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This blog is temporarily closed, but I hope you can enjoy my stories. I will always be grateful for the love they received. — Vi🌻

[sailingintothenight]

V's MASTERLIST

These are the images I wrote since I created this small page that grew thanks to you, so thanks to all the incredible people that asked for a imagine, thanks for reading my stories. Request are always open!

BOB REYNOLDS:

ONE–SHOTS.

“The sun of his life.” Almost three days in the dark feel endless to Bob, until the sun of his life finally comes back to him.

“The only one.” Between the intimate night and the bright morning, the conversations between Bob and you go from random to deep words that you know you'll always carry in your heart—while in his, Bob knows you'll always be the only one.

“Light of my life.” You and Bob must pretend to be a married couple at a millionaire's party to complete a mission. The instructions are to hand over the USB flash drive (with a virus inside), say how many years you've been married, and get out of there. It's easy, but between Yelena's voice in Bob's ear telling him where to put his hands on you, Walker's mocking voice encouraging you to respond, and a confidence Bob has cultivated within himself all this time, it's still easy, right?

“Heart to heart.” You two are good, best friends, but you're also two hearts yearning to be something more. And between the small fears and the big ones inside Bob, there's a confession of love on his part, in an attempt not to lose you—not angry, not frustrated, just scared.

“The girl in his eyes.” Time together created feelings in the two of you, until the group tries to get him and you to talk, with John urging Bob to talk about “the girl in his eyes.” And that creates a big misunderstanding.

“Love now, forever.” On a peaceful night between calm breaths, and a kiss before you fall asleep, Bob dares to ask you the question that has been on his mind for a while.

“Starlight.” Following Walker's advice, Bob decides to confess his feelings for you… to you.

“A safe heaven.” Bob was led to believe heaven didn't exist, but now, with you, he knows it's real.

SERIES.

“WHERE THE SHADOWS MEET THE LIGHT.”

Too dangerous to fly high, you remain on the ground, trying not to unleash your true power and turn everything to debris (again). One evening, the world you built around you while protecting a village that fearlessly embraced you, is threatened when Bob stumbles within the sacred forest, feeling you like a memory you two are sure never happened, but too vivid to let go easily.

Time stands still when you are together, until you go in a different direction for a moment, losing him. His memories of you are erased, and yet Bob can still hear your voice calling his name. He can feel your soul that was always connected to his own, proving to him that he was never truly alone. He can see your light that shines in his darkness, the one that shows him the way back home.

When Valentina reveals the truth behind the creation of your powers and his, it is devastating... only in the way it makes you fight to find the other again where the shadows meet the light, knowing well this time where to stand.

Synopsis / Chapter 1: Golden like daylight, blue like hope.

LEWIS PULLMAN:

ONE–SHOTS.

“Sunbeam.” On a scorching San Diego set, where jet engines roar and summer light hits like gold, Lewis can’t stop going to his favorite person: you, his sunbeam. A 'normal' day starts, but it turns into something deeper as the unconsious flirting gives way to a truth, and by nightfall, next to the ocean, he finally accepts something his heart and the whole cast already knew.

“Colorful.” The celebration in Montana for his mom’s birthday is just a casual family weekend to introduce you as his girlfriend, in the warmth of his home, with his siblings who keep trying to embarrass him. It's a roller coaster of emotions too with the persistent call from your ex that threatens to shatter the life you'd built together during those few but meaningful months. However, between the layers of your fears and his, there's one clear, unmistakable thought: I want to be with you, now and always... because it's better to be afraid together until you're no longer afraid at all, than to be alone and just fine apart. Because with him, life is colorful.

TOM HOLLAND:

ONE–SHOTS.

The ABC of life and love – On your escape to what you hope will be a better life, you meet a famous actor who offers you a new and better one.

Thirsty tweets – The one where you and Tom read thirsty tweets from fans.

Darling, U – Tom plays the guitar for you and your baby.

Zombie world: the marked ones – England, just like other countries, fell due to a virus months ago. Now, the last survivors do whatever it takes to see the sun rise one more day. Tom Holland is a strong and lonely young man, but when he meets (Y/N) (Y/L/N), they’ll find themselves in danger just to protect themselves and a little girl who can be their salvation on a way to a safe place they can finally call home. So be aware, be careful, and be strong, because the marked ones are not those who were infected, but those who have the courage to fight to the end.

My everything – A sleepless night after your baby is born.

Put your head on my Shoulder – And what if after years of chasing each other like a cat and mouse, on a magical night where you two have to pretend to be a couple, you are finally able to say how you really feel about each other?

Haunted House – Promoting their next movie, Tom and (y/n) visit a haunted house.

Happy – During your Jimmy Kimmel interview, Tom pays you a surprise visit, and surprise surprise, he proposes to you in the middle of a new game.

HAPPY – Tom meets a little angel and you, her mom. (Part 1) (Part 2)

With you – Losing a pet is monumental, but Tom and Tess are there for you.

WANNABE – And what if after years of chasing each other like a cat and mouse, you and Tom started to wonder if you wanna be something else in each other’s life?  

Love you like crazy – The reader meets Tom’s family for the first time.  

Smile – As Tom goes through a hard break up, you give your best friend the best way to release the pain inside.

Into the unknown – While filming the last scene of Spider-man: Far from home, a kiss can reveal a deep secret between best friends.

Karma butterfly – While you and Tom, who were best friends from a lifetime and now a couple, tried to keep your relationship secret, karma made a fun move as you two and Robert showed up on “The late late show.”

Kids in love – An abandoned theme park is the promise of an adventure or a call for problems, a truly temptation to 4 teenagers in love.

Instagram Post – Imagine Tom making public your relationship with one single photo.

Peek-a-boo – When a kiss can say more than a thousand words during a livestream.

Heart Shaker – (Part 1) The cast’s jokes towards Tom’s crush on you makes his heart shakes constantly. (Part 2) Although being close to you shakes his heart nervously, Tom find the sweetest way to confess the way he feels about you.

The way you are – A song can show what we have inside, and when Tom finds you fighting old battles, he knows which one is the right one for you.

Love me right – When Tom sees you on your first show as a model, his emotions simply overflows.    

A girl like you – It’s no easy for Tom to confess his love for his best friend, but he knows you’re the one.

HEADCANNON.

Instagram Moments – Moments Tom shares through his social network.

FUNNY POST.

Sweet dreams – The best thing about waking up on a saturday morning.

Birthday joke – Just a joke Tom made about the “love” of his life.

Joe Jonas singing “The Jonas Brothers: Year 2019”

I know that you go through daily life creating scenarios

PETER PARKER:

SERIES.

1. “AVENGERS: FAR FROM HOME.” (finished)

Too dangerous to fly high, you struggle to stay in the ground, without freedom, flying low before releasing your true power and becoming ashes. However, the world that you built around yourself is threatened when you join a group of superheroes and their fight to save the universe, with you next to the youngest avenger, Peter Parker, who will remind you two are still kids, in a group of remarkable people.

Chapter one. / Chapter two. / Chapter three. / Chapter four.

1.2 “AVENGERS: END GAME.” (finished)

After almost became ashes, you are back on earth, far from home, in a new world still you don’t understand. With the memory of an ephemeral love that vanished and who’s never coming back, you are afraid of yourself, at least until there is an opportunity for him and everyone to return. And when that happens, everything will be reduced to one last battle, the rise of the white fenix, and the end game for the avengers. (This is not my best piece of work since I did it in a hurry thinking that due to my work I would not write again in a long time)

Chapter one. / Chapter two. / Chapter three. / Chapter four

1.3 “SPIDER–MAN: THE WORLD WITH YOU.” (finished)

After the victory of the avengers against Thanos, people tried to continue with their lives or start from scratch. Peter Parker and you are no the exception. But when new villains threaten the world, the youngest avengers must decide who they really are and what they want. Do you want to be just kids and being in love, separately, or save the world to finally be together?

Chapter one. / Chapter two. / Chapter three. / Chapter four. / Chapter five. / Chapter six. / Chapter seven. 

HEADCANNON.

Imagine Peter meeting Loki’s daughter

[sailingintothenight]

Hi! :) (Not back, just wanna say something)

So, while I've been gone, I opened an AO3 account and started writing about player 120 of Squid Game. (Hyunju, I love you, please come back :c) I'd honestly been thinking about it for a while, so I finally did it. That made me talk to my mom about some things regarding myself, and although it didn't go so well at first, we're better now.

It made me really happy to see that there were still some people who enjoyed my Bob and Lewis stories, (thank u♡) I thought that as a real person himself, unlike a character he plays and I write about, some people might not feel comfortable reading stories about him. I thought about that for a while too. But I think I'll upload some stories about him soon because I loved writing about him, he's such a cutie. They'll never be smut or anything like that cause I'm bad at writing that kind of stuff, and I just feel like I'd be pushing some boundaries with it. No offense to the people who do it!

However, if anyone could give me their opinion on this or leave me a private message maybe, I would really appreciate it.

Thanks, and I hope you're all doing well ♡

[sailingintothenight]

I understand you may not want to, but I think many of us would love if it you kept your fics up and available on here to be re read :( it always breaks my heart to see accounts deactivate. You’re such a wonderful writer and your works should be able to be read by more people!

Hi! i just wanna say thank you so much, your words really, really mean a lot to me. It means a lot to know my stories are good enough to get a message like this. Sooo, thank you! ♥ You are so sweet, you really are.

Guess this is a farewell but i hope to get back again at some point. Meanwhile, i wish you always the best. xoxo.

[sailingintothenight]

Hi! Well… After thinking about it a lot, I've decided to close this account. This year has been the worst for my mental health, and although I really enjoyed writing for Bob (because I think he's the first character with a mental health diagnosis, so some people saw themselves reflected in him and even found comfort in his tenderness), I struggle with ideas for new one–shots and I don't get anywhere. Meanwhile, here I see these wonderful writers who I think publish a different story every day, and I can only think of one thing…👇🏼

Fairly OddParents fans will get this reference 🤭😂 it was wonderful writing for Tom Holland as Spider–Man, and it's been equally wonderful writing for Lewis Pullman as Bob. I had a lot of fun, and my time here was incredible. But I think writing one–shots has been very difficult for me in Bob's case, maybe because I started writing a few full fanfictions, like 20–25 chapters when I began at 14 years old. A whole story about SHINee (a K-pop band). Now, I also have a page about Daryl Dixon from TWD, but again, here I feel like I don't have any ideas to write about Bob so i think the best for me is to take a step aside. Well, that's all. I end by thanking the wonderful people who enjoyed my stories, shared them, and left comments. Thank you so much! My mind is always telling me that I do everything wrong or that I'm terrible at everything, but when I see your interactions on the page, it makes me understand that even though I'm not the best, my stories were enjoyed. I love you all so much, I hope you're doing well or on your way to finding your own peace. I'm going to download my stories and delete the page in a few days. Again: Thank you, thank you, thank you! 💕

[sailingintothenight]

“Sunbeam.” Lewis Pullman.

(not my images, I stole them from the internet 🥺)

On a scorching San Diego set, where jet engines roar and summer light hits like gold, Lewis can’t stop going to his favorite person: you, his sunbeam. A 'normal' day starts, but it turns into something deeper as the unconsious flirting gives way to a truth, and by nightfall, next to the ocean, he finally accepts something his heart and the whole cast already knew.

Request: Hi! I was wondering if I could request a lewis pullman fic where maybe they met on the set of top gun maverick and everyone can tell they like each other but them. also maybe hurt/comfort because the reader is insecure…

A/N: To the lovely anon who requested this, sorry! After almost a month, I did it. If you're still around, I hope you like it. There are probably grammatical errors, so sorry!

Warnings: none, just Lewis being a Cutie patootie again!

The sun starts to come up golden over the San Diego coast like a divine image, spilling its light through the mist that still clings to the hangars and the fighter jets lined up on the naval base. The thick air smells like ocean salt and jet fuel, and the morning buzz of the crew’s voices and clinking equipment fills the set even before the day really begins.

You’re still half–asleep, eyes still burning from the long hours of recording the day before, your hand clutching a paper cup of coffee, an a breakfast burrito in front of you that is losing its warmth fast. Yet, somehow, as the breeze hits your face, soft and warm like a loving touch, the heavenly mornings always feel perfect as time goes by.

“Rough morning, sunbeam?”

The voice comes from behind you: smooth, teasing in the gentlest way in that deep voice of his, unmistakably Lewis Pullman’s.

You don’t turn.

“If you’re here to tell me I look tired, Lewis, I’ll throw my burrito at you.”

He sits in front of you in that picnic table settled for the breaks, already in costume too, dog tags glinting under the early sunlight, his rebel hair pushed back like his character.

Bob’s glasses rest on his nose.

“I’d never insult a woman holding a burrito as a weapon.” He says, holding that boyish grin he carries everywhere he went, no matter his mood or the situation around. “I have survival instincts.”

He'd never insult a woman, period. You nod soft anyway, still drinking from the cup.

“Smart man.”

He chuckles.

“But it looks too good to waste it on me. Do you mind sharing?”

Catching your next nod, he bites a piece of it.

After long months of early mornings, flight rehearsals, and ridiculous days of too much sand in your boots, your friendship with him bloomed in the most natural way. It was easy, effortless, like he’d always been part of the noise and the silent in your head, as if his sometimes chaotic energy somehow matched your quiet one. Opposite poles to the characters you play, but Lewis was like the loving (and a little bit awkward) man your character falls in love with.

“Why are you staring at me?”

You blink, his voice bringing you back from the daydream travel as he holds a soft teasing smirk, because nothing in him seems sharp to hurt.

“I’m not.”

He chuckles, without stopping eating the breakfast that was supposed to be yours.

“Are you just admiring these very cool glasses then? Danny says they're like a girl magnet and you are proving the point right now.”

You snort, trying to bite down the comeback, but failing.

“It's giving serial killer vibes if I'm honest, but what do I know, right?”

Right there, Lewis laughs, and the endearing sound breaks through the morning haze, warmer than the season itself. He laughs with his body, too, leaning back for a second before leaning forward again, elbows on the wooden table. The sleeves of his suit are rolled up, his muscles flexing, and the tone of his skin almost resembles the warm color of the awakening horizon.

“Hey, that’s mean!” He complains, but his (fake) monumental effort to remain serious breaks and he lets out small sounds of laughter as he tries to calm himself down. “You’re lucky I like you so damn much.”

You smile at him. He’s not offended; you know it, but behind your own confidence built as an actress—using your insecurities and fears as solid concrete—there was still the younger version of you, a simple person, the one who began that life in front of the spotlight, who still worked on believing that everything you had achieved was due to your own effort and that it was more than an illusion that would vanish at any moment in the cruelest way possible, and that the word like never came as an empty feeling.

Before you can answer, a teasing laugh cuts your words.

“Hello, beautiful couple.” Glen smiles, ready for everything as he always looked. “Are you two on a date, or can I sit here with you?”

“Not a date.” You say quickly, before a silence of doubt gives him the wrong impression.

“Yeah. Definitely not a date.” Lewis echoes too, eyes flicking to yours and then to Glen’s.

Glen's narrowed eyes scan your face, almost meticulously, then Lewis', with a mocking expression on his that you can easily see, as if a million words couldn't convince him otherwise of what he already thinks.

“Not a date. Got it.” Then, he takes a step back, holding his hands up as a peace offer. “Come on, couple, people are waiting for us.”

You sigh, knowing he’s not letting this go either.

Inside the hangar, the rest of the cast is already goofing off while the crew adjusts the cameras for the scene, lighting the room for those who stayed up late or keep going since the day before.

Danny waves, dramatically when he spots you and Lewis walking in together behind Glen.

“Oh, look!” He says loud enough for everyone to hear, dragging the attention towards him in a second. “The power duo arrives!”

Lewis rolls his eyes, but the looks of the rest on him ignite the heat of his shyness right in his cheeks.

“We were literally just walking, man.”

“Sure, bro.” Danny teases, not ready to stop. “You just happen to show up at the same time every single day? Toooootally a coincidence.”

The crew call everyone, and the morning starts officially.

You and Lewis are paired up for the shot, your characters sparring verbally about flight tactics before a competitive push–up bet. As you rehearse, the energy starts blending into something even lighter. Bob throws a line; a firm sound to mask the faltering in his voice from the confusion your character made him feel, and you catch it and toss it back sharper (in a nice way) always teasing the cute guy from Lemoore without any aware intention of flirtatious at first, until eventually, Bob & Evie would realize it.

The crew laughs, enjoying the interaction between them, between you.

There was something alive between you, a rhythm you two match perfectly, like a lively conversation you’ve been having for years instead of months after your meeting.

“Okay, cut!” The director says, pleased by the good chemistry. “Let’s run it one more time, please, same energy.”

Lewis turns to you, a mischievous spark in his eyes.

“Wanna bet on how many push–ups can you actually do?”

You narrow your eyes, all mock–serious.

“What do I get if I win?”

He leans in too, close enough to force you to hold your breath.

“Bragging rights and my unending respect.”

You grin, trying to ignore the tickling in your stomach as the surprise at his sudden closeness fades in the face of his challenge.

“I already got those, but I’ll settle for you buying me lunch since you ate my burrito.”

He smiles, in that way that makes his dreamy eyes smile too.

“Done.”

And somehow, even though it’s just a joke, the serious bet lingers, real and funny.

By midday, the sun is brutal after a heavy schedule that has not yet ended, but that is broken into short breaks to let you rest from the long hours. Sitting on the steps of your trailer, your hair falls messy (from the helmet) on a loose ponytail behind you and the sound of your own laughter makes you company as you scroll through your phone, saving a video for later when you see Lewis appearing again—like he has radar for when you’re alone, Monica laughed one day—carrying two ice creams.

He hands you one over.

“Peace offering. I heard you lost a very important push–up contest.”

You glare at him playfully as he sits next to you.

“You cheated, cheater. You started before the director said go.”

Lewis leans back dramatically, as if your harsh words have hit him hard, a second before he laughs as he starts opening the wrapper.

“You know the saying, sunbeam: there are no rules in love and war.”

You laugh, too, but the sound fades as Lewis hands you the opened ice cream, taking the closed one from your hand. That corny nickname stayed for you, the one he gave you behind the cameras as his character does at the end of the movie with yours.

“So... a cheater anyway.”

Lewis shrugs.

“And yet you keep sitting next to me, so what does that say about you?”

You snort, a little surprised.

“You came to me, Lew, not the other way around.”

He lets out a soft laugh as the two of you sit there, eating in a comfortable silence, watching the others train in the distance or the production team walking around, chatting, because from the outside, everyone seems happy, unbothered all the time.

It makes you wonder some things.

“You ever think about how weird this is? Like… pretending to be pilots, pretending to fall in love on camera with people watching you? don't know, pretending to be brave when you’re just figuring life out?”

Lewis looks at you, an expression even softer now.

“I do, actually, but I think pretending can get you closer to the real thing sometimes, you know? I know this world can be lonely, and yet, I believe that it also helps you crossing paths with the right people.”

You glance at him, matching his soft energy with your own when his words calm those doubts that your heart still harbored.

“That’s… unexpectedly deep, Lew.”

He chuckles, eyes narrow like he’s half (fake) offended.

“Please, don’t sound so shocked.”

You bump his shoulder, laughing with him.

“I’m sorry. I’m kidding. You know it, right?”

“I know.” He says, gentle, smiling like he always does with you. “Why do you think I keep coming to you?”

He did, he kept coming again and again since you met him.

The rest of the day slips by a nice rhythm of filming: some action scenes followed by stretches of waiting in between. The colorful afternoon starts to say goodbye softly, and the sun dips lower with each passing minute, painting the sky with streaks of purple and orange as you both are in the hangar again, practicing a cockpit sequence for the last time before cameras roll early tomorrow.

It’s just the two of you this time, sitting in separate mock fighter jets side by side.

Lewis leans over the edge of his.

“Permission to enter enemy airspace, lieutenant?”

You shake your head as a negative, pretending absolute seriousness.

“Permission denied.”

His expression drops; eyebrows frown in a playful way.

“Then I guess I’ll have to charm my way in.”

You laugh.

“God. You’re terrible at staying in character.”

Your reprimand makes him smile.

“Who says I’m not in character? My guy’s supposed to flirt with you, remember? In a very awkward but adorable way so it still counts!”

You roll your eyes.

“Your guy is supposed to be focused on flying right now.”

“And he is. You just keep distracting him.”

The words hang there for a second too long as you glance at him, trying to read if he’s joking or not. From Lewis’ side, his grin falters—just slightly—like he realizes how that sounded. You clear your throat as you pull your eyes away from him, playing with the controls as your words leave you in a soft whisper.

“Then maybe your guy needs to get his priorities straight.”

He chuckles quietly, again, but there’s something in his eyes now as he keeps them on your profile, holding a smile that starts in his mouth and reaches the deep ocean of his gaze, softening his features even more. It’s like a change he doesn’t understand yet, but that starts to show in front of him more clearly.

He doesn’t say anything else, and the day ends successfully.

At night, the world is vibrant after the sun goes down completely.

The local bar by the beach flicks to life and the whole place glows with the lights and the hum of conversations, the people ready to celebrate a team member's birthday. The cast and crew crowd around tables, music spilling from the speakers in the corners. In your small group, Glen, Monica and you are laughing, but your own sound falls down softly as you see Lewis alone when Miles steps aside to take a call.

Like magnets orbiting the same pull, you excuse yourself to walk towards him as you start to notice now that you two keep finding each other in the same places when there wasn’t a reason to be together, sometimes not like a coincidence.

“Hey...” He smiles when you stop in front of him.

“Hey...” You smile too, a little tired, happy to just existing by his side. “Wanna dance?”

“I don't know how to do it.”

He laughs nervously, but it's funny how his hand closes around yours the instant you extended it as an invitation, like a raw reaction from his body before the realization that he was actually doing it. Lewis stands up, even through his own nerves of making a fool of himself, his hand still connected to yours until you both reach the dance floor, mingling with the people already there.

A song in Spanish begins, different beats full of colorful rhythms that you start to follow, with him trying to follow you.

“So…” You clear your throat awkwardly, trying to ignore the louder pounding of your heart in your chest as his hands rest on your waist. “Glen said you survived Danny’s karaoke.”

Lewis chuckles.

“Barely. He even dedicated a song to me. I don’t think he wants to be just my friend.”

His joke makes you laugh.

“That sounds terrifying.”

“It was.”

Fast, the two of you fall into easy talk again: jokes about the day, about filming, about the heat of the city and the chaos of that world and the good things of it, too. But somehow, the smell of apples in your hair and the chamomile on your skin is suddenly more intoxicating for Lewis than drinking, even when he hadn't started yet.

The moment lasts until the next song when your phones rings (the word dad appearing on the screen) and Lewis returns to the table. However, he knows Danny’s teasing smile hides something mischievous the second he sits down next to him, Monica in front.

“Dude…” His friend says, half–laughing. “Are you seriously not seeing it or you decide not to on purpose?”

Lewis frowns.

“Seeing what?”

Danny points toward you and Lewis’ eyes catch you in an instant. You are standing outside the window close to the main door, the wood framing you like a photograph under the orange lights of the place, smiling at something your dad is saying over the phone, hair caught in the breeze.

“You’re in love with her, man.”

In that second, his blue eyes, a little bit wider now, return to Danny, mouth slightly open although the words do not come out right away.

“What? No…” Lewis laughs but the sound falters, heart beating faster, so hard it hurts. “I mean... she’s amazing and I love being with her, but we’re just—”

“What, just friends?” Monica rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Sure, because just friends flirt all the time, stare at the other like they are in a romantic movie, and somehow, eat lunch together every single day?”

Lewis blinks, speechless, swallowing to try to relieve the pressure in his throat.

Danny grins wider at his silence.

“Well, maybe they are just friends and we’re making a huge mistake, don’t you think?” He looks at Monica, and she pretends to agree with him with a solemn nod. “I mean, friends can also recreate the famous Ghost scene like when we went to that art class, right?”

Lewis complains.

“I was just helping her. It was her first time in a place like that.”

“Oh, come on, Lewis!” Danny hits the table, palm of the hand down. “You were dying to sit behind her, wrap your strong, manly arms around her and hold her close to put your chin on her shoulder and feel th—man, are you blushing?”

He finds himself staring, not at his friends, but at you, and suddenly, his brain starts rewinding every moment.

He remembers the first day he met you, when you sat across from him at the table read, doodling little flowers in the margin of your script, glancing up every so often with that quick, shy smile. He remembers how you always brought snacks to set and shared them with whoever forgot to eat between takes when everything started. How you laugh at the dumbest jokes—his dumbest jokes—and then how you covered your face like you were embarrassed for finding them funny. Lewis remembers that one night when you stayed late after a long flight scene, still in costume, practicing lines with him because he kept blanking from exhaustion: you didn’t complain at all, even though you were just as tired.

“Don’t worry, Lew. We’ll get through it together.” You’d say, softly like your whole persona.

All those little fragments of a life together came rushing back, turning into something undeniable.

Lewis blinks hard, his throat tightening.

Oh, God. I’m in love with her.

It hit him like turbulence, sudden but impossible to ignore now that he can finally put a name to every feeling he felt when he was with you. His pulse hammers in his ears, but the revelation is clear like those days when he found you in the first light of the sun, with you shining even brighter. That was why he started to call you sunbeam even before his character did, because you were light, and he wanted to be near you all the time, to make you laugh, to protect you from every shadow of doubt he knew and saw you carried, even if he didn't know why… yet, because Lewis is about to find out as he sees someone getting close to you.

From your side, a familiar voice cuts through your conversation, impossible to escape from the moment you recognize her.

“Oh my God, it’s really you, babe!”

You turn, excusing yourself before hanging up.

