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”
You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”
His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”
You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.
“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”
Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”
You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you—lazy and far too entertained.
“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”
Bob muttered something unintelligible.
Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.
Tomorrow was going to be something.
⋆˙⟡
The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.
Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.
“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.
Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”
“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”
Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.
“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”
He nodded, gently. “I know.”
Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”
“She’s not like us,” Strange said.
Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”
He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”
Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”
“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”
“And the worst?”
Strange was quiet for a long moment.
“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”
Wanda looked down.
“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.
2087
germansingergirl
jacobvanloon
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
izzy806