Two girls are in front of you, your old classmates from acting school. After so many years later and apart from each other, on purpose (and thanking life that your path and hers never mixed again) they smile, and for a second, for a single beat of your sometimes innocent heart, you’re genuinely glad to see them, until one of them, the one who always had a sharp smile and a sharp comment that she masked with false affection, tilts her head.

“Look at you, baby, big Hollywood star now! Can’t believe it! Seriously. I mean, who did you have to flirt with to land Top Gun? I’m kidding, I’m kidding!”

The laughs that follow aren’t kind at all, and something twists in your chest as you fake one, too.

“Right. Funny.”

Before you can say anything more, she’s talking again.

“Hey! I’m getting married next month and you should come! Maybe being around something actually real would be nice, huh? I mean, with all these famous people around all the time, it must be hard for you to tell who actually cares about you. All of your co–stars are amazing actors so you wouldn’t know if someone says I like you like they meant it, right?”

Her tone drips with fake sweetness, as usual, but it hurts even more now than it did in the past.

Before you can think of an exit, playing the good actress you actually were, Lewis appears at your side, tall and confident, slipping his hand lightly against the small of your back to keep you from taking a step back like it was you the coward and not the person in front.

You don’t dare to look at him, not directly.

“Actually…” He says, voice calm but edged with something hard. “She landed the role because she’s insanely talented. Anyone who’s worked with her knows that, but hey, good luck with your wedding cause marriage takes, you know, honesty and respect, and I see you’re gonna need those. Bye.”

Lewis guides you away, his touch firm, gentle, leading you out of the noise she once created in your head.

It takes you a few minutes to reach the beach, and far from the crowd, it's as if you can finally shake off your name and all the things it brought, with the waves roaring as they hit the shore near you, taking the pain with them as they retreat, pushing it away from you for a moment.

Outside, in a world that seems open and just infinite, your voice cracks.

“You didn’t have to do that, Lew.” You murmur, trying to smile like it didn’t matter.

He sighs.

“Of course I had to do.”

“It’s fine, really. They were just joking, people always say things like that.”

Lewis stops you with a hand on your arm the second he sees you trying to walk away, his eyes searching yours, unwavering.

“No. It’s not fine. You’re not fine.”

You swallow hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes.

“Maybe they are right, maybe I don’t really deserve all this: maybe people just see me as someone who—”

“Hey, no. Stop, please.” His voice breaks, softer for you, but fiercer with his desire to make you understand right there that everything you believed about yourself only came from an insecurity that someone else dared to create in you, all because she felt insecure about you. “You deserve everything. You’ve worked your ass off for all of this, honey. You show up for people. You carry scenes, you carry me when I forget my lines or when I’m nervous. You make everyone around you better because you are caring, you care, okay? that's why you deserve all of this, all the affection and all the love, because honestly? that cheap idea of flirting your way to the top… that’s crap.”

You keep looking at him, at his expression that is part frustration, part anger, part pain for not being able to relieve yours in a single second.

“Lewis…”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like it's only made for you.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, sunbeam, because I’m in love with that person, the real you. The one who doesn’t even know how incredible she is.”

His soft intensity pierces your heart, it makes you feel like it can cure all the wounds, too.

Lewis swallows, the weight of his realization pressing against his ribs like the hard beating of his heart.

“I’m sorry I’m saying this now, okay?” He keeps going, almost to himself. “But somewhere between you stealing my food and I stealing yours and you laughing at my terrible jokes, I fell hard for you, and I hate what she said because it is a lie, because I know well who you are. and I hate that you don’t think anyone could feel that way for you because I do.”

The night air next to the beach is cool, but your cheeks burn as if the summer sun was hanging right over you.

You open your mouth just to close it again, words failing, terrified of his completely sincerity, but for the first time in a long time, in the long path you walked alone, you trust him, like you've never done before. So you nod, leaning into him, your hands around his waist as he bends his head down a little bit, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as his own hands hold you tight, his lips lingering there for a moment.

“We'll get through this together. Okay?” You nod at him, finally letting yourself believe it, and for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like you are standing in front of the whole world alone. “You feel better?”

“Yeah...” You whisper, laughing softly as you pull away a little to look at him, still nervous by his confession. “Just… trying to breathe.”

Lewis laughs softly, too, hiding you in his arms when a cool breeze passes you two.

“Yeah, same.”

But, although the ascending nerves still take your breath and him away, it's as if you can both breathe normally… finally.

[sailingintothenight]

“The sun of his life.” Bob Reynolds.

Almost three days in the dark feel endless to Bob, until the sun of his life finally comes back to him.

A/N: I have a pending request I'll start today 'cause I quit my job yesterday (don't know how I'll pay the loan for this laptop), but I know everything will work out in the end. To the anon who asked for it, I'll do it, promise. It's just that it's getting light here in Peru (I don't sleep at night anymore) and melancholy made me write this. (About 3.7k words)

Warnings: Mention of sadness. Hurt/comfort one–shot. Sorry if this is bad, I just wanted to write something.

The air feels heavy the moment you step into the tower living room, one of your backpack straps slung over your shoulder and a daisy tucked behind your ear (white petals, a yellow center, and a green stem drooping backward in a curve). The suddenly dark atmosphere hangs with something that bodes ill, it clings to you like heat on your skin during the hottest day, or like a gray cloud laden with rain before unleashing a storm upon the world.

Without needing to read other people's minds (something you can do, and refused to), you see the worry and anguish written on their faces, so clear that your powers are unnecessary in that instant.

“How many days?”

“Three by the end of this one.” Yelena's sad voice merges with her helpless expression at not being able to do more for Bob, her next words colliding with each other as she continues speaking, crashing with her impatience. “You didn't take your phone with you, so we couldn't reach you.”

Walker clears his throat, feigning such innocence that, for a second, he manages to fool you into thinking what he's about to say won't be laced with sharp sarcasm.

“Although if you had flown here instead of taking a plane, you would have gotten back faster so, it's kind of your fault.”

You sigh, long, but your action doesn't let go of even an ounce of the worry that's already settled in your chest. The situation makes your stomach clench, so empty that it makes you grimace, and yet, you manage to find a way not to take John's words personally, because hidden among the layers of his false disinterest, lived the way he, too, was troubled when Bob isolated himself (which, thankfully, had only happened once since living together in the tower began)

“Isn't it exhausting for you, John?”

He frowns, genuinely confused.

“What?”

“Being such an idiot.” You let out a fake laugh; the sound tinged with sad calm (which you manage to maintain through your racing heart) only because time and living with he had given you the experience necessary to ignore him. “Besides, what could I have done that you guys couldn't?”

Everyone, almost in unison, changes their expressions, quickly, the kind they use to blatantly ask you, Really?, (even if they haven't said a word) their gazes revealing the judgment, so powerful it weighs on your shoulders with shame.

You complain, trying that the firmness of your next words will hide the heat in your cheeks.

“Shut up.”

Far away on a mission with Bucky, there was no way to reach you the moment this happened for the first time, even though Bob asked for you several times. It was Yelena who had been able to pull him out of that darkness, out of the torment that still haunted him every day, unable to reach him until now.

Bob was sunny when he was okay and even more so when he wasn't, when the light inside him shone brighter in his attempt not to be trapped by the shadows, until finally, they seemingly did.

Momentarily only, because he knew it would all pass eventually: now, Bob just needed reassurance to remember that again.

“Where is he now?”

“In your room.”

Bucky’s voice deepens with a kind of restraint, encapsulating his frustration at not being able to do more either, but when your confused gaze lingers on Yelena, searching for some kind of explanation, she shrugs without a clear answer, though at the same time, she’s giving it to you because she knows why, just like the others: Bob’s room was normally neutral territory, but colorless when the good feelings began to fade and all the bad memories made the walls shrink.

“We’ve all tried.” Ava’s gaze becomes gentler, pained. “You’re the only one who hasn’t yet.”

You nod, thoughtful about the possibilities as you take a step back and walk toward him.

Bob was good, so good and so kind that no one would believe he was dangerous, without meaning to, of course, without having asked to be turned into a threat. Behind his clear and immense kindness lay his sadness, and behind it, the nuclear weapon he could become. Sometimes on the brink, like a glass filled with water, with which someone was always playing, tipping it to one side with a dark, mocking smile, but on the sunny days of his life, when the sunlight blew away his cloudy personality, Bob was just a young man: a fun person to be with, caring and sarcastic, a little critical in a sassy way, (sometimes subtle, sometimes not so much)

It was incredible how you could have fallen in love with both sides, the rounded parts of him that didn't cut and the ones that could do it, just because he always seemed to put a hand on the sharp, pointed edges, just to keep you from hurting yourself there inside his heart where you already lived. You knew it, he knew it, everyone knew it.

That wasn't never the plan, you knew that too, and you hated yourself for it, but like smoke between your fingers, it was impossible to stop.

Now, as you stop in front of your door, you wish you could ask for more time before the imminent reunion.

“Bob?” You clear your throat, trying not to let your own nervousness betray you when you knock twice. “Can you open the door, please?”

There's a silence, maybe of two seconds, but it reigns in the world like an endless moment.

“It's open.”

Your own confusion sinks your frown, so hard it hurts a little, weighing his words as if they were an enigma, an impossible riddle to solve. Then, the understanding of the situation makes your face relax after a couple of heartbeats: everyone knocked on the door, however, no one turned the knob. Everyone assumed Bob had imprisoned himself, locking the padlock on the door that held him prisoner to throw the key over the window precipice. What no one knew was that the real prison (the one that prevented him from being really free) was in his own mind.

You enter the room and take a second to acknowledge it before closing the door, after having lived there for some time now. Everything feels strangely familiar, from the color of the walls to the summer light of the sunset that paints the place with an almost heavenly glow, right down to that lump hidden under your gray blanket.

Your steps are light even though your body feels heavy from the travel to your old home, a visit to the past you left behind when you emerged alive from that collapse the night you acquired—against your will—your own powers. Every now and then, you glanced back with a visit to your mom, opening a door you'd kept closed, just to seek out and feel again those warm moments with her, remembering them fondly, to then returning them to their place to stay connected to your new present.

You leave your backpack on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Bob, are you still there, love?”

“I'm still here.”

You sigh.

“That's good because if I'm honest, I'm afraid you're going to suffocate in there.”

You hear a tired sigh, though it may be the wind breaking the silence to deceive you.

“No. I'm still here.”

The next seconds feel like an eternity, but even though there's no request from you, yet, it's as if Bob surrenders to your mere presence. There, he removes the blanket covering his head, and the slight, abrupt movement makes his always unruly hair fly in the air and bounce against the sides of his forehead.

“I'm sorry.”

You tilt your head, looking at him in confusion.

“Why you're sorry?”

He shrugs, so soft it’s almost imperceptible.

“For being here. My room felt empty, but being here is like being with you, and then I don’t feel so alone.”

You nod slowly, to yourself, ignoring how much he’s already connected to you.

“It’s okay. You can always come here when you’re feeling happy or sad. Especially when you’re feeling down, it doesn’t matter if I’m here or not.”

With a slightly trembling hand, which vibrates with a pleasant tingle, you push back one of his long, messy, curly strands, one of those two that sometimes rested on his eyebrow and blocked part of his gaze.

Bob nods, hands still clutching the blanket, feigning calm as he feels the warmth of your hand travel through every part of his body until his heart skips a beat.

“When I have these episodes, the whole world blurs until nothing has any shape and everything is just an out–of–focus, you know? Sometimes I forget everyone, even who I am and why I'm here.”

You nod again, because you get it.

“I know. I understand the emptiness, I know there is this voice, always from a dark place that screams at you in the silence that nothing makes sense and that any attempt to fight is useless, and then comes the emptiness of body and soul, and you wonder, why am I doing this, right? What purpose does it serve if I'm always going to feel this way? It's consuming, I know, it drains all your energy and your will to keep fighting until it makes you forget why you were fighting in the first place.”

Bob blinks, his gaze deepening with the weight of your words, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Yeah, just like that. Have you felt it too?”

You shake your head, refusing to let your own tempestuous memories seep into your bones.

“You should eat something, okay? How about a granola bar I stole from the plane? I think it's past its expiration date, but if you chew hard, you can't tell how dry it is.”

Bob gives an airy, somewhat weak chuckle, shaking his head gently afterward.

“I’m not hungry.”

You try to hide your disappointment, which is covered up by your sometimes sarcastic personality.

“That’s what you tell your mind to quiet the protests of your poor stomach, huh? Very mature of you, Robert.”

Bob chuckles, a sound a little louder than the last.

“You’re being condescending, smarty pants.”

You laugh.

“Then don’t make me act like a mom to you.”

A mom, not his, yet Bob groans, his face twisting into an expression of pain and embarrassment.

“Please don’t say mom.”

“Sister?” You joke, earning a sarcastic sound accompanied by another negative, because the word that follows is friend, and no one wants to ever live in that limbo, never able to escape that new kind of emptiness.

However, right there, Bob silently weighs his life with the speed of a second, looking back at you.

“Will it always feel like this?”

You shake your head quickly, wishing somehow, you can make him understand everything with just a single touch and not with a torrent of words he can't fully accept yet, that everything will be okay.

“No, I promise. There will be some bad days, Bob, but in time, they won't feel as catastrophic as they do now. At some point, those days will feel less overwhelming, and you'll be able to get through them more easily, until eventually, you won't feel them at all, but you must understand that you can always ask for help, that even though your mind tries to convince you that you're alone, you're not. Not anymore. I mean, you ended up in a disorganized organization of losers, but united losers. and yes, that includes John as well.”

Bob smiles softly, lips still sealed: the corners curl upward, slightly but genuine.

You notice that his hands are no longer clutching the blanket like a poor man lost among the waves after a storm capsized his boat, an action that brings you some comfort.

Bob analyzes your expression carefully in a few short seconds, searching for any proof that you're lying (not because you would lie to him, but because his mind is stubborn in believing anyone but itself), realizing that the corner of your mouth doesn't twitch nervously, your gaze doesn't waver, and then, Bob can see the glimmer of truth.

“I just… I don't want to be a bother to anyone.”

“That's the thing, Bob, you're not a bother. Not to Lena, not to me, and not to anyone else either.”

There, the enlightened part of his mind, where all the good resides, whispers to him that fighting for a future alongside a somewhat dysfunctional family (but the first he's had, united, as you said) and you, is the only motivation he needs.

“I don't even know where to start.”

“Why don't we start with you taking a shower? Because you smell funny.”

Bob frowns, a look somewhere between offended and slightly embarrassed on his face as he reaches for the neck of the long–sleeved shirt he's wearing to bring it to his nose, taking a subtle sniff.

“That's not true.”

“Anyone who smells funny will never notice they smell funny, Bob.” You wrinkle your nose, sneering without malice, before getting up from your bed to head toward his room. “I'll get you some clean clothes, and I promise not to look at your boy underwear.”

You hear another sound of pain from him, followed this time by a grunt behind you as you make your way to the door.

“It’s not boy underwear.”

You chuckle, stifling the sound as you turn around, stopping in your spot only to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed and shoulders slightly slumped, a habit of his. Now, however, Bob has his eyes slightly squinted, weakly because emotional exhaustion always ended up trapping the physical one in its net.

“I don’t know if I should feel flattered or not that you were looking at my butt to know that.”

Your what? catches in your throat, threatening to come out with a stutter.

“You bent down to grab the remote under the TV. Your butt was in full view like it was the movie we were about to watch.” You try to turn away, your heart beating so fast it pushes the blood to your cheeks until they ignite with a devastating heat, but catching your name from his whispered lips, you look back at him. “Yes?”

Bob remains there for a second, in the same position, eyes shining with something more than unshed tears.

Hope, maybe.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, trying to smile.

For the time it takes you to return, Bob remains still in his place, hands on either side of him on the edge of the bed for stability, so motionless that he almost melts into everything inanimate around him, eyes lost in a random spot on the floor as his mind travels to other moments, immersed in certain memories, his body turning slightly cold with them until he feels the gentleness of a finger under his chin, gently tugging him upward.

There's no room to hide, but despite the shame of 'being' a burden still weighing on his shoulders, there's nowhere Bob would rather look than your soft gaze, with the color of your eyes and the life that shone in them like the spring sun as if the only truth he needed was reflected in it. He needed it like a small plant needs light to bloom and not wither, like that small flower that still rests on the curve of your ear.

His eyes are gentle, too honest and too transparent to mask his feelings for you.

And with nowhere left to go, Bob pushes his head forward a little, just a little because you're already so close, until his forehead is pressed lovingly against your covered stomach. He just needed a bit of calm in the midst of his storms, a bit of reassurance, the kind your free hand gives him when you hold him with a gentleness no one else offered him before, your fingers stroking his unruly hair like he was everything to you.

“You're going to be okay, Bob.”

He swallows, eyes still closed.

“I'd never ask you to promise me something like that, but... can you do it anyway? Please?”

You let out a slow sigh, one that doesn't promise insecurity or exhaustion, only the truth.

“We're going to be okay. I promise.” You caress his hair once more before pulling away, his gaze searching yours again out of necessity. “Now go, you still smell funny.”

He makes a face of disgust, pretending to be offended, but he obeys.

By the time Bob emerges from your bedroom's bathroom—wearing a navy sweatshirt with the phrase If you think I'm sarcastic, you should listen to what I think, always a size too big, just like his sleeping pants, his hair almost dry from multiple toweling—the sun has already set below the horizon, and night has blanketed that part of the world in black, blue, and purple. The city beyond the window, which frames it like a beautiful living photograph, is tinged with colors emitted by the buildings that seem to reach the sky itself.

Bob lies down on the edge of the bed, on new sheets, clean, and finally, his body ceases to be his as he relaxes.

With the room dark and its artificial light directed toward the ceiling, the small projector on your nightstand creates a shadow on your profile, like the dark side of the moon that Bob can see, tracing the curve of your nose and lips with his gaze, illuminating only part of your face as you rub your tired eyes.

“Are you feeling better?”

You turn your head to the side when the fog of thoughts in your mind has dissipated, as have the colored lights that flicker behind your gaze.

“Yeah.” His words make you smile, so sweet it forces Bob to look away, pretending he wasn't staring at you too intently. “What movie are we watching?”

“50 first dates. I guess it's good to mix it up once in a while.”

He nods mockingly.

“Yeah. I mean, we've seen Pride and Prejudice so many times that I know the lines by heart, so change is good.”

As the movie's opening credits roll, you snort.

“Please, you love that movie.”

Bob looks away towards the ceiling with a small, shy smile on his lips as his mind screams words into the comfortable silence: I love you.

There was one particular night, when the building seemed tall enough to touch the stars, that a revelation hit Bob hard in the chest and settled there forever.

Bob stopped the moment he saw you walking over the border of the heliport as you watched your own steps, moving to the whisper of the wind at that such a high, as light as the feather of a bird that was reborn from the ashes. You did that when you were alone in the place, with no one around to tell you how dangerous it was, even when there was no way you could fall now, but Bob got used to being around anyway, just in case, just to enjoy your freedom.

Until one day that you played with his emotions, with you so close to the edge that he could feel them falling over. Swinging one leg an inch above nothing, it was as if you were floating, flying like a bird that had never felt what it was like to live inside a cage.

“Can you come back here, please? I'm having a heart attack. You're giving me a heart attack.”

You laughed mockingly, not maliciously.

“You do know I can fly, right?”

“Oh, can you?” Bob asked sarcastically as he raised an eyebrow. “I didn't know that, maybe because you left your angel wings somewhere else. Besides, flying is overrated; walking is way better.”

You laughed again, this time with a certain peace, the kind you felt being by his side, that peace you found there with him after you stop feeling on the edge of the precipice all the time.

“You okay, Bob?”

He feels now the squeeze your hand gives his, and like an instinctive reflex before reason prevails, Bob squeezes it back, not letting go as he turns his head to look at you.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because you’re not breathing. Or are you going to tell me that’s overrated, too?”

You chuckle, hearing the sound of his snort as Bob returns his attention to the movie, his hand still holding yours. Your warmth mingling with his tickles his skin, reminding him that he’s alive.

You were the feeling of love that reminded him that he was alive.

For Bob, you were the light in a windowless room, an oasis of hope, the first home he'd ever felt real, because when he was with you, everything blooms and nothing withers.

He was hurt, somewhat broken, and yet Bob saw it clearly through the pieces: your love was real. He saw it in you, in the way your eyes always shone every time you looked at him, almost yearning to see stars in the dark sky of his blue gaz, and even though nothing more would ever happen, even though that love would never materialize into something tangible, Bob found comfort at knowing you love him back.

In that moment, it all comes down to a single sentence.

“You are the only thing that is not erased from my memory when I have these episodes, you know?” Your heart flutters with his words, racing to the point where it threatens to stop. His hand holds yours confidently, eager to show you that his words are as firm as his actions. “But please try not to be gone for too long again, okay?”

You nod, talking in a soft voice.

“Okay.”

At some point in the immense night, when you fall asleep after the trip and feel the promising present and future settling in your chest with a warm emotion, you turn over in bed to rest on your side, your hand holding his in a loose grip, the other close to your mouth.

Bob turns too, facing you, and his free hand takes the flower still resting in your ear (that one piece you always brought back with you after leaving the rest on your mom's grave), only to set it aside, waiting to turn it into another bookmark for you when morning comes.

His hand still trembles in the air when one of his fingers slides, almost imperceptibly, along your nose and your cheek, falling across the curve of your lips, so soft it makes him smile, feeling completely free from all the pain. Finally.

Soon after, Bob falls asleep too, blocking out any attempt at dark memories now that the sun of his life has returned to him.

[sailingintothenight]

Hi! I was wondering if I could request a lewis pullman fic where maybe they met on the set of top gun maverick and everyone can tell they like each other but them. also maybe hurt/comfort because the reader is insecure…

Hi dear anon :) Of course! Thank you so much for making a request, I'm excited to write it. I wanted to start today, but I'm really swamped with work, so I'm hoping to start it tomorrow, Sunday here in peru. Please bear with me, please. I really hope you like what's coming up! I will try my best to write a good story.

[sailingintothenight]

“Colorful.” Lewis Pullman.

(not my images, I stole them from the internet)

The celebration in Montana for his mom’s birthday is just a casual family weekend to introduce you as his girlfriend, in the warmth of his home, with his siblings who keep trying to embarrass him. It's a roller coaster of emotions too with the persistent call from your ex that threatens to shatter the life you'd built together during those few but meaningful months. However, between the layers of your fears and his, there's one clear, unmistakable thought: I want to be with you, now and always... because it's better to be afraid together until you're no longer afraid at all, than to be alone and just fine apart. Because with him, life is colorful.

A/N: Just a one–shot about Lewis, the same one that's part of the fanfic I play in my head 'cause I’m delulu lol. It’s around 5k words. I hope you like it. (If there are grammar errors, I'll try to fix later cause it’s 6am here)

Warnings: Lewis being a Cutie patootie! and angst but happy ending.

The late morning sun sheds its golden light on your face when you lean against the open window of his red pickup truck, the headwind making your hair dance, pushing it back in messy but free strands.

The mounting nerves travel fast and have been with you the whole way, from the moment Lewis invited you to celebrate his mother's birthday, to the natural highway in Montana, with a path that gets shorter and shorter with the remaining minutes, more agonizing than that single second before a director gave you the cue for your entrance, like a countdown that almost always gave you the spotlight. Just like this moment.

For a while, the silence stretches out like the landscape and the divine sky that seems endless, painting the world in brilliant colors as winter bids farewell and spring arrives.

Life by his side had felt like that, just like that transition from the cold season in your bones to the warmth like fire inside you, the kind that revived a heart on the verge of fainting. Four months seemed like a short time through foreign eyes that saw only glimpses of it from the outside, but your time together hid in their memory countless golden days and nights that would last forever. Things were still new, but they grew more and more serious with the passage of time, hand in hand everywhere you went, in a life next to him that seemed to have been painted in watercolors.

A watercolor blue just like his lively eyes, dark as an ocean of hope, but those that shone with a light that always seemed to announce, with a single glance, with conviction, that what was to come would be better than the experiences you'd already had with him.

For that very reason, this was the most difficult stage you'd ever set foot in: you want his family to like you on this casual weekend, there in a welcoming environment and with people so loving and caring that they raised a man with values, as tall as adorable, slightly awkward at times and extremely introverted at others, but always warm like the edge of his heart, the same one you felt racing every time you melted into his hugs, strong hands that held you firmly and created one thought in your mind: he doesn't want to let me go, not now, maybe not ever.

“Honey...” The warmth of his hand on your knee makes you turn towards him, drawing your nervous gaze to the curve of his lips and the smile you can see even in his profile. “You're going to hurt your leg if you keep bouncing it like that.”

You frown, keeping a mocking expression.

“I don't think there's such a thing as a rebound knee injury. And it’s not like as if I had been doing it for a long time.”

Lewis chuckles, taking his hand away to shift gears in his truck, but you catch the playful glint in his eye as he's about to tease you, in those brief seconds before he returns his eyes to the road.

“The man in front of us on the plane thought there was turbulence.”

You're about to complain, but nerves have built up a dam in your throat, preventing the laughter from passing through.

“I'm sorry. I'm just... nervous.”

Lewis tilts his head, weighing the pace of your life as an actress with the speed of a second.

“You jumped out of the tallest building in your last action film, but this… this is your panic moment?”

You complain this time, letting out a soft sound.

“This is different, it’s real, you know? This is your family, Lewis.” You pause, and inevitably, your tone shift into a soft voice, even with the heavy weight of that part of your past. “And you know I’ve never done this before.”

Lewis nods, thoughtful, present in that part of your life after every word of yours when you told him everything about that person, taking it so personally that he still wishes he could carry your fears so you wouldn't have to anymore, those fears that still follow you like shadows chasing the bright light of your soul, fears that once tried to extinguish all traces of you. Two years living in darkness with him, who always had an excuse to keep you hidden like a shameful secret. Too busy, never ready, always afraid of being hurt by you.

It takes Lewis a moment to slow his anxious heart, the one that clenched a little when some scenario from your time with your ex involuntarily plays in his mind, sometimes wondering why life hadn't allowed him to reach you sooner.

“Honey…” His jaw relaxes at the nickname for you, making it sound so sweet it always made your expression soften even more when you were happy, a word that makes you smile now, and like a reflex, makes him smile at you reacting to it. “How can Bill and Tamara Pullman scare you? They are just people.”

You give him a mocking look, again, one that Lewis catches out of the corner of his eye with a smile.

“Well… they made you, Lew, and that’s way more intimidating than the things I have done as an actress, not to mention who your dad is.”

You hear the soft scoff, a low sound that mixes with his sweet attempt at sarcasm.

“My dad is the dad that once fell asleep during my school play because it was too boring since his son was sheep number 4. Thrust me, honey, you’ll survive.” Lewis chuckles, still playful, but with the right touch of vulnerability attach to his next words too, feeling the nerves in every corner of his being. “My family is just a bunch of slightly nosy, overly affectionate goofballs, and they’ll adore you, sweetheart, I promise. I mean, how could they not?”

You laugh softly, taking the opportunity now that the pressure in your chest has lessened a little bit.

“Because I once accidentally insulted a director’s dog on a red carpet?”

Lewis presses his lips together, tight as he tries to kill his own laughter.

“I saw that. I can’t believe you insulted Mr. Pickles.”

“I said the puppy looked like a loaf of bread. I promise it was a compliment!”

He laughs, a real sound, shaking his head for a moment, but the lightness of the moment relaxes him too, always feeling calm with you amidst that emotion his heart felt when he saw you arrive, a second before hiding you in his arms. For Lewis, your time together had been like seeing the world clearly, as if all the paths he'd already trodden had come to become one, to lead him to one place: you. And then, everything sounded just perfect as long as life included you.

“Hey...” His gaze connects with yours for a few brief seconds, pointing at the empty space between you and him with a nod. “Come here. I can’t hold your hand all the way because I have to shift gears in this old truck, so you’re gonna hold my arm instead, okay?”

For a fleeting instant, you feel overwhelmed by the uncertain future when the time in the car is over, by his closeness that still causes you that thrilling nervousness in your heart, yet, you move silently, sliding down the long seat until you're beside him, clinging to his arm as you cling to the idea that the weekend will only be a continuation of a growing affection, wishing for it with such fervor that it feels like a prayer.

“You’ll be fine, honey.” Lewis presses a quick kiss on the crown of your hair, bending his head a little bit before looking ahead again. “Don’t worry too much, okay? I promise they’re gonna love you...”

Just like I do. He keeps his words for himself, reserving them for later.

The Montana air around the Pullman house is quiet on the outside the second you reach their ranch, nesting in a place where flowers grow again around with the caress of the warm season: it has a big porch and amber lights in every window that resembles the sunset happening behind, shining on you too when you stop in front of the main door. There are people moving in the inside with a soft song accompanying them, turning their home in a place that feels just cozy, like a warm invitation to stay and never leave.

You take a second before stepping into the main scene, and Lewis waits with you.

“Someone is baking.” You say, in a soft tone that makes him breathe in, too.

“That’s my Ma. She bakes when she’s nervous, which she is because I told her you’re smart and funny and way out of my league so she’s kinda terrified of you now.”

You chuckle, ready to tease him, too.

“Oh, I see you told her nothing but the truth.”

Lewis smiles, the corner of his lip curling up in his most adorable way, his gaze beaming as his excitement at showing you off finally crushes his own fears, leaving room only for happiness.

“Welcome to where I learned how to drive a tractor before I could parallel park.”

You smile too, eager to see (after only imagining) every place of the house where he grew up.

“Are you nervous?”

He nods, slowly.

“A little, but it’s not about them meeting you. It’s about them seeing how much I like you.”

You chuckle, hiding the nervous chilling in your body with the sound.

“You’re saying I’m worth the risk?”

“Completely.”

Lewis doesn’t miss a single second to answer, no hesitation in his deep words and voice when he nods, leaning forward to get a taste of your lips before his own family steal you from him, before they steal your smiles and that sparkle in your eyes, always shining, always full of life.

The interior of the house is more welcoming than the exterior, matching the harmony of the whole place: walls painted in warm tones, spacious but still making the place feel like a little nest, a place that offers only love and protection. Lewis sets the luggage aside, and in an instant, you catch the way the music that encapsulated them in their own world drifts down to lose itself in the silent breeze, your gaze meeting those kind eyes you only saw in the childhood photographs he showed you, the same ones that now smile at you all the way until his mom holds you in a hug.

“Oh, honey, we are so happy to meet you. Lewis never shuts up about you.”

You laugh gently as you hug her back, but the feeling her warmth offers you feels familiar, understanding in a second where he had learned to convey so much in the silence of his arms surrounding you.

“I hope it’s all good things.”

You greet everyone, hoping your expression doesn't reflect your nervousness.

“So, (Y/N)…” His sister chuckles when the introductions end, and her kind yet malevolent gaze steals a glance at Lewis before looking at you. “Has Lewis told you about the time he peed his pants during a middle school spelling bee?”

“Maesa!”

Lewis and his dad scold her, two reflexes even in their actions, though only one of them smiles with amusement. What a great way to break the ice. Her other brother laughs, gentler than the sharp (but affectionate) mocking tone that only an older sister could muster and use without any real reprimand.

“Don’t worry, (Y/N), he won, though.” Jack grins. “He still got the medal while smelling like fear and apple juice.”

Everyone laughs, except for Lewis, but your tension dissolve in seconds, and fast, the tone of the scene becomes warm and chaotic, always joyful, leaving no space for your fears.

An hour later, you all sit down for dinner. You fit in immediately—joking too, telling your own stories, making everyone laugh like they were your own family. His siblings fall into step with you, teasing their brother the way your brothers used to tease you. And every time you look in the direction of another person, away from Lewis, his dad watches him with subtle attention, taking in the way his son is still resting his hand on the back of your chair, listening closely a story he already heard from you, but paying attention like it was the first time.  

His mom watches you, the way you feel safe there with them, how you still look for her kid’s gaze, as if only he could assure you of what you already knew in your heart.

“Aaaand… he used to wear glasses.” Jack says, serious in his attempt to convince you that his brother isn't cool at all, that he never was and never will be.

You chuckle.

“I wear them, too.”

Maesa shrugs, her face almost expressionless, only holding a calmness that accompanies her teasing words next.

“Yeah, but you look cute, he looked like a nerd.”

Lewis sighs under the others' snickers before they move on to the next topic, resigned, inhaling and exhaling to make peace with the idea that nothing would stop his siblings’ relentless intentions to embarrass him at all costs, neither after his false threats nor pleas.

But among the things said that fueled his shyness, he can feel his own happiness, so latent (and clear to everyone) that Lewis feels it fluttering in his chest, a happiness born from seeing how much you had smiled during all that time, the way your lively gaze sought his with a sense of protection you looked in him, a gaze he had already placed on you seconds before, anxiously waiting for your eyes to seek him out at every moment, between pauses to listen, between words you shared, always coming back to him.

The night ends too quickly for Lewis, though the hours passed slowly like a gift made just for him.

“Now let's let our guest rest.” His mother smiles, but there's a serious tone in her next words that's noticeable even before she says them. “You two in separate rooms, of course. This is still my house.”

He makes a face, embarrassed, and offended without really being so.

“Ma—”

She giggles.

“Nope, sweetheart. I like her too much to let you corrupt her under my roof.”

You feel your cheeks blushing, yet, you handle the situation gracefully.

The walk to the guest room is quiet, with the companionable silence that moves with the life on a ranch the moment everyone goes to sleep.

“I think your mom scares me just enough.” You laugh softly, stopping at the door of your designated place. “They are amazing, Lew, all of them.”

“And what about me?” Lewis frowns, a smile adorning his mocking, false confusion as he points to himself. You make an expression, as if including him in the adjective isn’t an option, and he laughs. “You’re mean.”

Yet, his hands find the sides of your waist to pull you toward him at the same time he leans closer, pressing his lips against yours for a moment that ends all too quickly for him. Your own hands hold his face, eyes close, only for a few seconds that really feels like heaven, for him and for you as his mouth moves slowly against yours, mingling in the heat, stopping before reaching the peak of intensity.

“Go to sleep, Lew…” You chuckle, the edge of the sound slightly serious when you see the intention in his eyes to come in with you. “Go, or your mom will ground you, and then she will ground me, too.”

He laughs, soft, but there’s no shame in being scolded by his mother even at his age, only the happiness reflected in his gaze when he looks at you, so intense that you can see the weight of his affection for you, so heavy they threaten to buckle your knees.

“Okay...” He says, in a low, deep voice. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You nod.

“Goodnight, love.”

Lewis smiles, so soft you can barely see it, but real.

“Goodnight, honey.”

The birthday party is laid–back and full of conversations, enveloping everyone in an evening that no one wants to end.

The golden hour of the day has settled into a deep blue twilight. String lights crisscross the green yard, casting a soft, warm glow over the wooden table. Candles flicker in mason jars to set a tone, like it was a life from another time. There's a low hum of voices talking, sharing, the distant music from a Bluetooth speaker, and the occasional clink of silverware.

It feels like a moment stolen from a postcard. His family move at a slow pace, no rush, and you find a second alone with Tamara, helping her take more plates from the kitchen.

“You’re doing so well, darling. They all love you.”

She says it casually and her words make you smile, yet they hide a deep meaning that you can see with the naked eye.

“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting to feel this… welcomed. I mean, not so fast.”

She hesitates for a second, but in the next, she looks at you kindly, giving you the safe space with just one glance to continue or leave it there. And it’s easy, the way you would tell her everything.

“My last and only relationship wasn’t like this at all. It was hidden and so quiet it would drive the sanest person crazy. He never wanted me to be part of anything real in his life, and I let it happen even when I knew well that he didn’t, but I thought… maybe loving someone too much would scare them off, you know? So… I guess I tried to love him halfway to stay there even when I knew there was no floor beneath me to stand on.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Tamara pauses when she sees the little pieces of sadness still in your eyes, but between the layers of that feeling, she can see your attempt to move on, to leave behind the fears that grew in you. “Loving too much is never wrong, but only if that person is worthy of that love. Loving someone who doesn’t know what to do with it… that’s the part that hurts, I know...” She comes closer to you to place a hand on your arm, in a way that somehow, helps you feel steady when the moment feels unstable. “Lewis has always been a slow burn, quiet heart, but when he chooses… he’s in it for good, okay? so don’t think you scare him with all this. If anything, you had help to make him feel calm in this chaotic world. He tells me that all the time. But if he messes this up, I’ll kill him, and I know well the whole family would help.”

His arm still rests loosely along the back of your chair.

The plates are filled, the wine glasses about to run out, and laughter still hangs in the air from the second the party began.

“…So, (Y/N), I still can’t believe that you’ve willingly chosen to be around this one outside of work. That’s brave. You know he sleeps with socks on, right?”

His parents chuckle just softly, a failed attempt to avoid allying themselves with their daughter in her incessant mission to annoy her brother.

Lewis grunts, part of him wishing the weekend would end that night, in that very second.

“Maesa, please...”

You chuckle, too.

“Wait. Like… regular socks? Or fuzzy socks?”

Jack smiles, more after he sees Lewis looking at you with an expression that begs you not to betray him like the rest.

“Fuzzy. Blue like his beautiful, dreamy eyes.”

You take a look at him, to the way Lewis looks down for an instant, always shy about the compliments to his sweet eyes, especially if they came in the form of a teasing.

“I feel like this is something I should have been warned about before committing.”

His dad chuckles with you.

“Welcome to the family initiation.”

They all laugh again, missing the way Lewis moves, casually, reaching for your hand under the table. And it’s warm just like his love, because even if he didn’t say those words out loud, you had already learned how to read his eyes.

But right there, coming straight like a bullet to ruin the moment like he knew he’d do it successfully, your phone on the table buzzes. It sits face–up beside your plate, and the screen lights on with a unknow number, the same one from the morning, the same persistent number that you keep ignoring.

Lewis’s breathing catches because he knows who belongs to, confirming it with the way you quickly turn the phone over. However, it buzzes again, and again, spilling a low vibration everyone can hear. Lewis glances at it, too, saying anything but feeling everything in the big space of a single second, the jealousy piercing his heart like a hot arrow, his insecurities, feeling the cold the moment he lets go of your hand.

You notice his change immediately, identifying the pressure in your chest as guilt because of his pain: his shoulders tense, his jaw tightens even when he tries to play the cool, unbothered character in the story, the hardest role of his whole life. He tries to mask it by taking a long sip of water to extinguish the fire in the pit of his stomach, then focuses a little too hard on his mashed potatoes, avoiding your gaze because he also knows the way you can read every feeling in his eyes, from the good to the not so good.

The table keeps talking, but the shift in Lewis’s body language is not so subtle, and everyone starts to sense it little by little.

The silent in your own world grows heavier just like your fears, yet, you try to push them away, trying to stop them to take all the place in your heart and mind.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, noticing the way he doesn’t look directly at you.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

A painful beat passes and you hesitate, but the phone vibrates again and it darken your whole soul again. Then, you offer a gentle smile to the table when the pain is too much to just continue playing a role.

“Excuse me for a second, please. I’m gonna call my dad to let him know I’m not being held hostage.”

You stand up, phone in hand, catching the way Tamara smiles kindly.

“Tell him we’re feeding you well.”

His dad joins too.

“And that you survived Lewis’s childhood stories.”

You nod, walking away with a soft laugh because the stories were funny, and they lessen just a little bit the confusion of the moment.

Behind, you hear Jack.

“But don’t tell him about the socks!”

Laughter follows you all the way until you disappear around the corner, but you feel Lewis’s eyes on your back the entire time, leaving him alone when he wants to be with you, leaving him alone and at the mercy of his painful thoughts, and the judging looks from his family.

“Okay. What the hell was that?”

Lewis looks at his sister.

“What was what?”

His part as a dummy person makes Jack roll his eyes.

“Please, Lew, you went from smiley heart–eyes with her to moody lonely cowboy in five seconds.”

His dad sighs, looking at the youngest of his kids.

“I’ve seen you more expressive watching bird documentaries, son. What happened? What changed?”

Lewis sighs, the guilt for his actions heavy on his chest.

“Her ex called. Again.”

His mom waits for more, arching a brow when nothing else arrives.

“And?”

Lewis looks at his mother, trying to get from her the clarity he needs to make his heart understand that there was nothing to be afraid of, that his jealousy was just an irrational fear caused by his own insecurities, by his constant struggle with the idea of ​​not being good enough either.

“It just… it threw me, okay? I know it’s stupid, and I know she’s with me. I just... I hate that he still gets to take up space in her life, in the life we are building together.”

The table sinks into a silence, not deep or overwhelming, just an understanding of his lack of self–confidence.

“She turned the phone over, Lewis.” Maesa says, light and firm at the same time. “She’s not running off to talk to him, but now she thinks she did something wrong.”

His father leans forward, searching his son's eyes.

“You know that if you love someone, you don’t give them more silence when they’re already sinking in their own, son.”

Lewis nods before he stands up, knowing that maybe he should stop saving those words for later if he really wanted to have a now with you.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite movie star.”

You smile softly, melting into the company of the moon and the chirping of hidden crickets. The front porch step is a front–row seat to an entire nightscape, a perfect scenery that fits the moment: the loneliness, the confusion, and the conflicting feeling of wanting to be next to him when your proximity seems to hurt him, too.

It's confusing, that line between those two, so blurred that you don't know where you are standing right now.

“I'm your only daughter and the only one of your children who's an actress, of course I have to be your favorite movie star, dad.”

Your dad tenses, even miles away from you, immediately picking up on that subtle change in your tone of voice.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I promise. I just… needed a minute to call you and tell you that it’s beautiful here, really, and his mom is so sweet. His siblings are hilarious and they made fun of his fuzzy socks, which I already knew about, but I had to act surprised anyways for moral support.”

Your dad laughs.

“And his dad?”

“Handsome as he always has been.”

“Damn it. I’m not telling your mom about him then.” He courses under his breath, joking. “But to me it sounds like you fit right in.”

“Yeah. It’s just… new. All of this.”

He waits, giving himself a moment to read between the lines.

“And that scares you.”

You close your eyes, wishing life hadn't taken you down that path when you met that person.

“Yeah.”

“And is it Lewis and your feelings for him what scare you? Or the past?”

“No. It’s not him. He’s... amazing, and patient, and so kind. I can feel it, Dad. When I’m around him, everything feels possible, even the things I convinced myself would never happen to me. Like... I can see it: years down the road, holidays, inside jokes, more ordinary mornings that to me feel extraordinary. I never saw that with anyone else in my future after…”

“The man who made you doubt your worth. I know.”

You swallow hard, and your voice gets smaller now.

“But what if I’m just fooling myself again? What if this time, I love like, for real, and it breaks me again?”

Your dad sighs, wishing to take the punches of your pain in his body.

“Sweetheart, listen to me. There’s a difference between being cautious and being afraid. You know when your fears are trying to protect you, and when they are just trying to run the show. And I know you know when it’s real. You’ve always known, my love.”

You don’t answer, you don’t need to, can’t either. But even under the veil of deep night, things become clearer in a quiet way.

And too wrapped up in your own discovery, you don’t notice that Lewis is standing just inside the open door. He heard it, all of it, the doubts, the ache, the fact that you see a future with him, just the same future he sees with you when he daydreams or when he goes to sleep. He steps forward, excited to tell you that—just one foot to say sorry, to say I love you, to ask you to stay with him…

But a hand on his shoulder stops him, making him take a step back into the darkness of the room.

“What are you doing?”

Lewis swallows, more scared than when he was a child and his mother caught him mid–mischief.

“I wasn’t trying to… she didn’t know I was here.”

His mother nods, judging him with a joking look in reaction to his funny reaction.

Tamara takes a few seconds to look at you, her body leaning to the side as Lewis stands in front of her, thinking that even though a betrayal should have given you the right or the excuse to grow sharp points in your heart to protect yourself, the edges remained smooth, never ready to hurt, intentionally or not. And she loved that about you, between other things.

Then, she lowers her voice to match her son’s.

“If you’re gonna love a woman like her, Lewis, you have to make room for her fears, too. If you are not, let her go because that is love, too.”

Lewis nods, again, forcing himself to keep the fear inside him paralyzed until it fades just to be brave, finally.

The calm after the storm unfolds before you, moving slowly, carefully.

Sitting on the bed, you continue folding a sweater. The nightlight filters through the white curtains of the room in the second floor, illuminating the small world inside four walls beneath the dim darkness. The amber light from the lamp on the nightstand draws the silhouette of your shadow, but for the first time, everything is clear.

The silence isn't deafening, but a companion when it's just you, finally understanding that Lewis was always all the good things in life, always the most beautiful ones, so gentle and sweet, a sincere soul even if he was sometimes plagued by fears too, a little cracked as well, but it didn't matter because somehow, everyone was.

Lewis was a love song, one of those that ignites your soul and fills you with hope, the one that brings tears to your eyes by how beautiful it was.

The knock at the door is soft.

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

“Come in.”

Lewis walks inside, steps and heart equally light, despite the nerves that grow and grow.

“Hey. This is kind of embarrassing but my ma gave me permission to sleep here with you tonight.” He tries to laugh, but the sound gets stuck in his chest when Lewis sees your things on the bed, making him freeze in his place when a panic flickers in his heart. “Honey, what are you doing?”

You look up, a gently glow in your eyes.

“It’s okay, Lew, I just think it might be better if I left in the morning so you can spend time with your family—”

“No, no, please…” He shakes his head, coming closer to sit on the edge of the bed in front of you, so close his knees bump yours slightly, his nervous hands seeking contact with your legs. “Please don’t do that thing where you walk away from people because it’s easier than trusting what’s good.” There is no accusation in his voice, only his plea mingling with the painfully truth of his words. “I knew it was him calling you again, and I’m sorry for the way I acted. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say, because it messed with my head, but that’s on me, honey, not you. I know you feel guilty for how I felt, but that’s not your fault, baby, I promise. Hey, please look at me, okay?”

You breathe, realizing you were looking a place close to his eyes but not really, until he takes the piece of clothing from you to hold your hands without anything getting in the way, firm but soft.

“I’ve never felt like this before and that call scared the hell out of me because I thought... what if he still owns a piece of you I’ll never reach?”

Your expression softens.

“He doesn’t, Lew. He never did. I gave him love, but I always knew it wasn’t returned the same way. I knew I was trying to fill his silence with my hopes, but with you there’s no silence because everything is loud in the best way: it’s like watching that colorful New Year's spectacle when the lights illuminate the sky, and I think that scares me because... I believe in this, I really do.”

Lewis nods, understanding everything, every piece of the moment, knowing that his fears are the same as yours, but that they would not be able to separate him from you just as you would not separate yourself from him either.

“Then please stay, honey. Don’t fold sweaters and run, okay? I promise I won't give you a reason to walk away ever again.”

You make a face.

“I wasn’t running. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know, but you didn’t, baby.” He sighs, feeling the terror finally leaving every corner of his body. “You being here with me gives me only happiness, never pain, okay?”

You nod, you don’t speak, because again, you don’t need to when you hug him, telling him everything with one single action as he wraps his arms around you, too, burying his face in your hair. Meanwhile, the suitcase remains on the bed, unpacked, just as it should be, empty like your soul when you finally let go all the bad things you carried inside for a long time, and it’s like you can breathe again.

“So, your ma gave you permission to sleep here?”

You laugh against his shoulder, and Lewis laughs with you as he holds you a little tighter.

“As long as we don’t make her a grandmother… yet.”

[sailingintothenight]

“WHERE THE SHADOWS MEET THE LIGHT.”

Chapter 1: Golden like daylight, blue like hope.

Story Summary: Too dangerous to fly high, you remain on the ground, trying not to unleash your true power and turn everything to debris (again). One evening, the world you built around you while protecting a village that fearlessly embraced you, is threatened when Bob stumbles within the sacred forest, feeling you like a memory you two are sure never happened, but too vivid to let go easily.

Time stands still when you are together, until you go in a different direction for a moment, losing him. His memories of you are erased, and yet Bob can still hear your voice calling his name. He can feel your soul that was always connected to his own, proving to him that he was never truly alone. He can see your light that shines in his darkness, the one that shows him the way back home.

When Valentina reveals the truth behind your powers and Bob's, it’s devastating... only in the way it makes you fight to find the other again where the shadows meet the light, knowing well this time where to stand.

(Read a more detailed summary here)

BOB REYNOLDS X EX–AVENGER!FEMALE!READER (platonic!BuckyBarnes x female!reader)

Warnings: This story will have some plot holes and grammatical errors, i'm sure, (I'm from Peru) the timeline isn't exactly the same as the movies, and I will write about Bob's struggle with his mental health (typical stuff you've seen before, but I won't go into too much depth about it, cause, even though I want to portray it well, I'm still struggling with my disorder and sometimes it's triggering to write about it). To those of you struggling with these things too, I hope you find peace, a light, a reason to stay🫶🏼💕

A/N: Hi. I'm here after almost a month of posting the summary of a fic similar to this. Long story short, after two days my computer turned off forever (rest in peace my 8 year old warrior) and I just lost it. And since I have little tolerance, like when I can't plug in my phone charger on the first try, I crossed my arms like a child. Then I wrote this story on paper that is similar to the version of the reader as Loki's daughter, because the idea of ​​​​not being able to write that story again exactly the same drove me crazy, so I made this similar, almost with the same plot but changing its direction a bit. And I really hope you like this. That's it, thank u so much!

“If one of your chickens decides to take another nap in my basil plant again, I’m going to make it my dinner. And I’m not talking about the herbs, you hear me, Aisyah?”

Aisyah—barely eight years old, but more perceptive than many older adults in the neighborhood—disappears around the edge of the cabin, smiling disinterestedly at your mocking threat, (always hiding a sweet, older–sister tone) all the way to her own home, her long skirt in one hand while her chicken pet (upside down now, once white before splashing through mud puddles) is carried in the other, squawking indignantly.

In the distance, you hear the bird that always scampered faster than its owner and never flinches, continuing to protest even in defeat, always unconcerned, possibly the only animal that ran straight toward danger instead of the opposite direction.

The afternoon sun still takes its place after the morning's heavy rain, shedding its golden light over the village nestled in the center of a dense forest, hidden in its natural magic—turning it into a colorful landscape. A swollen river meanders nearby, its form like that of a mystical animal from ages past. The air is thick this day, laden with the kind of silence that precedes something breaking, the kind that lasts only in the seconds of shock before the crash.

One of the healers, wrapped in woven shawls and strands of clinking amulets, sits cross–legged on the porch of her wooden house on stilts, her eyes squinting toward the hidden river on the other side of the village.

“It's not rain.” She murmurs, her statement heavy with her usual confidence.

Your gaze moves to hers, kneeling down to hear her better, the train of your skirt falling between your boots.

“Is the river gonna rise again? I can reinforce the dike even more.”

“No, love…” The old woman says softly, contemplating the invisible signs of what was to come. “The Earth is hungry.”

You frown with the weight of your attempt to understand the mystery behind her words, the one you could almost never decipher in the very instant she speaks. Her words always hide deep meanings, and you were learning to unravel the knots to see the whole message, the whole truth behind the metaphors with patience, trying to pay attention.

In the background, circling the edge of the house, a gruff voice laughs at you two.

“Old bones and ancient riddles, that's what you are.” The self–proclaimed village watchdog snorts in irritation as he walks by: he’s the grumpy old man (not as wise as the rest) who had already lit three incense sticks and barked at two chickens for running too fast, all before sunset. “The only thing hungry is your imagination.”

You roll your eyes in amusement, already used to his bad mood, an irritability as common as Aisyah's hen's obsession with walking outside the forest, through the tall grass, toward your cabin just to nest in your plants.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Nahir. Always as warm as the sun that accompanies us this season.”

He gives you a mocking bow as he walks away, barefoot, always in touch with the holy ground.

But somehow, you feel it too: it's a throbbing rhythm beneath the soles of your feet, a tremor faint enough to be ignored by the rest of the inhabitants, but deep enough to warn you that something is approaching, giving no clue as to whether it's good or not.

You stand slowly, observing the edge of the forest, the dense trees that protect the village but camouflage the danger if it decides to approach: a double–edged knife, working in your favor and at the same time, against you. Your gaze shifts to the hills taking shape of backs, like sleeping giants, like protectors, and sometimes, like threats. The villagers had refused to leave after the last landslide, rebuilding their home with sandbags and their unwavering faith. To you, they were stubborn, brave, true heroes. And you respect them, love them for it.

So you stayed with them to hold the sharp pieces that threatened to end their lives, even if they cut you. To keep them safe as best you could, but far enough away, always in your own home to protect them from the other part of you.

“Go home, my child, you can't hide from destiny forever.”

You look down at her, at her hand lovingly holding the long hem of your skirt—those soft fingers that knew the weight of village babies, the weight of freshly baked bread and the work tools to build what they had now. The weight of grief as well.

“I've hidden myself pretty well all this time, haven't I? No one's found me yet. I don't think destiny can either.”

“It's because you don't want to be found, and they respect that: but this is different. He doesn't know it, but his heart seeks you out, right now.”

You frown, smiling mockingly.

“I'll only let destiny find me if he has gentle eyes, Grandma. That's all I ask. And somehow attractive—not much, but something. Let's face it, you and I, and everyone, have certain expectations.”

She laughs, amused by the way you could be serious about the protection you offered them, playful when you joked with the others, when you let the walls of your fears fall for a moment, before quickly building them back up again when that fear pulsing in your body reminded you of the things you could do if you were not careful.

But her gaze is as warm as her love for you.

“They are gentle, blue like hope.”

The walk back to your cabin is as peaceful as the forest can be.

The rain, which had stopped at dawn, giving a respite for a few hours, makes the place vibrate with a drizzle now. It's light, the kind that falls with melancholy and lingers, the kind that penetrates the bones, the kind that brings news, surfing on the wind. Sunlight reflects off some surfaces, drawing shapes, golden light that crosses the air and floats, as if hung there solely by a higher power, like telekinesis, or by an invisible thread.

The tiny drops fall at a steady pace like the beat of a song, a melody strictly written to move in absolute perfection. They fall to the dirt forming small puddles, to the leafy roofs of the homes of birds seeking refuge, to the grass to feed the earth and keep it alive.

Everything around you hums—not shrill, but a sound that makes itself felt, as if wanting to be heard and at the same time to say, I'm here, you're not alone.

You keep walking, your hearing as sharp as the edge of your mind after the serum injected into your veins years ago. The feeling of an approaching event stays within you and pulses within you, unfolding a new kind of tingling, an anxiety of the unknown—a kind of deja vu of something you know has never happened... yet.

Sometimes the air just changed: in direction and rhythm, it took on meaning, ceasing to be just rain and becoming the lullaby that sang you to sleep or gave you sleepless nights, like a reminder of the past.

However, something doesn't add up this afternoon.

The strange sensation rolls down your spine—it's not scary, just strange, different, the tingling like electricity that runs through your entire body and makes you vibrate with a certain unease and a hint of excitement at the same time. The wind through the trees is like a strange omen that isn't bad, but feels too good to make sense of, to accept with open arms, or to feel deserving of it. As the minutes pass, the sunlight starts to succumb slowly to the power of a storm of shadows, beginning to disappear to shed its light on the other half of the world, to which you once belonged. But for a single instant, the forest sinks into absolute silence, the kind that takes place before something breaks, as if someone is holding all the air around it, waiting for that break to really happen.

The magic of the place stops smiling, because there really is something else, something shattering its peace.

A heartbeat passes, then another.

You feel it long before the first rumble and that loud crack: it's in the pit of your stomach, in the pulse of your body, and in the earth beneath your feet. It's in your mind too, talking, and that something becomes someone, and you feel the world shake.

Then you hear labored breathing, the beating of her tiny heart.

“Lina?!”

Calling her name, you run to the left, boots heavy from the half–dried morning mud that came alive again in the drizzle. You feel the pull of the earth's power on your soles, imprisoning you, as if trying to drag you down, but you don't give up until you find her, you don't use your powers to reach her faster neither.

The pounding of her heart, you hear it in your ears for a few seconds, until the motionless landscape in front of you shatters when Lina enters the scene from the opposite direction to you, calling your name as if it were a sacred word. Your kneeling legs on the ground supports her small body when you finally hug her, strong but never like a prison. She's breathless and struggling to speak, her dress ripped at the hem, missing a sandal. Mud stains her arms and legs with brown splashes, and her little face is red with panic and adrenaline.

“What happened? Are you hurt, Lina?”

She shakes her head sharply, her throat burning with pain from inhaling so much air violently.

“N–no, no, not me. I was... I went too far, I'm sorry. I was going down the forest and... and the hill and the rocks... almost... there was a branch... but I fell...”

Her words make no sense, they have no direction to something that makes sense.

You pull away, gently cupping her face.

“It's okay. Just breathe, Lina.”

The girl takes a deep breath, tears in her eyes; not from pain, but from something else.

Astonishment.

“He caught me.”

“Who?”

“A man. In the forest. He just... just appeared. He saved me! He pulled me out before the rocks fell on me.”

Your brow furrows even deeper, eyes wide in astonishment too, just like hers.

“Where is he?”

“He’s still there where Aisyah and I played. He told me to run home and leave him, but he’s hurt. Please, please, he helped me, kakak. Can you help him now, please?”

You nod, but your telekinesis protests when you tell her to go to the village for help. As you head there, the tapping in your mind no longer feels like the gentle plucking of strings, tamed over time and practice. Now, it's wild, stubborn, and pulls you towards something like a magnet toward a source of power.

The wind changes drastically, as violent as a slap from the past that still lingers on your skin.

You keep running, stepping through puddles and the soft earth. Until you catch your first glimpse of him.

The man is slumped against the roots of a thick fig tree, clutching his side with one arm where a cut bleeds through his long–sleeved gray shirt, also torn in tatters, as if the branches had made those in him for having stepped into the forest without permission. His knuckles are red, and his chest is rising and falling too fast, at an alarming rate. His head is bowed, admiring with surprise and terror the wound on his soft stomach, the one that protrudes from beneath the hem of his slightly rolled–up clothing.

Raindrops trickle down the edges of his long, untidy hair.

He groans in pain, and his body shrinks even further, a tremor passing through his fingers to every nerve ending in his entire being.

You blink, perhaps hoping he's just another serum–induced dream, but no. He's still there. He doesn't fade into the selfish, mocking shadows of your mind.

The wind slows as you approach, footsteps so light he doesn't hear them, feeling the change in everything around you and on your skin: the trees stilling in anticipation of your encounter, the time that stood still like a gift or a punishment.

“Are you...?” Your voice trembles, weak legs sinking into the ground as you kneel before him.

He looks at you then, lifting his head to follow a voice he recognizes from somewhere.

And a lifetime passes in a single second.

There's something in his gaze: a hint of recognition and relief because of you, like looking at a stranger who somehow knew his name before he even spoke it. His dark summer–sky blue eyes are like broken glass, but bright as stars that refuse to let their light die and fade into the void forever—and then, he blinks. His ragged breathing mingles with yours, wild in the tiny space inside your lungs and his. Right there, you two are two hearts beating so fast they feel like a caged animal ramming its body against the steel bars, seeking freedom even though it's never tasted it before.

Something clicks, something pulls.

And despite everything—the confusion, the madness and pain, the exhaustion—he smiles. Just a little, barely a twitch of his lips, weak with the wound on it, with the surprise of the unreal moment pulsing in his veins.

“Hi…”

But as if Bob had deliberately decided, even on the verge of collapse, to use his only remaining energy on that greeting, his body surrenders to exhaustion afterward. All his cramped muscles relax as he finally gives up, only after having accomplished his goal, but unable to continue fighting an enemy he can't see.

Gravity pulls him to the side and your hands catch him before his resounding fall, forcing a sound of protest from between your lips. His skin runs too hot, burning beneath your fingers, like a piece of iron fresh from the flames.

His body is welcomed by the earth kindly, your hand still behind him to cradle his head, the other pushing that wavy chocolate–brown lock of hair away from his face, out of the red scrape just above his eyebrow, but his gaze never leaves yours, with him blinking heavily as he tries to keep his eyelids open.

He films everything with his bluest gaze, with a softness that life had never allowed him to feel, even though the semi–darkness of the forest doesn't allow him to clearly visualize you: only the edge of your lips, the bridge of your nose, and your soft eyes, always gentle, even in your confusion and surprise.

“I found you.” He whispers, softer than the wind.

You freeze, but Grandma's words make noise in your mind, and for the first time in a long time, the chaos inside stops, receding to make room for that one new thought, as if the rest were afraid of it when you'd always been the one who feared them.

His heart seeks you out.

I found you.

You try to speak, unable to say anything coherent, but wanting to say something to respond to his honesty or confusion. However, the distant call of your name robs you of the opportunity and silences you, making you turn away. The villagers' silhouettes are blurry in the darkness, but the light from their lamps glows like dancing fireflies, showing them the way towards you.

“Stay.” He whispers, barely audible again.

You turn, staring at him.

“What?”

The moonlight struggles to filter between the treetops, armor so hard they were difficult to break, but now, the same ones seem to bloom sideways to give you a glimmer that is reflected faintly in his gaze, part sad, part relieved. It's like seeing an ocean of peace in the midst of your storm, as if life had granted him a minute to detach himself from his pain, just to allow Bob to show you something else than that.

“Please stay…” His eyes close, still awake but exhausted. “I'm so tired of always waking up alone.”

He faints.

You feel it in the way his body no longer resists his internal struggle, no longer clings to anything and lets go, perhaps trusting in you in his last second of consciousness, perhaps just hoping for the best.

A few villagers gather around you, behind the elders who always guided their people with wise hands, now watching you with cautious but loving hope, silently asking for your guidance in the face of something as strange as this. They had stopped calling you “the forest witch” months ago, and now you were simply “the sister of the wind”, the supposed daughter of Mother Nature made flesh, the one who spoke to the earth to appease its power, its attempt at liberation that sometimes turned to anger.

Some of them swore you kept the mountain from swallowing them up.

In a way, they weren't wrong.

“Grandma, please...”

She knows, she feels it in her heart, (which seemed connected to yours now, a connection beyond reason and understanding) that flicker of light in your mind that sometimes became an impetuous predator, a shadow in its attempt to extinguish all of you—but right there, it always lingers in a corner, too bright to be put out: now it's a thought, a desire, the burning longing to help.

She nods quickly.

“We trust you, my child.”

The older woman instructs the group to help the stranger, lifting him with hands calloused and rough after years of work, holding him as gently as if he were levitating with the power of your mind and not theirs, and when they walk away first, you look back at Grandma, hearing the soft question in her lips.

“Is he magical like you?”

“I don’t know.” You whisper, incredulous, because the time imposed between a magical being and you had stretched so much that the thought of meeting another seemed impossible to believe now.

She and you walk back down the path, the villagers ahead, murmuring to each other, to themselves. Grandma takes a step forward, her bracelets clinking softly as she raises the lamp so the light shines on a part of him, catching a glimpse of his almost golden skin, and the shadow within him.

“He fell into this forest for a reason.” She says, her voice soothing yet promising something.

You look at her, confused.

“What do you mean?”

She narrows her eyes, as if seeing something no one else could, but shaking her head at the end, when she's made up her mind about what had just happened.

“No. He didn't fall, child. He came back.”

Each word confuses you more, as if they're pushing you away, rather than bringing you closer to the truth.

“He came back... here?”

“Now that the light has called the shadows home... we'll see which remembers first.” The old woman answers in a whisper, but there's a latent fear in her eyes as she looks at you, clear as day even among the dark the fire tries to fight. “He has something attached to him, a different part of him that is seeking freedom, my love. And now it's looking in your direction... intrigued that you're not afraid like me.”

You tense, so sharply that your muscles protest for an instant. Her words weigh like lead in a sack, sinking heavily into your stomach all the way to the village, all the sleepless night.

The day that follows is long and silent inside, noisy outside with chickens crowing in disharmony, with children chasing the cats and dogs, with people moving around and going about their normal lives.

Inside the cabin, four walls seem to block out the rest of the world, which tirelessly, always seems to pursue him, trying to hunt him down like a prey. Bob blinks awake, his gaze blurred, listening to the birdsong and the soft creaking of the wood above him, the remains of rain still lazily pattering on the roof of the place. The small room has one window slightly open, and the flowers Lina had placed around to help him sleep still emanate a scent of familiarity, of home. The bed is low, softer than the last one he had. His boots, covered in dried mud, are carefully placed nearby. Lying on his back, Bob winces at the throbbing beneath his ribs, the reminder of a wound that never healed, not properly, not completely.

His thoughts are a mess, but they've always been.

Grateful for feeling numb sometimes, Bob lingers there, speaking softly to himself, resigned to a supposed truth that someone else has seared into his mind.

“God, you really aren't done being pathetic.”

“I don't think you're pathetic.”

His body jerks in surprise, trembling arms raised reflexively and directed toward you, his only means of protection. Across the room, with a ceramic mug in your hands, you stand in the doorway, somewhat still like him, your gaze soft, full of relief mingling with your still confusion, just like his own.

“That's because you don't know me.” He laughs, soft, lowering his arms, but you can see he's trying to hide the pain it causes him, all with that small, empty sound.

But I think I do.

It takes him a few seconds to compose himself, ignoring the pounding of his heart. Bob pauses, wishing the world would stop to give him a break, but as he knows it won't happen, he sits slowly, his aching body covered by clean clothes and bandages on his wounds, a sheet slipping onto his lap.

With nowhere to hide, his eyes, filled with a certain innocence—the same ones that hide the shadow within—rest on yours, scared, but soft.

“I don’t know you, it’s true. The only thing I know about you is that you’re brave: you saved Lina.”

Bob sighs, but yesterday's events flash before his eyes like out–of–focus photographs, except for one.

“Yeah, I don’t remember that part well, or that I’ve ever been brave. It’s just dirt, trees, and then your face.”

You tilt your head, curious, but decide to ignore that last part.

“Still, you didn’t run.”

“I guess not.” He smiles, so fleeting that it is almost imperceptible, as if it had never happened—but the confidence in your words, the certainty in them, they settle in his chest, powerful enough to push up the corners of his lips for that second. “Which is funny because that’s my thing: running away.”

His heartbeat slows; you can feel it in yours.

Your walk is calm, never threatening, and his gaze is fixed on you the entire way, half surprised, but half dreamy, and it is as if the blue of his eyes were the paradise you always wanted to have even after your atrocious past, knowing it would never come, because that was your punishment: wishing for it to happen even though you know it never would.

You hand him the cup, and Bob takes it, the tips of his fingers sliding over yours until only his hands cling to the warmth of the hot drink.

“I’m… I’m Bob.” He stammers, as if your closeness has awakened a desire to be known, to be seen, only by you. “Just Bob.”

You nod, softly, not responding to his name with yours.

“Can I ask what you were doing in the forest?”

He nods back, automatically.

“I was running away… from something I agreed to and wasn’t ready for.” You wait, and Bob, without any difficulty, continues. “There’s something, a program a man told me about. The Sentry Project. He told me they could help me, and I signed up because I wanted to be better, you know? less broken.”

You swallow, but you sense the direction his story is going.

“So?”

Bob shrugs casually, as if what follows is meaningless.

“Turns out... injecting a super serum into someone with unresolved trauma might not be the best idea.” Again, Bob cracks a hollow sound, trying to laugh at himself, but you can see between the layers of his joke, the pain beneath that he apparently had a habit of masking with humor. “They said it might give me powers, something new, something that would make me feel better. But really? If I had powers?” He taps his temple. “This mess right here would probably turn the entire planet to dust.”

But unlike him, unlike his attempt to ease the pain with a fake laugh, you can't find it laughable, not when there's already a mocking sound, coming from a man you used to know, right in the back of your mind. Uncomfortably, you look down at your hands, taking a step back as the memories try to pile up inside you. And Bob notices it—the way you want to walk away, from him—and the senseless pain that it causes him.

“Hey. I'm joking. Please, don't go.” He says quickly, and he stops his hand move, the instinct to want to stop you. “I mean, sort of. I'm not that unstable.”

You can see it clearly, his desperate desire to be cured, to be fixed, to fix something that someone else surely broke inside him, so badly that he would do anything for it, doing something he will surely regret later, so your words almost cut through his with the tone of an order, speaking almost above him impatiently.

“Don't let them do that to you.”

Bob blinks.

“Do what?”

You raise a hand, not looking directly at him, palm up, as you concentrate all your power in a single point, always behind the line of your orders, preventing it all from spilling over. And then... a soft golden light blooms above it, weightless, flickering like a heatless flame. It dances gently in the air, as if held by an invisible string, pulsing with the life you gave it.

Until you extinguish it, fingers closing around it, as if it had been carried away by the breeze, or as if it had never been there.

Bob stares, even after there's nothing there anymore. And in the seconds that follow, his blank mind fails to formulate anything coherent, anything that makes sense when that force in your hand and the light seemed like a fairy tale, something impossible, a myth, something extinct, something just impossible. The world seems to stop around him, impacting him devastatingly and, at the same time, giving him finally a chance to breathe. For a long second, he's stunned, his mind refusing to accept it was real because his head and his lying eyes had created kernels of traitorous illusions before…

Yet the memories of your touch on his skin still burned with absolute truth.

Bob had lived with the weight of being different, of feeling broken and wrong in ways no one else seemed to understand. But now, there with you, he felt that difference in you from the moment his eyes met yours, making you a unique being, and for the first time, the word special didn't feel like a punishment at all.

“Wow. That's great...” Bob chokes back his next words, pressing his lips together, swallowing the lump in his throat caused by the frown on your face. His frantic heart awakes again in a rush, taking his breath away the moment he notices the offense in your gaze, and he tries to fix his mistake, not so gracefully. “No, sorry! I mean, it's great to know I'm not the weird one here.”

You roll your eyes, but there's a gentle smile on your face when you hear him laugh softly, without cruel mockery because he didn't seem to have been created to be cruel, feeling the corners of your lips curling up.

And Bob stares, a second longer than he should.

“Don't flatter yourself: you are weird, I'm just beating you with this thing in me.” He chuckles of your words, relieved this time, nervous as you take the seat next to him. “But you're not the only one who thinks powers, in us, is a huge mistake.”

Bob looks at you subtly, silently, his mind in turmoil. He's just seen you create light (when all he was was darkness) and although he should be amazed, all he feels is a pang in his chest. His own scarred past whispers to him that no one obtains such power without paying a high price. And when he looks at you—so kind—it pains him to imagine you subjugated, turned into just an object others could use.

However, Bob has to ask because just maybe, you were also on the edge of the cliff, about to fall, and someone offered you wings to avoid perishing on the ground—and maybe, you had accepted in an act of desperation.

“Did you choose it?”

You shake your head.

“No, I didn't choose it. It happened when someone tried to cure something in me and broke everything else.”

The silence lingers, but it's not dense now, rather shared, understood between two souls that seemed united by a similar tragedy.

And although his soul was shattered, a part of Bob's mind still clung, with the little strength of his fighting spirit that hadn't been completely defeated (even though his head convinced him that there was nothing left of him), to the belief that one day he would be okay again.

He had walked through life with that silent conviction, but carrying the weight of past betrayals like shadows sewn to his heels. Every wound had taught him that trust was dangerous, something fragile, easily broken by careless hands eager to break. And yet, deep in the silence of his solitude, a tenacious hope still fluttered, refusing to let itself be extinguished forever: a longing to believe that one day someone would arrive, who would see his heart not as a battlefield, but as a home. Although every lesson had urged him to always remain on guard, to remain alone where he was safe, something in him refused to die.

Perhaps someone would arrive to guide his way, too.

Life had beaten him to convince him that it would never happen, and yet, he longed for it. Bob longed to see the golden light of day in his life again, to feel worthy of living. And suddenly, that peace is golden like your powers, like the light that filters through the cracks of your past to shine on him, so he can finally be seen, so he can be someone.

“Do you have the feeling that...?” You say slowly, buying time to gather your scattered thoughts.

But it's he who finishes your sentence.

“I'm like a memory that hasn't happened yet, right?” You looked up, soft eyes meeting his. “That's how I feel about you, too. You sitting here makes me feel that.”

You don't say anything, you don't know what is the right answer. Outside, the forest continues to sing, but inside, the heat seems to enter through the window, so stifling it clouds your clear vision.

You look away, and Bob's expression falls with sadness, with guilt, so slowly it hurts all the places inside him.

“I'm sorry... I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.” He looks away too, feeling in an instant those old, cruel words inhabiting his mind one more time, so heavy they force his gaze downward, squeezing his chest so painfully that his voice comes out in a constricting whisper. “I'm sorry. I always say the wrong things… it's like I always do things wrong, you know? I always make things worse than they already are.”

You frown when his violent sincerity hits you hard, because he believes that, he truly does.

“No you don't, Bob, I promise. It's me, I'm the one that don’t let people in, not anymore, at least. It’s easier that way.”

He nods gently, looking back at you, half believing you, half believing his mind too.

“Clever. People are exhausting.”

“Yeah.” You chuckle. “Like someone I'm getting to know.”

You’re teasing him, affectionately as if you knew him and without malice, and Bob laughs, a sound short but real.

But it’s comforting what you can see in his eyes—in the way his gaze remains sincere, almost innocent—how Bob had filed down the sharp, cutting edges of his broken heart so no one would get hurt in there, just in case someone dared to be brave and make that place a home, because from inside, the door always seemed open, always eager to welcome others, even when a part of him always seemed to be on guard, expecting the worst. Always considerate of others, even when the rest weren’t so considerate of him.

“Can I…?”

Bob doesn't finish the sentence, hoping you know what he wants without having to say it, completely unable to ask.

“No.”

He blinks.

“No?”

Your gaze deepens a little, on him, on the pieces of yesterday falling into place right now. What lived inside him was what shattered the peace of the forest, not him. And that is a relief, and at the same time, a sign to be careful.

“You have a shadow that haunts you, you know that, don't you?”

He nods.

“It doesn't haunt me. It's inside me.”

You weigh his words, your mind silently deciding whether mixing his past with the future of the village is right or wrong.

“Does it make you dangerous? Are you dangerous?”

“I can be, but I don't want to be.” His answer is low and harsh, but sincere, painfully so.

“Did they do something to you when you were there?”

Bob shakes his head.

“No. They took blood samples, but I left before the treatment began.”

You nod slowly, searching his face for something—a lie, a crack, a flicker of darkness—but you find nothing, for now.

Finally, you sigh, standing up.

“You can stay.”

“With you?”

His slightly overenthusiastic voice makes you frown, stopping you, and it makes him lean back with a nervous smile on his lips, gaze avoiding direct eye contact.

“Sorry.”

You chuckle, shaking your head gently.

“You can stay here in the village.”

Bob holds your gaze, startled for several reasons.

“But I said—”

“I know, but people with shadows need to go out and see the sun. And they need someone to hold the door open for them when they’re ready to come back in.”

Bob is silent for a moment, then he chuckles softly.

“I like your poetic riddles.”

You roll your eyes.

“I’ve lived with the healer of this village for too long. It’s contagious.”

Bob smiles, nervously, but after a long time, something inside him glimmers with hope, colorful.

“Keeping me here is a bad decision.”

“Guess we match then.” You shrug for a second, but the next one, your voice turns serious, as gruff as your intention to make it clear that the people’s safety was paramount to you. “But if you do something that endangers the people here... you'll stop being afraid of that thing inside you to be afraid of me instead.”

With that, you walk out the door, the warm daylight now filtering through the window behind him, following your path, leaving Bob alone with the light shining down on him too, like a divine sign. And something, somewhere inside him, whispers for the first time with affection, without hatred or mockery: “You are now part of her story.”

Bob smiles (not nervous for the first time, without doing it as a defense mechanism) as if he has a piece of peace after being in a constant state of pain or anguish, just slightly after having forgotten how to do so, but feeling the silence finally like a friend, feeling what he hasn't had in a long time: the feeling that maybe... he wasn't doomed to live in the darkness forever.

This is the end of this chapter, and if you made it this far, thank u very much 🫶🏼💕

[sailingintothenight]

“WHERE THE SHADOWS MEET THE LIGHT.”

Synopsis.

Bob longs to find peace in the chaos of his own mind, to silence the voice that whispers cruel lies that he began to believe since he was a child. And always wandering, feeling numb (because it's better to feel nothing than to feel everything and burn the world in its wake), Bob clings to the promise that an experiment in Malaysia will fulfill his most fervent wish: just to be normal, just to be okay…

Only to run away, again.

After the Blip, you continue walking with the pain of an event that made you live and kill on your shoulders, but trying to keep your light shining, more intense when the shadows lurk. You help a village, trying to give your second chance a purpose, and one day, you meet him: just Bob, who is lost and fragile, but powerful and dangerous at the same time.

You feel it: inside him, there's a sleeping void that speaks in whispers, hidden in the dark. For the other, you feel like deja vu of something that never happened… yet, like an unexperienced memory trying to happen at any cost. But for the first time, Bob finds a person who wants to stay by his side, even when his mind and world becomes unstable. Not with pity, offering a calm he so desperately sought. And together, you two learn to grow like roots, sowing proof of an endless love.

When Sentry and the Void rise and Bob is stuck in the middle, his blurred mind still remembers fragments of you, of the starry nights outside your cabin, the echo of your voice speaking only truths and the unbreakable promises.

Between a colorful village and a city that never sleeps, Bob finally fights against his own darkness to shine by himself and be who he always wanted to be, because now, standing there where the shadows meet the light, he knows which way to lean.

Bob Reynolds x ex–avenger!female!reader

(platonic!Bucky Barnes x platonic!female!reader)

Hi! Yeah... I'm aiming too high with this story, haha 😅 I know I'm new here and I've only written a couple of Bob stories, but this was on my mind since I saw the movie. Anyway, I hope you like this. That’s it: thank you very much in advance! 🫶🏼💕

[sailingintothenight]

“The only one.” Bob Reynolds.

Between the intimate night and the bright morning, yours and Bob’s conversation go from random to deep words that you'll always carry in your heart—while in his, Bob knows you'll always be the only one.

A/N: I had to briefly mention Rhett here somehow because I watched Outer Range when it first came out and I still think Lewis deserved more screen time, or for the show to be solely about him lol. Well, as always, I hope you like this. Thank you!

Warnings: Vague mention of Bob's scars, his past, but nothing detailed. Just a short imagine of about 2,7k words.

2:15 a.m.

Night has finally put the world on pause, silencing the blaring sounds of horns in a chaotic city, bringing with it only the distant whir of a couple of cars still traversing the road on their way home, replacing the sun with the moon, its light spilling onto your bedroom floor through your partially open curtains. Across the place, behind you but a little far away, the lights hanging around your wall shine (at their lowest setting) with a faint golden color in the darkness, making you glow in an almost heavenly way, like something angelic fallen from the sky to find its way towards him—at least that's how Bob sees you.

Your bedroom always felt like entering a new world, a good one, a perfect one. Meeting you, for Bob, felt like entering that world, like crossing the gates of heaven. Tonight, like every night, you're like the melody of a lullaby that helps him sleep, bringing peace to his chaotic mind, with legs touching and sometimes hands resting on each other's, a warm reminder that you're real when the tiredness of the day finally overcame him and everything disappeared, only to see you again behind his closed eyes.

By day, you were the light of his sky.

It was everything about you that brought peace to Bob's life and that he loved deeply: your laugh that sounded like hope, the way your eyes smiled first, a second away before your lips did, and the simplest, somewhat random conversations with you that turned into fervent wishes (or perhaps plans for a future together, that sounded better) that maybe, in a near future, would come true.

“We should live in a cabin somewhere far away from here…” With a deep concentration in his relaxed expression, his gaze returns to you, bright as a star. “We would wake up slowly, and we could drink freshly brewed coffee on the porch of our house with you in my arms. Just let the world be silent for a while.”

“That’s sounds perfect.” Your cheek is still warm with it against your pillow, laying down on your stomach, and you smile softly, your hand in a loose fist near your lips as a habit of yours. “I can totally see you as a cowboy, you know?”

Bob laughs softly at your words, a low but honest sound, and lying on his side with his arm under his own pillow, his hand under your shirt continues to slide up and down the arch of your back, sometimes tracing shapes on your skin.

“Aren't you reading a book about that? The rebellious cowboy who falls for the single mother who just arrived in town?”

The mocking tone in his voice isn't lost on you.

“For your information, Rhett is charming, and he's not rebellious, he’s just misunderstood.”

Bob narrows his eyes, a little sarcastically.

“He calls the woman's daughter little terrorist.”

You shrug.

“She kind of is, though.”

He laughs again, amused, but Bob is waiting for you to finish the book so he can read it too, and see why it makes you smile so much. For a short while, the silence lingers without discomfort between the two of you, just two bodies lying in each other's company because there was no longer any need to be alone anymore, until you speak again.

“Tell me something you haven't told anyone, something you haven’t told me.”

Bob blinks, silently taking a ragged breath.

“That's a rather dangerous request at 2 in the morning.”

You chuckle.

“I'm not going to tell anyone. You can trust me.”

He knows he can, he's done it before: he does it every day.

“Well...” Trusting you like he's never been able to trust anyone before was so easy for him, but when Bob speaks, his voice is a little lower than before. “When I was a kid and my parents were arguing, I promised myself that when I found you, I'd never be like them. I promised I would love you properly.”

Although exposed, with nowhere to hide your emotions suddenly awake at such a late hour, you remain calm, even though your heart began to beat at a different pace, faster upon hearing him say when, not if, because maybe, just maybe, the one thing Bob never doubted, or didn't let his mind convince him otherwise, was that one day he would find you. He had never felt what love was, and yet Bob knew what it must be like. He longed to show it to you.

Your fist still covers part of your nervous smile, but nothing stands between the sparkle in your eyes that his words created and the one Bob watches with joy, still somewhat nervous, too.

“At first, I used to imagine this girl who wouldn't back down if I was too quiet, or who wouldn't look at me like a crazy person if I said things that didn't always make sense. She'd just listen, even if she didn't always know what to say, or she would just sit with me.” His gaze lowers a little, nowhere in particular, but as if Bob needed to focus somewhere to say the right words in his mind. “I know it wouldn't have been fair of me to ask her to stay when everything was so ugly, but maybe, with someone by my side, things wouldn't have been so bad, maybe I wouldn't have fallen so deep.”

You respect the silence that follows, that brief moment Bob needs to gather his thoughts, short seconds that end when his gaze returns to you.

“I wish I could have found you sooner, you know?” His warm hand leaves your back, only to search for the skin of your cheek until he finds it, slightly calloused fingers resting on you, his thumb moving so gently that you feel nothing but his love. “But the day you showed up, I realized the wait was finally worth it cause you were exactly how I imagined you. So kind, so patient, so beautiful. A little angel with the perfect amount of sarcasm.”

Even through the tiny sound of your nervous breathing, your hand clutches his, searching for something to hold onto when sadness threatens to spill over in the form of a tear. His past had turned into scars crisscrossing parts of his golden skin, and yet, it didn’t surprise you how caring Bob could be, how he’d learned to be so even when no one had been caring to him.

“Are you zoning out, honey?”

His mocking voice brings you back to the present, noticing that you, too, had shifted your gaze away from him to reflect a bit. Now, however, his mocking (but never cruel) smile makes you frown as you hit his arm, so lightly that Bob doesn't feel anything at all, but it makes him pull away with a laugh, only a couple of seconds away before his clingy hand returns to search for some part of your body to cling to: your back again.

Velcro boyfriend, that's what Lena calls him.

“That's my thing, you know?” He’s teasing you, but at the same time, a peaceful happiness suddenly floods him, and it's big but gentle, like waves on the shore as Bob pulls you up toward him. “If you steal it from me, I have nothing to contribute to this relationship.”

You chuckle, but you also feel full with peace and happiness, as if they fill every space in your body until you forget that you felt so empty before, too.

“For your information: the way you dissociate and make witty comments as you call them are your only contributions to this relationship.”

Bob smiles, letting out another chuckle.

“I practically heard you say I’m hilarious and, according to you, a little sweet from time to time, so I'm the complete package. Very hard to find.”

Underneath his arm that crosses to your body, you slide yours until it meets the warmth of his face, your fingertips caressing his cheek and the side of his chin.

“Somewhat unbearable from time to time I would say, but you’re wrong: it wouldn't be hard, it would be impossible to find another you.”

His smile remains, but somehow, it becomes only peaceful when Bob realizes that he has everything in the world right there with him. You are his whole world, the only thing that mattered, the only thing that made sense, protected in his arms, giving you that feeling of protection he desperately wanted to give you and that no one else could. And suddenly, the euphoria of his desire to be for you what you were for him had finally faded when Bob knew that he too was irreplaceable in your life, that you had chosen to stay with him even without saying it out loud. Because it was your eyes that spoke for you, as clear as the stars in the dark sky of his gaze. The emotional roller coaster had finally come to an end, and now, it’s just calm the moment Bob knew his soul is fused with yours.

There, Bob pulls you a little closer, bodies meeting completely this time, his leg finding the space between yours, and somehow, he buries his face between yours and the pillow, eyes closed and unafraid of the dark. His arm holds you against him, firm (until Bob falls asleep and his grip loses strength), but it never feels like a prison or a cage, but rather like a small nest, a small home.

“You are the only one that keeps me grounded, honey. The only one that makes me feel like Bob, not the other parts of me. With you here, they can't frighten me.”

It was beautiful how love felt next to Bob, in the way he made you smile so easily, but also in the way he could make you breathe out a peaceful sigh because nothing else existed in that little world created for just the two of you. It was a unique kind of love that made you see things more colorful, as if the clouds seemed fluffier, resting in a daytime sky painted in watercolors. Or maybe it was that the lonely times were gone forever and a better one had arrived to exist for the rest of your life together, that finally the flames of his mental hell had been extinguished and Bob was no longer trapped in the middle.

And when you hold on to him too, you know that the rest, what will come tomorrow or in a more distant time, can wait for now.

“Then stay here with me. You can be just Bob with me. Just be mine.”

Bob exhales, relaxing his body completely, his mind following suit as sleep begins to take over.

“I’m all yours, completely. I will always be yours.”

For the rest of the night (and for the rest of his life and yours), your words and his linger in each other's hearts, floating in the warm air as if hanging from an invisible thread. And just before morning arrives, long minutes before the dawn breaks the darkness of the dark sky, Bob, still somewhat sleepy, his mind halfway awake, takes some time for himself when you are there but you're not present, because sometimes, your lively gaze on his made him feel weak too (in a good way), as if your true superpowers were making him nervous, and at the same time, making him feel human, a real person, and not like a failed experiment or just a guy struggling with a mental illness.

Your hand is again a loose fist against your face, a habit that makes him chuckle before Bob gently pulls away, only to put a finger under your nose, just to check that you're still breathing. Yes, there you are, real, the one responsible for making his fractured world whole again, breaking that silence that used to drive him crazy, painting with color that place that used to be pitch black.

Bob wouldn't trade these awakenings for anything, peaceful moments where he can admire you with a calm smile, all the way until you start to wake up too.

“Have I told you that sometimes you talk in your sleep?”

You bury your face in your pillow, letting out a slight groan.

“I don't.”

“Oh, but you do. Sometimes you have entire conversations with yourself where you ask yourself questions and you answer them. I don't know why Val pays a therapist for the team when we have you.”

You frown in confusion, mingling it with your own amusement as you turn your face to look at him through half–closed eyes.

“You're making that up, you liar.”

Bob chuckles.

“Do you want to know what you said last night?”

“No.”

“Too bad.” Bob shrugs, ready to continue the mockery as dawn finally begins to break. “At some point during the night you turned to me to take my arm not too kind before saying, ‘The dragon just stole your wallet.’ Which was kind of terrifying because the only important thing I have in my wallet is a picture of you.”

You snort a laugh that comes out without permission, surprised you’ve just learned he has a picture of you that he carried with him the few times you two went out.

“Is that true?”

“About your picture or about the dragon? Because both are true.” Bob nods solemnly, feigning absolute seriousness for a moment. “But it felt like a life–or–death situation considering I was half asleep.”

“And you answered me?”

“Always. ‘Thank you, brave knight.’ I said, and then all I had to do was scratch your back and in a second you were fast asleep again. But it was adorable, you know? Like, I was halfway convinced we were in some weird medieval dream together. I was even about to go grab my Dungeons and Dragons game in case you challenged me to a duel.”

You narrow your eyes.

“You don’t have a D&D game.”

Bob sighs.

“I know; the Amazon people are taking a long time with my order.”

You chuckle.

“Well, I kinda saved you from that dragon. As I see it, you should thank me for keep you safe.”

Bob chuckles, playfully.

“And I am eternally grateful, my lady. For rescuing me, and for declaring your most deep and honest love for waffles in your sleep.”

“Oh, God.” You whine. “Did I say that too?”

“Yes, you did. You said—and I quote—If he brings me waffles, I’ll marry him. I honestly don’t know exactly who he is, if you were talking about me or the dragon, but it gave me a very clear mission. I’m gonna start keeping an emergency waffle stash just in case you try to propose to the delivery guy that brings the breakfast to the team from time to time.”

You chuckle again.

“Well, that guy is pretty cute, you know?”

Bob smiles, letting out a laugh as he leans in close to you, voice lower, load with the usual teasing from his part.

“So all this time… all I needed was waffles to win your heart for real?”

You smile, brushing that piece of hair out of his face, that untamable curl that sometimes covers part of his vision.

“You need the waffles, and to look at me like I hung the moon in your sky. That helps too. Guess I don’t ask much, do I?”

Suddenly, a little softer, Bob’s eyes get that warm twinkle.

“You do hang the moon in the sky of my life, honey. And occasionally fight off dragon–wallet thieves in your sleep just to keep me safe: that’s why I love you so much.”

You laugh, a short, somewhat sharp sound as he and his words catch you off guard.

“You’re ridiculous.”

But Bob, still smiling, kiss your temple before pulling away a little bit.

“Only for you, my brave lady.” But he lingers there for a moment that feels like an eternity, something beautiful frozen in time, until after a beat, he’s playful again. “But seriously… if I brought waffles right now, would I get a ring or what? We need something to bind you to me forever before Ryan the–cute–delivery–guy steals you away from me with his fancy breakfast.”

You laugh, content, so full and just at peace, before closing your eyes to sleep a little longer.

“Bring the waffles and I'll make you a paper ring right now, Reynolds.”

[sailingintothenight]

“Light of my life.” Bob Reynolds.

You and Bob must pretend to be a married couple at a millionaire's party to complete a mission. The instructions: hand over the USB flash drive (with a virus inside), maybe say how many years you've been married, and get out of there. It's easy, but between Yelena's voice in Bob's ear telling him where to put his hands on you, Walker's mocking voice encouraging you to respond, and a confidence that Bob has cultivated within himself all this time, it's still easy, right?

A/N: The dress is just to give an idea of ​​what you're wearing, but feel free to imagine it differently, of course. The reader's skin color is never mentioned, nor is anything too specific about your body. And yes, it's Miss Jennie from Blackpink. Again, I'm using the image for the dress, not the body. I think this imagine came out kinda funny hehe, I hope you like it. The Bob here is a bit confident, although it still feels weird writing him that way. If I forgot to add something more, sorry!

Warning: none(?) But words in bold/italics are the voices of Yelena and Walker.

“Make eye contact, Bob, touch only appropriate places—waist, hands, face—and keep a goofy smile whenever you look at your wife because you do love her. Remember, loving husband.”

Bob sighs, a little tired of hearing the same instructions, again.

The lobby of the luxurious hotel really looks like something out of a fairy tale—green plants, brown ceilings and doors, vintage furniture like a picture from the last century—but everything is just a backdrop created to highlight you.

Everything around is lifeless, except for you. You look like part of that aesthetic, but standing out at the same time.

When the night has swallowed the sun and everything shines with artificial lights, Bob takes a look at you in the distance and steals the image to keep it in his memory forever (even when he knows you are the only thing no one could erase from his mind). But this time, he's unapologetic in the way he looks you up and down, admiring the short ethereal blue dress you're wearing now, a delicate and subtly striking color like the captivating beauty of the daytime sky that always catches people's eyes and that they immortalize in photographs. Tight enough at the top and bottom, defining every curve of you, turning you into a lethal weapon, ready to kill in any way you want. And Bob smiles, softly but confident through his nervousness, because you're such a perfect sight before his beautiful eyes that seemed to reflect only you.

You look dangerous (in a way, you are because of your powers) but you are such an angel with that peaceful light on you, tender eyes full of life, and yet, Bob never stopped wondering what it would feel like to kiss that angel's sinful lips, ever since he met you. It was your light Bob fell for, and the way you wouldn't let the shadows of your past enter that sacred circle, you protecting it bravely and calmly, but never in a hurry.

“You ready, honey?”

Even through the layers of clothing, the blue on you, and the black of his suit, the arm Bob snakes around your waist burns your skin like the sun on the hottest day of your life, his hand gentle but firm, so determined in his actions, without a nervous tremor, and you can almost feel his fake wedding ring on your flesh, playing the role of your beloved husband so perfectly that you knew that everyone would be in tears hearing the story of your first meeting and your eternal love.

His touch stirs the nervous tingle in your tight stomach and in your heart, yet at the same time, his protectiveness gives you peace, because Bob feels like your home, as if his body surrounding you was a refuge to block out all the bad from the outside. His hand on your body is supposed to make you feel nothing in the inside, but it does, because he makes you feel everything.

“This way please, Mr. and Mrs. Daniels.”

The manager of the hotel guides you and him down the aisle, clay–colored tiles complementing the entrance of one of the most exclusive places in New York City.

Your black boots carry you calmly, steps confident as Bob keeps you by his side, steady, keeping pace with you. He’s tall, impeccable in a black suit that seemed perfect for his physique, monochromatic with his white shirt, and his golden skin seems to glow. His usually unruly hair is slicked back, except for that single untamed strand that now frames one side of his contoured and handsome face, as if life or God had taken its sweet time carving him to make him look perfect.

The plan is to look intimate, in sync and harmony.

Perhaps it was an imperceptible glimmer of the Sentry, Bob's own confidence built over time with the support of his (sometimes) dysfunctional family, or the therapy, or maybe it was a mixture of everything what makes Bob walk now, tall and strong, just confident. He keeps his head high, his ocean–colored gaze does not waver, and there is a tiny hint of intimidation coming from his eyes and toward the fleeting glances from people around that stop on you, but the strangers can feel Bob’s entire aura spreading out like a calm but deathly ocean, so they look away.

The pairing between you hadn't been accidental.

Bob's fresh, youthful, and even nerdy appearance was the perfect mask for the role of the young creator—a visionary and talented innovator—of an innocent but powerful app for controlling military and nuclear weapons with catastrophic results if they fell into the wrong hands. And Jeffrey C. Durand wanted that more than anything, so much that he wouldn't mind dancing on the bodies that would perish along the way if it guaranteed him more power, more control, and more money.

A touch of expressive aggression: the men in the tower had it in them at first glance, too obvious sometimes, but Bob's was subtle, almost nonexistent to the human eye until someone lit a spark. Bucky and John's faces—not counting Alexei, who was just a little bit adorable, but too old for the mission—could be threatening for no reason, their expressive aggression capable of burning the world down without needing a fire to light the fuse, so totally inappropriate for a plan like this.

Jeffrey Durand was charming, with a sweet smile that masked his heartless chest, so attractive and dangerous like a lion behind a cage, and like any predator, he needed his prey submissive, or rather terrified of him—he wanted someone defenseless, easy to manipulate at will. But Jeffrey was just another fool who underestimated the power inside Bob.

Now, the doors of the steel cage open in front of the two of you, and the manager steps aside to let you in first, his hand extended to guide the way for the party's most important guests.

“Have a lovely evening, Mr. and Mrs. Daniels.”

The man smiles, pressing button 40 on the side wall, and when the doors close again, your bodies relax, but still so close to each other you can feel the heat radiating from Bob.

“Gross.” John was having a little too much fun, speaking quietly into the intercom in your ear. “Although I could have done a better job as your husband than Bob, darling.”

Bob clears his throat, ignoring his own teaser whispering to him. Yelena.

“You remember our history, don’t you, honey?”

You nod, breathing calmly, though his hand hasn’t moved an inch.

“Yeah. We’ve been married for six years. No kids, but we have a dog who’s like our baby. We met right after college and have been together ever since. Pretty romantic.”

“Quite a love story.” Bob smiles, reserving a little happiness for himself only as his voice drops, just a little. “But it could be our story.”

"Bob, I can hear you clearly, so don't act too weird, okay?” Yelena's voice crackles through his own earpiece, with a knack for sounding both expressionless and mocking at the same time. “Just remember: loving husband. A lot of eye contact, touch only appropriate places, and keep always a goofy smile whenever you see your wife, but don't get all gloomy, the weather's bad enough today.”

Bob frowns.

“What do you mean?”

You glance over at him, even though you know each of you is having your own conversation with your guides, so Bob just shrugs.

“Nothing, lover boy, relax. Just act like you love her… a job that won't be too difficult.”

Bob sighs, letting go of any doubts as the number 40 finally appears in red above the metallic doors, accompanied by a ding, before announcing your and his arrival at the party. The fresh air from the terrace caresses your face at that height (and every bit of skin exposed) and as you two step outside, a symphony of violin music is released, a harmonious sound that marches to the rhythm of the refined laughter of important people, with the murmur of glasses clinking to celebrate their status and their unbridled, almost maniacal joy—always hidden of course—from always being on top, feeling untouchable.

“Is there anyone besides Durand we should be wary of?” You ask, filling the silence.

“No one to fear. But maybe just the man at the bar who’s staring at you too much.” Durand’s bodyguard, you know him from the file. Bob’s brow furrows, his more gentlemanly side coming out, offended and deeply disgusted by the way you were being used as an object to slake a disgusting thirst, but he tries to play it cool, so hard his body seems to vibrate. “I think I should unleash the beast just a little bit and defend my wife from lustful glances. Just give me the order, honey. Anything for you.”

“Release the beast AFTER you hand over the USB, Bob.” Yelena grunts, a sound of frustration.

You chuckle, hiding your distaste for being objectified, and in response, you seek refuge with him, lovingly, but if you try to move a little closer, you would merge your body with his as if you two were one. Bob chuckles beneath his breath, a low sound that drifts in the wind, but he uses his arm to hold you against him, just a little more tighter, pressing his face into your hair and breathing in the scent of your shampoo to calm himself when the show is about to begin.

Only he can do that, and he loves that—only he can have the privilege of being in a place no one else had access to: being next to you, that close, making you feel protected. Finally, Bob was beginning to burn a word into his head, one that his fears and insecurities (his depression and the personalities that materialized from that illness) had taken from him since he was just a child: worthy, worthy of feeling great, beautiful things, worthy of being next to the person he loves.

“The target’s coming this way.” You murmur and Bob straightens, shoulders firm, body alert but relaxed.

Wrapped in a white suit that gleams expensive even in the dull weather, Durand approaches you two with open arms as a sign of a warm welcome, holding a glass of whiskey in a hand that held several rings. His walking is elegant, like a lion, gracefully, with the kind of smile of a man who was used to always winning, masking his perversity and even sadistic soul, according to rumors.

“Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, I’m so glad you could join us for my little party.” There it was, the false modesty, but Bob takes the hand Jeffrey offers anyway. However, the host of the party squeezes it a little harder to make his dominance clear, oblivious to Bob’s real strength. And Bob shows a tiny smile, calm and about to break the host’s fingers, but he lets them go. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Robert. And thank you for feasting our eyes on your wife’s beauty.”

You were the contingency plan, just in case something went wrong. But never losing his charm or sinking too deeply into his own lust, Durand smiles acting innocent and Bob mimic his action with a calm rhythm, though inwardly, the idea of ​​grabbing him by the neck is more tempting now.

“Please don’t look at my wife for too long, Jeffrey, or I’ll have to hurt you really bad.” Bob chuckles.

And there is a bit of aggressiveness in the joke, just the right touch to make Jeffrey laugh to hide the pang of his awakening concern, the survival instinct that tells him Bob isn’t entirely joking, but one that comes and goes instantly when your husband relaxes, as if it were all a sophisticated joke by powerful people, those who thought money made them invincible, untouchable if they harmed others without regard.

“But tell me, please, how long have you been together?”

“6 years.” You say, at the same time Bob speaks.

“10 years.”

Durand frowns, confused, as the two of you stare at each other for a moment.

“What?!” Yelena's voice fills the void, followed by Walker's murmur, full of annoyance.

“Oh God. We're dead.”

“No, sorry.” Bob laughs, a little nervous, but he hides his fear perfectly with a peaceful, almost cheesy expression as he follows Yelena's advice, looking at you with so much love that he seems unable to think straight. “We've been together for 10 years but officially married for 6.”

Durand smiles again, unsuspecting anything.

“Children?”

Bob smiles back, a new kind of smile, one he discovers for the first time in that second, but trying not to overdo it as the idea of ​​starting a real family, one he would know how to protect with his own life, threatens to pull the corners of his mouth too much and make him smile a little more than necessary.

“Not yet. We still want to continue loving each other a little longer before sharing that love with our first baby.”

The man in front of you smiles, enchanted by Bob's convincing voice professing his love for you and now for a nonexistent baby, and uncontrollably, as if it has a mind of its own, you could feel in your heart that absurd happiness at something you knew wasn't going to happen. You didn't even know if you wanted children, and there you are now, smiling to make this fantasy story more believable, but one that you knew, if it came true, would be a beautiful one to live in.

“I love that thought. And after so many years together, you two seem just as in love as you were the first day, I see it. How lucky you both are to have found each other.” Jeffrey nods, taking in all the information with joy. “But let’s talk business later, okay? Now, please enjoy the party.”

His important persona is called from the other side of the venue, and he leaves with the sole mission of entertaining his other guests. Bob lets out a sigh, a second before his arm slides off of your waistline, his playful fingers feeling the thin fabric of your dress all the way.

“Acting in love with you is so easy that, if he kept asking, I could have written him a whole book about our life together.” Bob chuckles, his nervousness cutting short his courage when his words leave his mind and now belong to the wind, only for a millisecond when he composes himself and his hand catches yours. “Will you dance with me, honey?”

He leads you to the dance floor, people moving to a slow rhythm around.

“You don’t dance.”

With a nervous thump that shakes his heart and a little laugh that he lets out, Bob presses you against him, respecting your boundaries but closing the space between you two, his hands on your waist as yours rest on his shoulders.

With nowhere else to look, his deep gaze and yours hold each other in pure love, even when sometimes the shadows wanted to attack, but your hearts are now smiling with a new kind of happiness that spoke volumes in the silence—and even if there are people listening on the other side, everywhere, you dare to speak.

“Did you ever want all that? I don’t know, maybe you picture yourself in a marriage and a life with another person.” You shrug, a little on the verge of fear of an unflattering response—even if you’re not quite sure what kind of response you’re looking for exactly. “I know life has been so unfair to you, but…”

But you're surprised by the way Bob smiles softly, with a certain peace, even though the past and the experiences are still present, but with him learning not to let them continue to hurt him and leaving him as a passive spectator, unable to protect himself and the future he really wanted to have—only with you—and it's as if he could dive into a new kind of ocean, an oasis that promised only happiness if he could ever make all those crazy dreams come true with you.

Once again, only with you. Because Bob couldn't see himself taking that step with someone else. If not, it was better to be alone.

“For some nights, I did think about it…” There's a chuckle from him, a sound that hides a certain melancholy. “I… I convinced myself that no one would love me and the broken parts, all of me, the good, the bad, the ugly. And that it would be selfish of me to expose anyone to all of that, too. But as a very smart girl once told me: I'm not a bad person, I'm just a person who went through bad things, so now I'm just trying to be okay so I'm worthy of you.”

“Damn, Bob.” Yelena raises her eyebrows, surprised but proud. “I didn’t think you were so straightforward.”

“Bob kicked the ball into your court, darling.” John laughs, but he's unable to hide his own surprise. “What will you do now?”

“I hate you.”

“What?”

Bob’s face transforms into an expression of true pain, sadness in his innocent eyes, his eyebrows furrowing in fear, forgetting for a second that you and he aren’t alone.

“No, no, that was for Walker.” Your right hand slides from his shoulder to his arm, squeezing him gently so he’ll believe your words, but now, you can no longer sustain the deep friendship you’d formed with him. It hurt being just a friend, but having that was better than not having someone like Bob in your life—so cute, sweet and funny. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you so… brave to say what you actually feel.”

Bob chuckles.

“Walker gave me a sip of alcohol.”

“What?!” With eyes slightly widening in surprise, you are wordlessly as Walker’s desperation nearly ruptures your eardrum.

“No! I did not! Yelena, I swear to God I didn’t do it!”

At that moment, Bob laughs for real—not loud, not raucous—real and calm like his life since he started finding the balance so his emotions wouldn't spill over dangerously, and his eyes crinkle adorably.

“I'm joking, Lena. Walker deserved it, tho.” Bob nods at the small earpiece in you, knowing John will hear it, but not caring at all about the confrontation that awaits him at home after that. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to corner you like that with my feelings, but I think I'm tired of just hiding everything I feel, y'know? Especially since the things I feel for you aren't bad at all.”

You nod slowly, taking a few seconds that feel like a lifetime.

But when Durand's bodyguard asks Bob to meet him in his office, you assure him you'll be fine, and he walks away.

Aware of his own power, Bob had always lived without feeling great emotions, without freedom, flying solo and close to the ground so as not to unleash his true nature and turn everything to ashes. But from the first encounter with you, Bob felt it in his heart, and knew later through living together, that he went from never having had anything to feeling fulfilled, complete, to feeling like he had it all and deserved every piece of that happiness he made with you.

You walk to the bar, to a discreet spot that covers the movement of your lips.

“Shut up.”

Walker laughs.

“I didn't say anything.”

“But you're thinking it. I feel the weight of your idiocy up to here.”

From across town, Walker is sitting in a spot on the tower, agreeing with you with a nod, even though you can't see him.

“Though I must applaud Bob, that was pretty brave of him. I mean, pretty obvious if you ask me becau—”

“No one asked you.”

Walker keeps talking anyway.

“Because it's something we all already know, very yesterday's news, but I don't think you should be afraid of that future, darling. Bob's good, he's broken, and he's trying to fix those parts so he doesn't hurt anyone else... just like you and like everyone else here.”

You take a moment to consider his words, with a slight raise of your eyebrows as you realize this all came from John Walker himself, the one who suggested pushing Bob into the cremation vault when they first met.

“You sound ridiculous as a matchmaker.”

“Screw you.” But he laughs. “That's what I get for being supportive in a charming way.”

You hum a response, contemplating your entire existence, the rainy days and lonely nights before, the devastating past, the present glowing with latent possibilities, and a future that it hurt to think about, wondering before if life would continue that sad way—but that was before you met Bob—because now, everything, even through soul–gnawing anxiety, seems to have more meaning, a significance finally.

On the other side of the party, walking down a red–walled hallway, Bob continues talking to urge Jeffrey to do the same, someone in the tower recording the whole conversation, with the USB—and the virus inside that will decode his entire computer—finally in Durand's hand.

“Let me ask you a question, Robert. When did you know you wanted to marry your wife?”

The right curve on Bob's lips rises a little bit, and his blue gaze becomes peaceful, soft with a created memory that never actually happened, but that feels real in his mind and heart. You may say no to his unspoken proposal, and that's okay with him, (even if it hurts) because at least now, Bob knows that his mind isn't making anything up, that every smile and touch from you is real, that it has been real from the beginning.

“I don't know for sure, or maybe I knew it from the beginning, since she said hi to me. I only know that she’s the light of my life. We married young, yes, but when you know, you just know.”

Bob shrugs casually, but as they turn the corner and the walls disappear, replaced by the terrace, he can see you a few feet away from him, standing at the bar, your bored gaze fixed on the man in front of you, (Durand's bodyguard) and your expert hand finding a butter knife from among the cutlery, so slow and imperceptible the man doesn't notice it, but Bob does, and he swallows hard.

“Oh, no…” He whispers under his breath, his heart pounding with a new kind of fear, and with a nervous smile, Bob catches Durand’s eye to say a quick goodbye. “I'm so sorry! I forgot my wife and I have to pick up Bucky today before it gets too dark.”

“Bucky?”

Bob blinks: in a moment of panic, it's the only name that came to mind.

“Our dog. If I don't take him back to his mom by now, he'll start chewing on my shoes. And my wife is his mom. I'm just the spare.”

Durand laughs, openly, enjoying the conversation, as if they're lifelong friends.

“Okay, I'll call you tomorrow with more details.” He shows the USB, the closing of two weeks’ deal. “Say goodbye to your wife for me.”

Nodding, not showing the terror on his face and his almost anxious gait, Bob walks away.

“Bucky? Really?”

“Can you delete it?”

Yelena laughs.

“It's already gone, you big idiot.”

Bob reaches you in a few seconds, the knife touching the cold bar again as his hand closes on yours from behind, casually, the other snaking around your body again, pressing you against him. At the same time, Bob pulls you away, almost hastily, barely giving the man anything resembling a nod, not bothering to fully acknowledge his existence.

“Son of a…” You swallow the insult you were about to let out as you back away, Bob’s chest so hard behind you it’s like steel, feeling something hot about it as if it had been forced over fire. “I was two seconds away from stabbing him in the eye.”

“What?!” There are voices on the intercoms, but you don’t respond.

“Why do you think I pulled you out of there?” Bob laughs, calm, but with his heart and lungs on fire, as if he’d run a marathon, guiding you into the elevator as another hotel employee steps out.

The doors close as he presses the number 1 button, and for a second, he stares at his blurred reflection in the steel, but he knows now that from that second forward, he won't be just another blurry, shapeless blob anymore. Never again now that there is only light in his life to show him who he really is, and taking a deep breath, Bob turns to you.

“Push me if you want me to stop, or pull me closer if you want me to continue. Whatever you choose, there are no hard feelings, never for you because all I have is thanks to you. Only happiness since the moment I met you.”

Bob wants to say love, but he replaces the word, his hands cradling your face before he closes the gap between you, uniting his entire being with yours as he presses his lips against yours, barely moving, eyes closed and hearts pounding, holding you there, softly, never demanding. Yet, you don't push him away when the confusion fades away and the adrenaline of the moment intensifies as your heart spills over with every feeling hidden inside, only for him, and your hands clutch the sides of his body, the fabric of his suit creasing against your fingers.

You want to pull him and press yourself against him, all at the same time, and Bob does it, pushing you gently with his own body against the elevator wall to kiss you for real. It's a little messy and inexperienced because life robbed you two of those early years where a person discovers the mysteries of a kiss, but the starting line for learning together is drawn right there. His hands, eager to feel more, slide down your back, fingers burning every inch of exposed skin, stopping at your waist, yours traveling in response towards his face.

Hands touching, lips moving, and one of you lets out something resembling a sigh, something warm and tiny, maybe even like a low whimper.

You don't even remember or care there are agents listening on the other end of the headset until Bob pulls away, his fingers finding the device in your ear and his own with one hand before shove them deep into his pocket, breathing through parted lips close to yours.

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” He asks, light but serious.

He means it, and you chuckle sarcastically anyway, shaking your head gently, but holding him close, and he doesn't move away.

“No thanks.”

Bob chuckles because you are joking, he knows it. However, at that moment, he can see a light shining on a beautiful future together.

“You are the light of my life, honey. You really are.”

Then, Bob dives back into the addictive sweetness your lips give him, knowing his love for you would never die, no matter after being together for 6 years, 10 years, or however long he has left with you.

[sailingintothenight]

“Heart to heart.” Bob Reynolds.

You two are good, best friends, but you're also two hearts yearning to be something more. And between the small fears and the big ones inside Bob, there's a confession of love on his part, in an attempt not to lose you—not angry, not frustrated, just scared.

A/N: Hi. Thanks again for the love you've shown my other images; it means a lot! Sorry if this is not very good (about 4.5k words) I can't write constantly, and even though I feel like I'm not making progress, I like writing these stories for myself and for whoever wants to read them. English isn't my first language, so I'll correct any mistakes I find in the morning, as it's almost 5 a.m. in Peru. Thank you!

Warnings: fluff with a little bit of angst. The word addiction, death and weapons, though I don't specify which ones I think(?) Sorry if I'm missing something!

[The heart monitor drew a flat line on the screen.

Everyone left, and no one bothered to turn it off when the annoying sound announcing a death filled the void.

A lifeless body remained on the stretcher in the middle of a laboratory, just an empty shell protecting a heart that didn't beat anymore, skin getting cold as some time went by. And on the other side, there was no white welcoming light, no angels singing, no more but an infinite nothing.

Until you woke up with a sharp beep whistling in your ears.]  

For some reason, the elevator's loud ding makes you shudder with memories of yesterday that threaten to cloud your mind, like a high fever pushing up painfully, but the suffocating sensation only lasts a second and is gone the next when the doors open in front of you. You take a deep breath for all the time you stopped breathing that night, your heart racing for all the time it stopped beating and that it's free now, a little wild with all the new feelings it keeps building up inside, taking them all in with cowardly bravery, especially those you're experiencing for the first time next to Bob.

“Why does a love confession have to be dramatic? The rain is almost drowning them but they are focused on their hate–love moment.”

You laugh, but the small sound is lost as you step out of the elevator, a female voice announcing through the supermarket's loudspeakers that cheeses are half their price today.

People come and go in the corridors, the air conditioning blows chilly, and the shopping cart you push out of that steel cage is half–full with kitchen utensils and some ingredients for different meals for different people and their daily struggle for a healthy coexistence, sometimes with weapons on the table next to the meat or threats to make explode their heads before the occasional dessert.

Behind you, like a colorful shadow with the loose clothes Bob wears, (navy blue and mustard) his youthful, present–day image contrasts with the hardcover of your "Pride & Prejudice" book in his hands—vintage green, delicate and elegant, with a peacock on the cover spreading its tail in a boastful yet majestic manner.

Like a connection or an experience already lived, his hand reaches forward and you push yours back, fingers recognizing each other once more before intertwining, his warmth enveloping yours in a single heartbeat. As if you were the compass of his life, (you kinda were) Bob allows himself to be guided completely blindly, staying close to you and just a step away, always just a step away but never able to close that gap.

So short, and yet, sometimes it seems infinite.

“They’re not about to drown, Bob.”

He shrugs.

“Though I must admit, the marriage proposal in the book is more intense than the one in the movie. But, I mean... would it be okay for me to confess my love for you when I’m that angry?”

My love for you. For you.

"I think they are just frustrated with each other. Maybe just scared?" You try to be calm, but like an imperceptible electric shock that is born from your bodies and is lost in the center where your hand and his remain joined, (or perhaps it is born from that nucleus and expands through every fiber of your being and Bob's) it forces you to squeeze his hand, with him doing the same at the same time. You glance over your shoulder, but his face is still hidden behind the book, deeply immersed in it. “And by the way, you're ruining my hopes of ever experiencing something like that with that question. It doesn't always have to make perfect sense, you know?”

His slowing heartbeat loses control again and starts beating fast one more time under the sound of your desire to want to experience something like that, and Bob gulps as he takes a look at you over the book.

The scene spilled out love filled with frustration, a frustration that was born in the male protagonist when he could no longer hide his desire to always, always be by Elizabeth's side. And yes, Bob knew that desire really well, so alive within him that it sometimes suffocated him when another day passed without becoming reality.

“Would you really want to experience something like this?”

You chuckle.

“Nah. In novels, you get the love of your life under the rain. In real life, you just get the flu. But for someone who doesn't understand the passion of a romance from that era, you seem pretty absorbed in it.”

Bob shrugs again, but in an act of bravery, he dares to slide his fingers through yours in a gentle caress before stilling them again—another subtle way of professing his love, even if he felt that you didn't notice it at all.

“You love this novel, and I just want to know more about the things you love.”

Bob was good, too good and nice and kind, because he cared about the team (even when his head told him no one cared about him) and you. You could see the kindness in his eyes when he really got to know the others—after he stopped to frown in confusion every time someone on the team complimented him. Then, Bob really understood that he was important to the rest—in that moment, you knew Bob would go to war without a weapon for them, his body like a human shield, even if it cost him his own life.

Because behind his fears and insecurities lay his undeniable and indelible desire to protect people, his people.

You among them. Especially you.

With the violence of a hurricane, his affection for you and the way he tried to take care of you slipped through his fingers like sand, impossible to stop it from becoming something more, something bigger and more meaningful.

You tried to convince yourself that you were nothing more than a piece of calm for him when his world became harrowing, but there was something in his gaze that screamed into the silence, because suddenly, you were no longer just that calm in the sad moments: you were his happiness when everything was fine, too. And like a magnetic force, useless to resist, Bob leaned toward you, and you mimicked his action in a soft way.

You were the one he sought out first during meals, two hours during movies just to see you, just to steal glances from you when you weren't looking at him.

Like two parallel lines, you and Bob never seemed to meet in a deep way until you did for the first time, just to get to know each other slowly, and you filled the empty space with an invitation. Do you want to do something maybe? Read, play board games, learn how to make those 5–minute recipes from the internet that didn't always turn out well. Not pretty to look at, but edible. You showed him kindness, a certain sweetness that always surrounded you like an aura, painted in some cheerful color that he began to reflect even in the clothes he wore.

You were kind, or at least you always tried to be. And living together only deepened that affection, transforming it into something stronger, more lasting, but just as silent.

Now, the book is put down when you stop, side by side with him as his face turns into an expression of true confusion.

“What are we doing in the stuffed animal section?”

The corridor is tinged with colors, the shapes of different animal figures on each floor of the shelves.

“Remember I told you I was going to give you a gift?”

His shrewd gaze shifts from you to the huge pile of smiling, colorful stuffed octopuses in front of him, then back to you.

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“Hey. Don't worry, I’m just going to buy one of these for you.” You pick one up at random, a blue octopus with a round head and short tentacles. “They’re reversible plushies, see? There are only happy slash angry ones, but we can make them work with the me–so–sad Bob that comes around sometimes. How about that? Don’t you think they’re adorable?”

Bob keeps his lips together, a flat expression in his incandescent attempt not to be defeated by you and your cuteness. He really loved the way you teased him (never cruel) but always with some silly joke that made him smile.

Your jokes always lightened the weight that came with his emotional exhaustion, the one that used to come suddenly but that seemed ready to settle inside him forever, until you arrived and brought with you a warmth that drove away the cold in his mind and body.

“I don't like you.”

He’s joking now, you know it: you know he likes you, that he loves the way you always stay with him, never leaving because Bob doesn’t want you to leave him, never. The problem was that that love had already settled in his chest and found every empty corner of his body to fill it with your laughter and the happiness in your eyes.

Bob didn’t feel like falling in love with you, but rather like feeling high, in a good way, finally, with overwhelming nerves and also with the calm you made him feel, next to the butterflies and the electricity on his skin everytime he touched you.

A new kind of addiction. A good one.

Every day, he continued crossing a bumpy road in his path to heal, and although no one knew how to look at the stars for the exact moment of his fall, Bob knows now that, by your side, everything would be just a stumble, a small slip before keep going.

“What do you say, love?”

Silence again, a little longer as his body, which had been inert, shudders with that word he had forgotten, love, the one he had banished from his life when he declared he would never experience anything like that.

For you, he was that word full of meaning, and for him, you were that love that Bob wanted to give back to you. Even without having anything, Bob knows that he would give you the whole world without you asking for it, just in exchange for being your only love. The only one, just like that endless love hidden between the pages of the book.

Now, you gently push the stuffed animal across his face, the fabric tickling his nose.

“I’m not saying yes.” Bob laughs, a little as he pulls himself away, and the sound is light like the joy he continues to experience every day, and somewhat deep like his voice. “But will they have one in purple?”

And you laugh, openly, the sound filling his ears and his entire body, soul, and heart.

Love, something Bob had lacked for so long that he couldn’t even remember what it felt like, and suddenly, so quickly that it destabilized his poor attempt at keeping his world on balance, you had come to his life with that feeling in your hands to fill those blanks inside him, every empty space.

“Let’s get one for Yelena, Ava, and the others. Let’s bet on who destroys theirs first.”

Bob laughs with you before heading to the register to pay, and with two bags in his hand when everything is done, you receive a text from Yelena.

Could you please bring your butts back here? 🙄 I'm tired of hearing Dad ramble on about the 'importance' of having the talk with his kids, especially since the only ones in this house eating each other with their eyes are you and Bob.

“Who's eating what?”

You press the phone to your chest, your heart cruelly skipping a few beats in fright.

“Nothing. Let's go.”

Bob frowns, blinking in confusion as he opens the front door for you, mingling with the people coming and going on the street.

Everyone knows it, everyone in the team could see the love in Bob's and your nervous gazes, and how that nervousness would transform into absolute calm when you finally lock eyes with the other. A type calmness that resembles the wild waves of the sea only after they reached the shore to become a gentle caress.

You two were like a tangible confirmation that love really existed (that perhaps the wait in the shadows had been worth it because after a lifetime of painful experiences, it had all culminated in knowing each other), with a scorching heat in his golden cheeks as a result, which you usually soothed with a clumsy agility before the others noticed.

“So... about the love confession in the rain...” Bob clears his throat, voice threatening to crack with an emotion that, somehow, without ever having experienced it before, sets his soul alight as well.

“Well, I think sometimes we associate rain with an emotional release where you're able to let out everything you feel, you know? Like in the book, Mr. Darcy can't hold his feelings for Elizabeth anymore, and those feelings kept building up over time until he had to pour them out because they couldn't fit in his chest by then, although that didn't turn out so well for him…” You chuckle, staring straight ahead as your mind projects the words from the book and the scene from the movie, moments you remember too well. But so immersed in yourself, you miss the way Bob looks at you, eyes fixed on you as he can clearly see, even in the gray weather, a glimmer of happiness on your face. “The rain makes it dramatic…passionate, I guess. But it's just a scene in a book, Bob, it's not that big a deal.”

With that same magnetic force that always draws his eyes to you, Bob follows your every move, the tiny furrow of your brows under the weight of your concentration, the twist of your lips, and everything in between before you look back at him.

In an instant, he looks away fast so as not to drown in his own feelings for you, which also threaten to spill over the edge of his heart every time you two talked about love.

“Do you think that... maybe a broken person can also love without hurting?”

A sad expression tries to spread across your face, but you fight bravely to maintain an encouraging one instead.

Life had been a nightmare for Bob, so unfair that it was hard to believe such things had happened to a child (like something out of fiction, from the most twisted mind), but they were real and they happened, and all the experiences he had lived through forged him and broke him at the same time. Bob was wounded, both physically and emotionally, so battered that now he was still terrified of feeling good, big things. Of feeling how simple (complex too) and beautiful love was.

Bob was summer, and he was winter too, different versions of every season, all at the same time sometimes. He could be like a storm of nature that threatened to devastate everything in its path, but amidst that destructive force, there always lay some kind of warmth and a fervent desire to stop everything before he hurts, just to be good, kind, a true gentleman amidst his occasional clumsiness and his sass to laugh at you and the others—Bob knew how to love, and he deserved to be loved deeply, too.

He deserved the world, only the good version of it.

“We're all a little broken, or so I think. Of course, some much more than others unfortunately, but maybe, over time, some people just learned to smooth the sharp edges inside them so they don't cut themselves or those they love, you know what I mean? So they can love without fear of hurting.”

Bob glances at you, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but there's a genuine smile plastered across his face.

He felt it, clear as day, deep in his broken soul (sometimes sharp as glass) a deep love for you, exactly like in the stories of yesteryear trapped in the books that you love and that Bob read to continue memorizing you. He felt that love for you in the way his wounded heart still beat for a chance, in the way his whole body vibrated when he was by your side, and though he didn't dare call it by its true name out loud, Bob knew what it was—it was love.

It came with some adrenaline, yes, with some anxiety even, but instead of crushing his heart, that love caressed his soul so gentle that he wanted more and more of it every day. More of you, all of you.

“Why are you so smart, huh?”

“I have my moments of immense wisdom.” You chuckle, making him laugh with you.

But just for a second, either of you looks away from the other. Why do you threaten to lose yourself in his eyes and in all the beauty you can see in them? Bob always looks at you with adoration, always has since he met you, as if you were a part of him, as if you were the most important thing in his life. Everything that actually matters for him.

Now, Bob opens the building's door for you, letting you in first, walking beside you through the luxurious, polished tile lobby.

“Do you want to watch your favorite movie again? It's my turn to choose anyway.”

You laugh, somewhat mischievously.

“You're going to make the others leave the room.”

Bob smiles to himself, a nervous feeling tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Doesn't sound bad at all.”

However, his timid response is overwhelmed beneath the confidence of Patrick, one of Val's associates, who calls your name while walking from the lobby’s sofa and toward you.

“(Y/N), hi.” He smiles.

Blonde, with green eyes like the cat you once had, and dressed in a shiny, satin–like gray suit that looks too expensive and kinda slippery. He’s handsome, but his flirting is too direct, and during the few times you spoke to him, it was like dodging a slap that would eventually hit you hard. His self–confidence was endearing at times, but sometimes it was overpowering and not at all subtle.

Behind you, Bob tenses when their eyes meet, his shoulders so stiff it hurts, just like his frown.

“Hi, Bobby.”

“Just Bob.” You and he say at the same time, your voices mingling with a hint of bitterness, but Patrick nimbly ignores your protest.

For a moment, you hear him ramble on as well.

Between words fired at the speed of bullets, you manage to hear about his promotion, well–deserved, though it’s only an attempt at boasting, and it flashes before your eyes and splatters a little in Bob’s direction. Seconds pass quickly, but the sound of his voice becomes impossible to understand when, for an instant, it is abruptly cut off when something breaks in the evening sky with an intense emotion and the rain starts falling, so resounding and raw that it scares you.

Your body shakes slightly, something that only Bob notices, but like instinct, or like a force that pushes him towards you, his hand finds yours and he holds it to calm the surprise that crossed your body.

Maybe that emotional release was true after all.

You say goodbye to Patrick after a short while, letting go of Bob's hand, and stepping into the elevator that he holds open for you.

“Can we pretend that never happened?” You ask when the doors close, but he lets out a laugh, a hollow sound.

“What never happened exactly?”

You can feel it right there, that chasm that used to separate you by a step, now yawning wide in the floor.

Bob has to swallow the lump in his dry throat as he feels a stabbing pain settle in the center of his body, a sensation so violent it brought him to the brink of nausea, like the memory of another needle sinking into his skin and injecting a kind of serum that promised to make him invincible—a cruel joke because right now, he feels as the weakest, like he is about to lose everything again, to lose you forever.

The possibilities of losing you always came down to one thing: to a person who would take you away from him, someone better, someone steady, normal, not just another shadow on the ground like he felt sometimes.

Bob rises higher and higher in the elevator, but sinking into that world of pain that was always cold and wild, dark and terrifying that threatens to drown him in waves of hatred and self–loathing for never being enough, nor to have the courage to fight for you. But remaining in the void—there was something addictive about it, too, simpler than trying and fail, because sometimes, lingering in the same place was easier than starting over again on that too–steep hill to reach even a glimmer of a mirage, a mockery of the life Bob could have next to you, before pushing him back to the bottom to start over.

His spirit falters, because the enemy in his mind still speaks in whispers that could sometimes be deafening.

The elevator opens, but the abyss has already split the earth in two by the time he leaves that steel box first.

“I’m going to… wash my hands.”

Bob drops the bags on the dining room table, small under the confused stares of the others as he walks away.

“What the hell happened to him?” Walker frowns, Bob so painfully small that everyone can see it clearly.

Yelena mimics John’s action, her gaze settling on you, but the unflattering expressions on the faces of the group scattered around the dining room are a new kind of pang in your heart the moment you stop there, and it’s like a needle going straight in, so violently you feel your skin breaking.

“He’s not coming back, is he?”

You shake your head, not because you’re saying yes to Yelena's question, but because your exhaustion and frustration are about to spill over and you try to keep them inside.

“Give us a minute.”

You follow him.

Life, sometimes, happens in a single second. And for Bob and you, falling in love, too—it blossomed suddenly with the first blink, in a warm first look, with a special glow, finding a kind of magic that you had never seen before. Falling in love was as beautiful as not knowing that you are actually doing it, like navigating through unknown waters, walking through a world never before explored by anyone, an emotion that caught you two, that grew until it no longer fit in the other's body, which grew to fill the void of your worlds.

But that didn't mean you two were going to be together.

You turn down the hallway and the wall on your right turns to glass, the building so high it makes you think you can fly, but not when it's raining so heavily from the other side that you can't see the path beyond.

Love is not always a game for two: sometimes, it comes with wild waves, blizzards and storms, perhaps to test your fighting spirit, feelings and courage. How badly do you want to be with him? How badly does he want to be with you? The tests of love make you wonder if it is worth fighting for, or if it all comes down to nipping it in the bud for your peace of mind, and his.

“Bob, hey…”

The heat of your hand on his arm, covered by a navy–blue fabric, seems to burn until it leaves a searing mark, but Bob turns anyway, first on the battlefield, without a weapon to protect him from what's imminent.

For a second, his blue eyes are like an ocean too dangerous to swim in as they stare at you relentlessly for only a heartbeat, a clear warning to stay away, like crystal–clear waters but fill with sharks on the prowl. Only for a second, though, until his eyes really focus on you, his mind sending out the command that the person in front of him is really you, and in that instant, the wall of protection falls and his gaze softens, it becomes kind, and somewhat bright—not because he's happy—but because of his constant fight against tears.

“I'm sorry. Can we just... please forget this ever happened and go back to who we are?”

Panic hits you in a different way, with the impact of a bullet from a gun someone fired at you that night after you technically died and came back, emitting a sound like an explosion, and then all you hear is a ringing that echoes in your ears, again, an old sound from a past life you didn't want to relive.

“Okay. But what are we, Bob? Give it a name, and I promise you we'll be exactly that again.”

But Bob shakes his head, because that word, friends, is a cruel lie, and the locks of his hair fall rebelliously on each side of his forehead. In that instant, Bob feels like sinking into a blue ocean of terror as he feels his own fears behind him, next to his own guilt for always keeping quiet and never saying the things he really felt, a painful feeling in his little heart.

“I can’t. If I say that, I know I’ll really lose you.”

You swallow, but there’s no hope in your eyes as you sink into the imminent separation to come, too.

“It’s okay, Bob, really… I just think I’m tired of all this. Of the glances and the way we hold hands. Maybe being friends won’t work for us either. Not when it hurts you this much and wears me down this badly.” And right there, Bob sees you’re about to cut the subject short as if it never happened, and a light chuckle escapes from between your closed lips, a tired sound, as if you’re so exhausted from just existing next to him. A humorless laugh, just to soothe the pain that mingles with how ironic and selfish life can be. “I’ll be here, Bob, I promise I won’t leave you, ever, but I will be just at the other end, okay? because you are the one who can’t meet me halfway in this and I’m tired.”

Bob knows that a life without you would be lonely, for real this time, whether he's surrounded by a sea of ​​people or just a few others. And in a split second, he comes to the conclusion that everything else is optional: choosing to live in the void or fight even harder to break out of it and finally be free. The fate of his whole life, and what remained of it, was all a matter of choice. But losing you was not an option, because after you, there is really nothing.

“No, no, no, hey, please don’t leave.” His hands cup your face, firm but gentle, and though your first instinct is to pull away as your hands clutch at his arms, it’s Bob who moves closer, not to hold you like a prisoner, but to let you see a plea in his eyes, so heartbreaking it makes your heart race even faster. “I want to be with you, okay? I want you to be okay, and I want you to be okay with me. I want you to be happy, and I want you to be happy with me. I'm selfish, I know, and I love you. And I’m scared, too, because I never had anything, honey, and now I have you and you’re the only real and the most meaningful thing I’ve ever had my whole life. I… I’m scared of hurting you in some way, but I’m more scared of you never let me looking into your pretty eyes again or hearing your funny laugh. You’re the only one who can pull me out of this void, but I promise I’ll fight harder to get out of there on my own, okay? Just don’t leave me. Please, don’t go.”

You gulp the knot in your throat, unable to breath correctly, and the time it takes you to decide seems for Bob like a lifetime away from you.

Questions and doubts pile up in your mind, so jumbled you can't understand them all, but you've always believed that the serum in your veins wouldn't let you go that night for a reason, just because perhaps that second chance at living life to the fullest was always in Bob's soul, in his heart where his love for you rested, waiting for you during the years you were apart from each other, making you fight a little harder to be finally together.

Until it all came down to this moment.

So you nod slowly, and it takes Bob a second to know that what he has before his eyes isn't an illusion induced by a drug or a serum—that, finally, everything is real.

It's tenderly awkward, the way he gets closer to you to taste the love on your lips with a brush of his against them, closed eyes but full of hope, eager to enjoy this new type of freedom, because at this very moment, a door that will guide you to a new world has opened and you’re excited to discover more, a new stage when you two can hold hands freely, kissing every time you feel like it.

At one point, in a new slow but meaningful rhythm, Bob's hands move away from your face to snake his arms around your waist, your hands on his cheeks now, with him pulling you toward him as he presses against you at the same time.

There's no space between you now, finally face to face, chest to chest, heart to heart.

The way his lips moves on yours is gentle but intense after a few seconds later, a somewhat desperate attempt to recover all the time and opportunities lost because of fear. There is a low sound from the back of his throat, a tiny sound containing a hint of frustration that he finally let’s go after having kept his feelings quiet for so long, maybe even with a touch of lust too.

Time stops, but the rain and you two don't.

At least until Alexei's voice, coming from the dining room, interrupts the moment and makes you two chuckle.

“Who bought therapeutic stuffed animals?! Kids, bring your best weapons, it's time for a family contest!”

[sailingintothenight]

“The girl in his eyes.” Bob Reynolds.

Time together created feelings in the two of you. One night, the group tries to get him and you to talk about them, with John urging Bob to talk about “the girl in his eyes.” And that creates a big misunderstanding.

A/N: Kind of short one–shot (around 4K words) cause I'm new here and don't want to go on too long and bore you all in case this is boring. I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors.

Warnings: angst(?) with a happy ending! and the word drug. I think that's all, thanks!

“Lena, did you see (Y/N)—”

The last letter of your name drops to a whisper as Bob stops in front of the long couch, Yelena’s finger pressed against her own lips to silence him, a potato chip sandwiched between her other two before she pops it into her mouth, the bag in her lap, and her full attention back on the phone in her other hand.

She’s sitting diagonally, her back between the cushion behind her and the armrest, her left knee bent down as it falls off the edge to the floor, but it’s the other one that has Bob pressing his lips together as he films this version of you with his bluest gaze, the memory searing itself into his mind. You are there, asleep, lying sideways on the comfy, fluffy cushions, with part of your head on the outside of Yelena’s right thigh, and a front strand of your hair now falling over your closed eyelids and the border of your nose.

And it's soft for Bob that image of you, and overwhelming only in the way it forces him to swallow the lump forming in his throat as his feelings pile up inside.

“You need anything, Bob?” Yelena's pointed gaze moves from the paused TikTok video (a cat staring at the pet surveillance camera, looking like a flashbulb just fired in right in its face), chuckling as the animal's expression still lingers in her mind, and frozen on her phone—the white feline silhouette and wide–open eyes—she shows it to him. “Have you watched this video?”

Bob nods, and the sound of him trying to clear his throat (so his words don't falter mid–sentence as he knows they will) accompanies the action.

“Yeah, (Y/N) sent it to me a few days ago.”

“It's so funny.” She laughs softly, and her full attention is on to the device again, finger sliding across the screen after saving it to favorites, bringing another chip to her mouth. “That cat is so silly.”

But like a cry of protest, Bob whimpers softly, a tiny sound in the silence.

“You’re dropping crumbs in her hair, Lena.”

Yelena stops, her gaze sliding from her phone to him and then back down to you, and her slightly oily hand catches the crispy piece that had gotten caught in the strands.

“Relax, Bob. This is the price (Y/N) is paying for using me. She knows it. We shook hands. Now, do you need anything? Or someone, maybe?”

There’s a hint of healthy mockery in her smile, a silent challenge in her tone of voice that’s urging him to answer only with the truth everyone already sees, but the featherweight of her joke feels like lead in his chest and in his nervous hands, covered by a layer of clothing one size too big for Bob.

“No, just… I finished reading a book and thought (Y/N) would be here ready to—”

There was nothing afterward, just you two lying there together, in the same bed before sleeping, (on extreme sides so as not to cross boundaries but to keep each other company before loneliness settled in every room, when it sometimes forced Bob to wake up with a gasp and a foggy mind filled with traumatic experiences) talking about books or things.  

But perhaps it was the words left unspoken between you two before sleeping (hidden among the ones you did say: goodnight and sleep well), the ones you two avoided saying and pushed aside, along with the feelings that lived dormant in the darkness and accumulated inside each other—the things you both were dying to say but neither of you dared for fear that the already solid pillars of your friendship would crumble because of something as unstable as love.

Yelena waits a second longer for him to say something, but there is no response from the other end.

“The team and I were talking about you tw—”

Bob knows perfectly what it is, the favorite topic on everyone's mouths.

“You guys talk a lot, maybe you should shut up for a while. Silence is good sometimes.”

She rolls her eyes, an exasperated look following her action.

“Help me out here for a while, will you? I have a cramp and need to stretch.”

Bob swallows, eyes slightly wide at the idea of feeling that kind of closeness with you, the kind that comes so quickly it makes him dizzy and ignites the heat in his cheeks sharply. The warmth of your hand, he felt it before, many times, a casual or intentional touch, and it was scorching (like when the supermarket was crowded and the crush of people unnerved him sometimes, for example, so your fingers would close around his and his hand would squeeze yours), it was as if it could ignite a forest fire inside him, so wild it seemed it could burn everything… but everything bad only, of course—like the enemy in his thoughts, his insecurities, his fears, his nightmares.

Bob didn't even want to think about what it would feel like to feel the heat of your cheek.

But he did.

Bob had imagined it several times already, even dreaming about it when going to sleep. In a burst of bravery, with his heart beating faster than a drug high, his thumb would slide down your soft cheek, fingers hooking gently around the edge of your jaw.

“Bob?”

“What?”

Yelena drops her things into the armrest, her hand cupping the bottom of your head.

“Put your leg here, Bob.”

He shakes his head fast, his own heartbeat increasing with the fear and excitement that mix, so close that the line between them blurs, and his somewhat messy, wild hair moves with him.

“I don’t think—”

“Three…”

“What are you—?”

“Two…”

“Lena—”

“One.”

Bob takes a step forward, hands outstretched to stop her without a word, a silent plea in his eyes for her to do nothing to make you uncomfortable, even though Yelena hadn't moved an inch and wasn't planning to either. And with a deep inhalation and exhalation, a failed attempt to fill his lungs with cold air and soothe the heat settling in his chest, Bob switches places with her, even more gentle as you shift in your sleep, your hands close to your face and your cheek now on his leg, covered by his gray sleep pants, but which feels like the finest fabric in the world when Bob feels your heat radiate through your skin until it meets every nerve ending of his body.

“You're adorable, Bob.” Yelena laughs quietly, but there's not a hint of cruel mockery in her words—never with him—and she leans back on the second–long sofa, phone in her hand again. “Like those boys in her books. Such a gentleman. I know why she likes you so much.”

Likes you, being in love—two different scenarios if the feelings on either side were unequal. Either a chasm separated those two feelings, or the first could be the path to get to the other.

“Did I do something wrong to make (Y/N) not like me anymore then?”

The weight of self–doubt about a topic as distant and still foreign to him as love (next to his insecurities) threatens to bring down the confidence Bob was still trying to build little by little, day by day, and Yelena can see them shining clearly in his gaze as he finally holds hers, even in the dim living room light at night, searching for an answer he can't find within himself, not when there's a thick fog between the truth and him.

“What do you mean?”

Bob shrugs.

“(Y/N) is always here with me, but absent at the same time, as if something has suddenly changed between us.”

“You’re overthinking things, Bob.”

There’s affection in Yelena’s words, and they are warm in her attempt to reassure him of a truth hidden among his fears, but he lets out a small sound, something like a laugh without a hint of humor. Just an empty noise.

“Overthinking sometimes allows you to see the smallest things no one else would notice.”

“Like what?”

Bob can see it in his sometimes fragmented mind, every moment together and the way you changed, slowly, with him always next to you but finding a bit of solitude where there was only company, a little touch of emptiness when there was always only life in your eyes everytime you looked at him.

He doesn't know exactly how to explain any of that, and Yelena nods thoughtfully.

“Why don't you try to think about what exactly you did then? We have a while until the losers arrive with dinner. I'm going to be here with you, but ignoring you at the same time, okay?”

Catching his slight nod, Yelena turns on the couch, face close to the back cushion and her phone in between while indistinct sounds from the videos, set to low volume, float around him so the absolute silence doesn't completely consume him with the severity of his thoughts.

Bob lowers his head and his gaze rests on you, listening to the sound of your slow breathing as, in your sleep, your body relaxed, at peace. The curve of your lips is tempting, and he lifts the hand resting in his lap to push that strand of hair away from your face to place it where it belongs.

There, above your eyebrow and with nothing covering it now, Bob can see the only physical reminder of the fall of a whole building when your anger overflowed at the edge of your self–control. And like a tiny crack in a surface, the small scar has a slightly different hue than your skin, but it was just an imperfection that only makes you even more perfect, more real, a whole person and not a cruel dream from which Bob always wakes up before reaching.

Just like that, your presence in his life became a need for him.

You were the proof that he was still alive after the unbearable pain, (knowing all have been worth it because he met you) and that his heart hadn't turned to tin. He was still breathing, his heart was still beating, and for the first time, Bob finally felt that nervous tingle, the fluttering of being in love.

Love, so silent you don't even know you have it until you're full of it.

Love, a silent feeling in a room full of euphoria, and at the same time, it's like an alarm that goes off and no one but him and you can hear.

To be close to you, with you, every day, that’s all Bob wanted at the beginning. But almost selfishly, the passage of time together made him greedy, wanting more from you, a different smile than the one you had for others, a new kind of laugh, escalating until all his thoughts were about you, daydreaming about how to shake off his title of friend and crown himself with a different one.

It was a silent plea, a hope. It became a desire that made him company through his sleepless nights…

“You need to be direct with her.” Alexei had said a few weeks ago in the kitchen, when the hands of the clock showed it was very late at night. “Your words must be deep enough to cut like a knife in the heart.”

Bob didn’t even know how he’d ended up in that secret meeting, when all he’d wanted to do was grab a late–night snack from the fridge to leave on your nightstand after you’d joked, somewhat embarrassingly, that you did that sometimes when you couldn't sleep. But, confused and slightly scared, his eyebrows furrowed in surprise as the rest of the men stared at the red guardian and his constantly failing attempt to explain himself properly.

“Maybe not so direct.” Walker shook his head, the usual mocking tone in his voice. “How about you just tell her in small hints instead of trying to draw blood? You can hint that you like her, but without actually saying I like you.”

Bob blinked, confused, the information coming in too fast as he tried to take it all in.

“Like what?”

Bucky wag his head softly.

“Ask her to teach you how to do things you know she likes. She will feel that you are interested in her.”

And that was exactly what Bob did.

Now, when the doors of the elevator open and some really loud voices pierce the room, Bob’s natural protective instinct, (the one that was born in him the first time he took care of his father after witnessing his first blackout) makes his hand, a second after the resounding sound, move fast to press it against your ear, blocking out the laugh coming from the men.

As a reflex, your body moves gently in your sleep, but your awakening is less abrupt with his help.

You get up slowly, your mind a little blurry as Yelena leaves the living room, patting Bob on the shoulder on her way to the dining room. The edges of your gaze darken after rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands, the pleasant sting creeping around as you chuckle.

“Did I sleep so much I forgot I was lying on your leg?”

Bob chuckles too, and an invisible thread pulls the corner of his lip upward.

“You slept so long that Lena’s leg went numb. Just like mine.”

You let out a surprised laugh, your body slumping back against the backrest.

“I’m sorry, Bob.”

Bob shrugs, casually, as if the contact with your warmth hadn't just destabilized his heartbeat.

“It’s okay, you know I’m always here for you.”

“Kids, dinner!”

Alexei’s voice fills the room.

At the same time, in an involuntary reflex that you both can’t avoid when instinct wins, Bob and you move your bodies to look over your shoulders, heads turning in the same direction, finding yourselves at what your mother used to call, the perfect distance of a kiss. Bob is so close you can almost drink his breath, stopping yours when his blue gaze holds yours for an eternal second that finish too quickly but that feels endless too, watching each other's eyes before you both separate, looking forward as a nervous feeling fills your heart and his.

You walk away first, finding an empty spot next to Ava.

“Dad, will you stop calling us to the table like we’re real kids?” Yelena complains, sitting at one of the heads of the food–laden table as Bob sits in the chair across from you. “Someone here is older than life.”

The rest chuckle, not too loudly.

“But you’re my kids. Now, let’s have dinner like family.”

At some point, there is a back—and—forth conversation around, about a past relationship for some of them, somehow empty, never too deep because talking once about the future they hoped and never got to feel is enough for everybody, but always accompanied by soft laughter that makes the tower feel like a real home after some lost their love or never had it in the first place.

“So… what’s your type of man, (Y/N)?” Yelena chuckles, and the sound is full of her genuine affection for you, but it hides too her desire to steer the conversation in a way that Bob can be somehow included in your words. “You’re always reading so much, so you must have a type. Maybe someone here is just like that.”

The others feign innocence, but the possibility stirs in Bob’s body with a heartbeat that’s too fast, eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion, in expectation, and with a certain weight of worry about not hearing a promising answer.

“Who?” Ava laughs also knowingly, with a certain disdain too at thinking of the others and you that way, and her finger points at Alexei. “Too old.” Then at Bucky. “Way too old.” Finally, at John. “Too much of an idiot. That leaves just Bob.”

Bob swallows the food in his mouth at the sound of his name, so abruptly it makes his expression twist slightly in pain.

The others, expectant, continue waiting.

You clear your throat, your heart pounding against your chest as if it were seeking its own freedom and a way out of a situation that seems unlikely to end well.

“The usual, I guess, just… a nice guy.”

“Oh, come on, that’s not fun.” John grins, malice bubbling up like he needs to embarrass someone at least once a day to survive. “You could be more specific, like Bob. Right now there is a girl in his eyes so he could tell us what she’s like, describe her so much until we’re bored.”

Bob's gaze meets yours, barely a second before you look away when Bucky speaks.

“I think that’s enough with the jokes, huh?”

But then, to everyone’s surprise and his own, Bob speaks, and with a touch of nervousness in his voice bordering on anxiety, he starts talking about her. Just a little, not a lot, not quite to the point of boring the rest of you.

And you listen, your heart a little cold around the edges. Like a brutal change in the season, the tempest of his words threatens to hurt you without hesitation or guilt, but you listen, because you always tried to be a good friend to Bob, a person he could trust when he didn't even trust his own mind and shadow. And even when he was always full of doubt about himself, about the truth, he seemed to trust your voice more than the enemy within, the one that whispered only cruelty. Even when he became cloudy, Bob would always pull the blanket off his head when you asked him to, because your mere presence was always a promise for him that the sadness would all end eventually.

For all those long months together, it had always been you, and between heartbeats, it had always been him. Until you confused things, apparently.

Until the girl in his eyes arrived.

And it hurts, it burns to think about it, that reality that creeps up on you, that of always being just a friend. And it's like having an empty stomach, an empty mind, an empty heart.

When he's finished, you excuse yourself to leave the room with a smile and your head held high, leaving the deathly silence behind and missing the way Bob follows you with his eyes, even after you disappear.

“I think we blew this.” Ava lets out a small sound, like a worried laugh at possible defeat as she looks at the rest.

“Did you have to go on so long, genius?” A semi–hard object hits the side of Bob's head and bounces off it, but without erasing his terrified and now confused expression as he looks at Bucky. “We told you you had to flatter her a little, not write her a whole Shakespearean sonnet.”

Yelena frowns.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bucky looks away from Bob, his brow still deep furrowed as he stares at Yelena.

“Nothing. Some weeks ago we told Bob to try to hint to (Y/N) that he likes her without telling her he likes her.”

“And?”

“And nothing else. (Y/N) came into the kitchen that night to get something from the fridge, and the conversation ended there.”

“Did she hear you talking about this ingenious plan?” Ava’s hard gaze landed on Bob, and he blinks, innocent eyes set in a look of terror. “Did (Y/N) hear you talking about her? or did she hear you being told by the smartest men in this place how to get a random girl?”

As night fell and sent the rest of the team to sleep, the endless talk finished when you had entered the kitchen, a soft sound from your throat announcing your presence first.

“What are you doing up so late, darling?”

“Just came to get something to eat.” You replied to Bucky, and Bucky’s gaze rested on you all the way until you closed the fridge door. “Sorry to interrupt your boys’ sleepover.”

“It’s not a boys’ sleepover, (Y/N), please.” John whined softly, deeply offended.

“Men’ sleepover is better.” Alexei smiled, and you laughed with him, his innocence fluttering as the others sighed in defeat.

“Of course, my mistake. Sleep well, everybody.”

“You too.”

The others' voices were an echo, except for Bob's, lips closed as your eyes fell on him in your farewell, just for a second.

He never said your name, and neither did the others. But from then on, there was only half a life in your eyes, whereas before they had always been full of it every time you looked at him.

And the seconds of understanding end when Bob stands up, so fast he pushes his chair back with a dry sound against the polished floor. His own breathing becomes labored, but he tries to calm his anxious heart all the way down the hall as he understood your change—You had taken a step back, trying to respect the boundaries between your friendship (that sometimes threatened with overflow, wishing to become something more) and his affection for that girl.

“You always have to ruin things—”

“Not this time. Not with her.” Bob murmurs softly, and when he finally reaches your room, your door is always open for anyone who wants to enter and exist, and that's a mixed relief for him. “(Y/N)?”

You look over your shoulder, your body facing away from him as you continue to sit in front of your laptop on the desk.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Bob closes the door behind him, barely making a noise as he ventures inside, but feeling the place like untapped territory even though he's been there since his life merged with yours. The sound of his sneakers on the floor is almost nonexistent, but the air around feels heavy like lead in his pockets as Bob sits next to you, listening to the almost ghostly volume of the video playing in front of you.

“You okay, Bob?”

Your attention is on the screen and your voice is a whisper, but it is an overwhelming force that hits his chest, even harder than bullets of the past.

“Are you?”

You chuckle.

“I asked you first.”

Bob hums a reply.

“You wanna lie down for a while before going to bed? I finished a new book today and I know I can convince you to read it.”

You shake your head, but there's a slight, honest smile on your lips.

“I'm not sleepy yet. Maybe later or tomorrow.”

Neither of you says anything for a moment, your eyes straight ahead like Bob's gaze lingers on your profile. Bright eyes, soft skin.

But Bob knew that you too were still learning to use your voice just like him, to find the right words—those always hidden—so scattered across different galaxies, so far from each other that you two still struggled to put them together to say something eloquent, to say what you both truly wanted to say, what you two truly felt. Silence had always been your ally and an imposition for him. And that had been his curse throughout his life, always in solitude, until it created his inability to say what he really wanted to say.

But not today, not ever again.

“We’re feeling a little much apathetic today, huh?”

It’s not an accusation, but his tone tinges with his sassiness, the kind he used to make direct comments and respond to other people’s jokes, to John’s sarcasm and sometimes Bucky’s condescension. Today, however, his words make you frown sharply as you turn to look at him.

“Excuse me?” His gaze threatens to falter and leave yours when you narrow your eyes at him, but Bob sits up straight when what he's said is free to the world, saying out loud what he wants to say instead of letting it perish inside and ducking his head to pretend it never happened. “You're quite bold sometimes, Bob.”

“And you’re quite clueless.” He smiles, softly, nervous but firmly planted on the floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The electricity, the tingling at his fingertips as the result of this brave act is addictive, like a drug, but ultimately a healthy one, one he wants to get hooked on. “I was talking about you, silly. How can you be so smart and not realize that every word I said was about you, (Y/N)?”

Your frown relaxes, and the gnawing feeling of annoyance at his forwardness is replaced by confusion. His hands cup the sides of your chair, and Bob pulls you closer, gently, not roughly, taking in the way your body has stopped tensing while being brave when he sees your eyes light up with affection again, completely—a little scared around the edges, but finally not halfway.

“When I asked you to teach me how to braid your hair, it was for you—for that loose braid you always have. Your mom did it for you, didn’t she? Every day. You told me.” You nod, feeling the heat from his knees radiating against yours. “When I asked you to teach me how to dance to those old ballads Bucky loves so much, I didn’t do it to dance with someone else. I did it because I saw the way he spun you around one night and saw you laugh, and I wanted so badly to be him that I could feel my body vibrate. The things I said in the kitchen, about her hair and her laugh and everything—it was all about you, okay? Can you believe me? Please?”

You nod again, and Bob can see hope in your eyes, right next to that desire of a soul crying out for the exact same thing as his, silent but fervent.

There, his hands cup your face, soft skin over slightly calloused fingers on your cheeks and the underside, thumbs gliding to make his dreams (asleep and awake) come true, a touch so tender you feel nothing but warmth—his face so close his breath mingles with yours.

Your own hands clutch at his arms, searching for something to hold you steady as well.

“I’m sorry. I… I got scared. This is my first time feeling like this.”

“I know. And I’m sorry, I never meant to make you feel like there was someone else because ever since I met you, it’s always been you. But if you still have any doubt, you are the girl in my eyes.”

Bob leans forward, closing finally that small space between his existence and yours.

And behind his closed eyelids, just like yours, the darkness ceases to be terrifying and becomes pleasurable, for the first time in his life, a place where Bob would stay if that means he can keep kissing you like this. Time, life itself, the past and future are suspended, unimportant and in an eternal pause in the long seconds his lips linger and move softly with yours. It’s like an unspoken conversation between you two, a confession of love without even having to say those three magical words. It’s a connection, strength and gentleness, melting away any fear or doubt. The kiss is soft like him, a little shy like you, but real and perfect after every moment you imagined him in your head like this.

And in a synchronized movement, the two of you separate, breathing in each other's air.

“I'll be back, okay? I won't be long.” He whispers, and his lips touch yours with the promise of many more shared kisses before he stands up.

You nod automatically, a second before you understand his words.

“Where are you going?”

Bob stops halfway across the room and turns around, those strands of hair on either side of his face bouncing with the movement.

“I'm going to get you some midnight snacks so you won't have to get up later, and get that book I was talking about.”

You laugh softly.

“And you're going to tell the others, aren't you?”

“No.” Bob shakes his head, a little dramatically before his shoulders slump. “Yes. I have to, honey. Lena and Ava were about to hurt me really bad.”

A nervous but genuine smile appears on that sweet face of him before Bob turns away.

[sailingintothenight]

“Love now, forever.” Bob Reynolds.

On a peaceful night between calm breaths, and a kiss before you fall asleep, Bob dares to ask you the question that has been on his mind for a while.

A/N: Don't give me any time cause I could write thousands and thousands of words about this sweet man until I bore you all, so instead I'm leaving you this short, cheesy imagine I wrote some weeks ago. Hope you like it and excuse my bad English, please. Thank you.

The main lights are off, replaced only by the lamp on one side of the bed shedding a dark red one. The room is dark red and the world quiet. His extended arm is your pillow, a nest for your head. Bob’s chin rests on your shoulder, the bluest of his eyes filming the profile of your face. The tip of your nose, the shape of your soft lips, and the star twinkling in your eye as the two of you dive into the silence.

Love is gentle. Like his hand drawing circles on your stomach, and under your loose sweatshirt, it’s warm, it tickles you, and it makes you flex your muscles with intoxicating nerves.

Before, for Bob, there were endless nights wondering if it will ever get better? Life.

The emptiness in his uncomfortable mattress, laying in the same position, counting the non–existent cracks in the perfect ceiling in that facility. Insomnia, alert all the time, no matter how late it was, waiting still for the screams from the other side of the door and everything that it brought, even if the perpetrator of his pain as a kid became a ghost a long time ago. Memories of his desecrated childhood, they turned into nightmares in his failed attempts to fall asleep, alone, until eventually boredom and tiredness forced Bob to close his eyes, only to then repeat the cycle in which he lived for many years the next day.

But now, love exists, and is always gentle with him.

Like the way you look at him when you turn around, with eyes full of affection, of love, as if he were a real person after having been just another object in a laboratory with empty walls. Your hand flexed up, reaching his face to caress his rosy cheek. Bob smiles softly, sweet and beautiful, a little tiredness in his eyes after 1 in the morning, but always with a deep gaze as this reflects the blue of your love—light at the same time, just happy—because now Bob understands that love makes him feel lighter than a feather, and not as if he was made of lead while drowning into the sea.

Finally, his heart is at peace, because you are there, next to him, alive, a person destined to find him before he perished, finally for him not to be alone never again.

Only a slight incline separates you two, the perfect distance of a kiss away. You read that somewhere.

Then, you move forward just a little bit, gentle, his lips pursing softly to welcome yours. Bob expects a kiss every time he sees you, he hopes for it every minute of the day: when he wakes up, when he goes to sleep, all the hours in between. And like that small child who hugs his stuffed animal to his chest, determined never to let it go, he now holds you in his arms, his nose brushing yours, earning a tired, soft chuckle from you that vibrates in his chest as you close your eyes.

There is always a bedtime story from your childhood before you two fall sleep, endless stories he's collected in his memory, moments he'd like to see with his own eyes, but at the same time, Bob wants nothing but to able to stop time in this new, better present to remain by your side, all night or a lifetime.

Right there, and for a while now, Bob finds himself wishing that forever with you, craving it so desperately he can feel it in his bones and flesh.

Would you say yes?

Walker calls you Mrs. Reynolds, his voice thick with mockery. But hidden among the sarcasm, John does it to nudge Bob to stop him from being so afraid to ask.

He wasn’t a visionary, no dreamer, lacking the strength to project a future when his past was too heavy and saying tomorrow felt uncertain, so Bob always lingered in the void, with the inclement air conditioning of that secret place where he was blowing cold, like a blizzard determined to freeze his empty body. And although it’s still scary to lose you somehow, terrifying, it’s worse for him not to live by your side, a full life this time, like never before. Bob never thought about being someone’s something after hearing that he was nothing for so long, but now, he just wants to ask you if you want to marry him.

He just wants to be your husband so badly, almost greedily.

Alone, the world seemed fractured in so many parts that the pieces have no shape and no way to fit together to rejoin themselves, but with a glance from his person, a touch of your hand, a laugh, a word, a kiss, he rebuilt himself until he felt whole again. Bob is not perfect, he knows well, half–healed and still with a long way to go, but now the desire to live in the present is latent, vibrant, and he wants it so much that he managed to take that desired and transform it into peace, making his nightmares disappear when he went to bed with you.

Love worked like that, because love is peace, and you are that love.

“Darling?”

Bob pulls away slightly, just enough to see your peaceful expression—eyes closed, relaxed, a calm breath.

“Uh?”

The sound between your closed lips is low but kind of pitchy, affectionate. You are far away, yet, somehow, you always linger close, present, and that small act has him smiling. Bob wants it all: the ring on your finger, his last name being yours too, so that it finally takes value and means something to him—and because it sounds just perfect next to your beautiful name—and to take the pride he’ll feel knowing you two are married.

“Will you marry me?”

Bob swallows his fear, which inevitably closes his throat, remaining in the same position, breathing slowly so as not to faint while waiting.

But the wait that seems like a lifetime only lasts one, two seconds.

“Of course.”

Your lips barely part, but the words are clear and concise, an answer to his nightly, silent prayers.

His expression falters with the overwhelming emotions that come to him, all at once, but stronger than ever, Bob breathes a nervous smile as he cradles you in his arms again and feels yours around him, knowing that eventually, faster than he thinks, his fears will go away completely until there is nothing left but love and happiness.

[sailingintothenight]

“Starlight.” Bob Reynolds.

Following Walker's advice, Bob decides to confess his feelings for you… to you.

A/N: Hi. First of all, thanks for the love on my first Bob imagine “A safe heaven”. Secondly, I'm still getting to know Taylor Swift's music so I can't really call myself a fan, but like Jake Peralta said: she makes me feel things. So I quoted one of her songs here. My first language is Spanish and I'm still learning English, so please excuse me if there are any grammatical errors. Thank you! And I think I messed up saying you were an Avenger, but the timeline is confusing so let's pretend it's okay, please?

“Is (Y/N) back yet, Lena?”

“You mean (Y/N) and Bucky?”

“Yeah, right. Them.”

“No. Not yet—”

“Oh...”

Bob slumps down onto the couch, pulling his disappointed look away from Yelena and her emotion detector within her gaze, which could detect his emotions in a heartbeat.

“I just know they’re about to. In 10 minutes, I think.”

But it was Taylor Swift that once said: you’ve got a smile that can light up this whole town, and now, Bob’s smile behind the milkshake he holds with two hands (not a big one, just adorable and shy), fighting his own nerves, could light up the whole world. Through small but significant moments, pieces of happiness that he has been collecting with you, Bob had begun to regain his own light, little by little, with them making his eyes bright again, like tiny twinkling stars after his life had been darker than an undiscovered galaxy—still and silent, without a light source, nonexistent until someone notices its presence.

And that's what you'd done from the beginning: seeing him and his warm personality.

Always warm like the edge of his heart even in the midst of his storms, with you managing to look directly into the core of his overwhelming fears, the most hidden and the most obvious ones. And without meaning to, without seeking it, Bob had found himself leaning toward you, finding refuge in your inexhaustible source of love when he felt a little down, a love that you always showered upon him in many ways, with a word of empathy or a physical display of affection, like the loving way you pushed a lock of his hair aside, (one of his rebellious locks that sometimes rested in front of his eyes) even though it always fell back almost into place, making you laugh.

But when everything was alright, life was even better between back–and–forth conversations or the deepest ones, like the days and nights you two spent together to decipher if ghosts were real or solving the unsolved mysteries that lingered, and there, Bob could see the way even your eyes smiled every time your lips curved upward. You smiled and laughed a lot with him, and with the group, Bob paid full attention to your expression more than to other's, learning to differentiate your sound from the rest in a second.

“Yeah, Bob, your little girlfriend is coming back soon. You must be so excited.”

John's voice is flat, his back on the couch, directing his attention to the TV, but so full of mockery that Bob can feel it in the way his cheeks and the tips of his ears burn.

“(Y/N) is not my girlfriend.”

“But you want her to be. I can see you dying to hold her, to hug her, and to kiss her. I bet you dream about it every day.”

Yelena gives a long sigh, sinking deeper into the comfort of the other long couch, but her bored expression is just as threatening as when her eyes flared at any sign of danger.

“Why do you always have to be such a jerk, Walker?”

“I'm just being supportive!” John looks slightly surprised, as if his support system actually comes with sarcasm inevitably, lowering the arms he used to emphasize his protest. “I'll give you some advice, Bob—”

“I didn't ask for your advice.”

“Well, I’ll give it to you anyway. Tell (Y/N) how you feel, that you care a little too much for her or that you’re in love in her, I don’t know, but do it today, don’t wait for tomorrow because tomorrow is a bitch sometimes and who knows? Maybe we could get attacked by some alien and die.”

“That sounds fun, actually.”

Bob frowns, eyes a little more open, confused and slightly terrified, looking for some trace of sarcasm in Yelena’s deadpan voice, but when the elevator dings announcing your arrival, and Bucky’s, his head turns in your direction, meeting your gaze as you smile back when he does it first, feeling his own joy of seeing you again beating within him.

Bob wondered sometimes if stars also existed in the eyes, not only in the night sky.

“It’s so great to have you back, guys.” John sits down, fighting his own smirk. “We’re very happy to see you, aren’t we, Bob?”

Making his existence smaller, Bob nods, his body shrinking a little, but as Bucky recounts the events of the successful mission that lasted less than the expected number of days, you take your backpack from him and head towards your room. Yet it's your gaze that catches the way Walker continues to drag his mocking eyes between Bob and you, a second before looking away.

Messy minds tended to be the noisiest, you knew this well as you found a way to coexist peacefully with outside noises, building a wall around yourself and your mind so you wouldn't hear them even in your sleep, but as you disappear down the hallway, Walker leans forward, his brow furrowing deeply at the pain that begins to throb in the front of his head, like a hammer hitting a nail.

“Another headache, Walker?” Yelena asks.

“Yeah, maybe I should see a doctor.”

Yelena maintains a flat expression, though it amuses her to tears the way John hadn't realized that it was you who caused them, but she remains determined not to give herself away even when her gaze meets Bucky's, (who wants to laugh too) while she coughs softly to hide Bob's chuckle as he stands up.

“Maybe you should just stop being such a jerk.”

“What, Bob?”

“Nothing.”

But Walker had a point, Bob thinks sadly, all the time it takes him to make a milkshake for you. Between the sips of coffee that left a bitter taste on the tip of your tongue when you finished it, he knew you also enjoyed something just sweet, a drink that was like a remnant of a past life, a memory of your childhood, a whole journey that made you smile.

Bob didn't seek you out, and before you, he was just existing with empty hands and a mind full of dark thoughts, until things took a turn, and then his hand was always full with yours holding it, and a mind occupied as Bob began to replace the unwanted memories with something better, stopping living on autopilot, answering that question of whether things would ever get better.

Now, Bob turns the corner and enters the long corridor of rooms, and his sharp hearing registers the song playing in the distance, which grows slightly louder as he approaches the half–open door, a second voice providing the backing vocals, your voice, coming to him like a soft breeze. And he doesn't mean to spy, but shy as he usually is, Bob leans a little bit over the frame, his nervous hand still holding the glass to his chest.

You are there, your back to him, singing at the same level as the voice in your phone, walking around the room, fixing your already made bed or rearranging your desk—Your space after losing your place in your house, your new little home.

With a glass window on the other side, it lets in the golden autumn light of the sunset and it shines and reflects on your head, and Bob feels a heat rise in his stomach that creep through his body, ending up on his cheeks (the ones that had managed to rest from Walker's teasing) with a violent thud that makes him swallow.

You're wearing loose jeans and an oversized light blue sweater with sunflowers woven into it in haphazard patterns, light blue as the sky when dawn is breaking and the darkness finally fades away, because nothing last forever, not even the absence of light—and with you looking like everything Bob never could dream of finding—a nervous, childlike smile, one of those full of innocence, like the warm feeling of first love, spreads across his face.

Not in a garish way, you are colorful, just like your soul and your clothes and your words. And right there, time seems suddenly frozen as he films everything about you in his gaze, as if a single second feels like a lifetime together through all those months living in the same place.

However, when you turn around and like a domino effect, his body jerks a second after yours when you see him there, with Bob holding the glass slightly away from his body so the tide inside doesn't splash him.

“Jesus, Bob, you scared me!” You laugh, a little nervous, and he's fast to apologize.

“I'm sorry! I was here a second ago, I promise.” He swallows the lump in his throat when your sharp gaze seems to pierce through him, but you are not upset, just mocking him silently. “I just came to bring you this.”

There are many things you'd learned to over–feel after your mind expanded with your powers, like the noise in other people's heads, like the slight vibration of Bob's hand when he gives you the milkshake, with you holding the glass with both hands too.

“Thank you.” A gentle smile is drawn on your face. “This is so sweet of you, but you shouldn't have bothered, though, you know?”

He shakes his head.

“It's no bother.”

Bob pushes his hands into his pockets, almost rocking back and forth, lingering there for a moment as you take the first sip, and when you tell him it tastes great, he just smiles.

Bob is beautiful on the outside too, adorable with his casual style, (clothes he carefully selects just to sit on the couch with you, or go to the few places you frequent together) with his angelic face and his eyes looking at you now as you two talk, sitting side by side on the floor while working together on your new 1,000–piece puzzle, but not meeting your eyes for more than two, maybe three consecutive seconds before he looks away.

With your attention on the ground, you feel the warmth of his body radiating like waves nearby, like the power of that fiery star that hangs between the warmest days. Life moves like a whisper beside him, soft after a storm, quiet like when calm comes after chaos, and you love that.  

“You know who Stitch is, Bob?”

He looks up from the piece in his hand and nods, those two unruly chocolate strands of hair at each side bouncing with the movement, only to frame his face and that nervous look reflected in his warm blue eyes, but they can never hide the joy Bob feels when he sees the happiness in yours, and now, in that very moment, there is an overflowing, almost childlike thrill in them. Like finding a sapphire among a pile of faded rocks, the light in your eyes always shone no matter the season, like the sparkling autumn that paints the city now—and Bob Reynolds loves autumn.

“Great. You're coming to the movies with me tomorrow then.”

“L–like a date?”

Yet the sound of the silent autumn breeze blowing leaves down on the main street is even louder than his mental whisper, even though no one hears him in there. His heart beats under his own anxiety, but Bob smiles with the possibility of only you and him in the cinema for the first time.

“Are the others coming with us?”

You feel it: the disappointment in his voice at a positive response.

“Well, no: Lena didn't have a real childhood, so she doesn't know about those kinds of movies. Walker is a walking insult machine. Ava would somehow make kids cry if they get too loud. And I'm pretty sure Bucky's older than that radioactive cheese living in the fridge that no one dares throw away, so he only watches classics.”

Bob chuckles with a small, nervous but colorful sound.

“That cheese scares me. Kinda looks at me funny.”

“Isn’t that right?! I feel like it could give us even worse powers than we already have.”

He nods, frowning, but maintaining an amused expression as he holds your gaze.

“Yeah. It’s been there for a suspicious amount of time now. Maybe it’s a spy.”

You laugh in surprise.

“When I asked Alexei if he wanted to come, I tried to explain that Stitch was an alien, and the poor man started hyperventilating. An alien?! We should prepare for invasion, yeah?” You do your best to imitate his accent, and the joy of Bob’s deep laugh is adorable, warm, even when it falters because of his constant nervousness. “It was my fault. Maybe I shouldn’t have started talking about an alien after the Chitauri tried to invade the city and then others kept coming.”

Bob swallows, considering whether his next words might cross the line, hurting you even though he'd never do it on purpose. He knew a bit about your history and your brief stint with the Avengers, about your lab–gained powers, but all that little information was just scratching the surface of a life that so drastically changed the course of your path.

“Can I ask you a question?”

You can see Bob's gaze fixed on the puzzle out of the corner of your eye, but you nod anyway.

“Of course you can.”

“Are you angry about what happened to you?”

Your gentle gaze rests on him, even though Bob does his best to focus his full attention on the pieces. You always knew and felt it (since you two started living together) that Bob was trying hard every day and with all his might to feel normal again too, not just to act it, fighting to return to what he was before the drugs and his depression, before his alter egos and his memory loss that kept him from living a full life when there were pieces hidden in the darkness that made him feel incomplete.

No one can live a full life if they always feel like something is missing, you had once told him.

And maybe his attempt to be who he was again made him beautiful too, so beautiful it hurts, even though Yelena's words still echo in your mind and chest: he's in love with you. Because Bob looks like literature written by a feminine hand, sweet like the male protagonist of the most romantic book in the world, the dream of those who read and dream of finding someone like him, with him never realizing his own virtues, always oblivious to all that beauty in him, inside and out, which only made him even more beautiful.

You and he were still young, young adults whose years of your lives were snatched away by selfish people who only sought their own benefit—but being in love still scared you more, even when you were already completely immersed in that feeling.

“No. Not anymore. I spent so much time angry that it wore me down, but I think I found again that something that kept me going when all seemed lost.”

Bob blinks, confused, but he looks up and keeps his eyes fixed on your face until yours meet his again, so he doesn't miss a single bit of your answer.

“And what was it?”

“Love.”

You laugh at the way his face contorts in surprise, angelic eyes (even after having seen hell) a little wide open, blending with his radiant innocence as Bob tries to take in your entire expression, looking in search of a hint of lie.

“I mean love in general, Bob.”

He calms down fast with your voice, and listens closely.

Those 4 letters seemed simple, but hid such a profound undertone. You were still discovering new things to love, but love made you feel as if after the wild waves, the water on the shore once again felt like a lullaby, soothing your life until they became nothing more than a delicate whisper on the sand.

“I spent so much time hating myself that I forgot my parents and my older brother taught me to love myself properly, deeply. But then I felt again the love I had for people and things, the one I had before waking up on a gurney in that secret facility: my love for my family, for books, animals, for movies, for the few but good friends I had, and even for that boy with ocean–colored eyes I was getting to know in a sunny Los Angeles.”

Not everything was perfect, but Bob feels you are in the right path to find peace with the bad things that happened to you and the things you had to leave unfinished, and as he weighs your words, he knows they are like the first breath of fresh air after feeling scorching heat in your lungs, or like a light in the darkness.

“I was so close to you and didn't know it.” He chuckles, with a hint of melancholy as Bob wonders what it would have been like to know you in another life, before the catastrophe, though now, he is happy he can feel a connection with you, as if he'd actually met you before. “I wish I could have met you back there.”

“Yeah, me too. But everything I've been through has led me to this moment with you, so I wouldn't trade it for anything.”

Your gaze returns to the puzzle when his gaze moves away from you for a moment, but coming back in the next second to admire what you're letting him see—the profile of your face, the soft smile on your lips, and a new kind of peace he never felt before.

Bob confidently trusts that you're still the same despite past events, with the same laughter, the same desire to remain good, plus a power that spread through your mind. And everything still seems like a cozy autumn dream, with sensations so vivid that Bob can feel them on his skin, deep in his shy heart, wanting to live in it forever.

However, in a more selfish sense, like he never was, Bob wonders what it would feel like to be loved by you, in a romantic, deep, and real way like he's never experienced. Because now Bob understands that your laughter and your smile and your happiness hid so much feeling, so much so that he could compare you to a romantic movie—the kind that has you in tears mid–act but has always a happy ending, and when the credits roll, there's always a soulful ballad sung and a high note at the end that makes you tremble.

Surely, your love for things and people was just as beautiful as that.  

Your hand rests on your leg, empty, and Bob wants to take it, hold it while you lead the way, because he knows that he would follow you wherever you went, and that in a crowd, he would always find you. It's like an invisible light around you only he can see, like a thread tied to his pinky finger connected to yours.  

“I’m in love with you.” His whisper threatens to fade into the void again, even when your nervous gaze catches his, but Bob knows he has to tell you his feelings now before he stops being brave and his words die a cruel death inside him. “You were the first person who told me I wasn’t invisible, that you wouldn’t leave me behind even when I told you I was a threat. And I really tried to stop thinking of you this way because I know we’re friends, but every time I close my eyes I can see you, and when I sleep I can hear you in my mind, and that’s so much nicer…” Bob’s little smile is shy, him watching yours, which is somewhat saddened by the weight of his past, fragments of it he shared with you during your time together. “When I’m alone I want to see you, and when we are together I wish we could be together all day. I know I have nothing to offer you, and that sometimes I’m a little cloudy like Lena calls me, but you are confident, and you are smart, and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same—”

“I do feel the same.” A small, shy chuckle past by between your lips, feeling a heat in your cheeks, watching your fingers as you gather the courage to look him in the eye, followed by a sigh that seems to let go of a piece of your own past. “And that’s what scares me, but not enough to make me not want to be with you.”

Then, his hand envelops yours, calming you and your fears, steadying your whole world as your eyes return to his. Your vision of him is clearer, nervous but receptive, open to new sensations, and even with his own fears and insecurities piercing his heart, Bob leans forward, with you mirroring the gesture, the image of the other in yours and his closed eyelids, allowing yourself to be felt on each other's lips.

And the kiss is soft like his whole existence, bright in the dark, like the starlight that lingered in your gaze all the time.

Your hand squeezes his gently as his lips move against yours, just a little bit, soft and cautious as he calmly acknowledges this new part of you, but after living numb for so long, feeling this moment feels so good.

Bob pulls away, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

“Walker told me to tell you how I felt... today.” He chuckles, speaking softly so as not to clash with the new environment, which is more welcoming than the last ten seconds. “Can't believe he was right.”

You pull away a little more, opening your eyes again as he does too, chuckling with him at John's expense, and you push back that curly strand of hair of his with your free hand, which moves back almost into place, but as Bob leans forward again, you two know that from now on, life would be even brighter.

[sailingintothenight]

“A safe heaven.” Bob Reynolds.

Bob was led to believe heaven didn't exist, but now, with you, he knows it's real.

A/N: Hii. This is my first imagine about Bob. My page used to be about Tom Holland and Peter Parker but I haven't written about them in a while for personal reasons. I wasn't sure whether to keep using this account or create a new one, but I'll wait to see how my failed attempt to write about this little ray of light called Bob goes. I've been following Lewis' work for a while, but I saw him in the Marvel universe and his character is so adorable–almost everyone fell in love with him, I'm sure hehe–so I hope you like this. Thank you so much!

Warnings: just fluff.

“Can we… uh… sleep together again tonight, (Y/N)? Please?”

When the night swallowed the sun and New York City shone with artificial lights, as fictitious as his courage (still small, like a baby plant) to face those hours alone in the darkness of his room, Bob would appear in the tower's living room or kitchen, ready to sleep but waiting for you two to be alone or just with Yelena present, almost buried in clothes that were a size or two too big for him (considering he was quite large), on his gray sweatpants, and his nervous hands tucked into the sleeves of his blue sweatshirt with the letters I ♡ Los Angeles printed on it.

His timid request would be lost in the noise of life that followed its course outside the place, his voice loud enough only for you to hear it. That nocturnal dynamic between you two started innocently and stayed that way after one night when your mind expanded in your sleep and sank beyond the walls, capturing his nightmares as yours, feeling the violent beat of his heart inside your own, visualizing his expression behind your closed eyelids, and the pain and confusion when he woke up not knowing where he was.

And somehow, you found a way for him to see your fear of a lonely room, speaking to him in your warm voice, and Bob, who always tried to do good despite doubting his own goodness all the time, suggested timidly that maybe sleeping with someone else would be a temporary solution until you two find a permanent one. It was supposed to be a matter of one or two nights together, a week maybe, (so Bob would find peace in sleeping, without feeling the terror of his past materializing in his dreams if he woke up, realizing he wasn't alone anymore) but then he started asking you that question, day after day.

You always said yes, and Bob would smile to himself before walking away first.

“You adopted a puppy and didn't tell me.” Yelena chuckles that night, sitting in one of the high chairs around the granite table as she finishes her dinner, speaking softly so as not to disturb the peace that was beginning to build in the place, between different people who sometimes coexisted amidst so much chaos. “Bob is in love with you, you know? that's why he follows you around like he's a stray dog ​​and you his home.”

You laugh softly.

“I can be your home too, my love.”

Yelena grimaces in disgust, as if an unpleasant smell has reached her nose.

“Don't make me throw up my dinner.”

“Hey, I made that dinner.”

“And that’s why I love you.” She smiles, pretending to be cute as she wrinkles her nose, a failed plan because she is cute, with her beautiful face and her daily attempt to put the past behind her. “I mean, you are perfect, baby, with your amazing cooking skills, your cute little face, and the way you threaten to blow Walker’s head off when he starts acting like a jerk. It’s so funny he still hasn’t figured out why he gets migraines. So I understand why Bob likes you so much.”

Perfect, because that’s how they intended you to be, giving you powers that you didn't ask for. They made a weapon out of you, discovered in the middle of nowhere and without instructions, one that destroyed an entire complex.

When you close the door to your room, the warmth expands and stays there like a golden light, always present whenever you are present. Or at least that's how Bob sees you, with his blue eyes that once again had the brilliance of a star and always tried to hold your gaze, with you comparing the color to a new kind of ocean, safe and peaceful.

Like a force of nature, but one created in a laboratory, you arrived to destroy the little peace Bob had managed to find in his solitude, shaking his world with your magnetic presence. But Bob also loved the way your deep gaze could rest when life became routine, that little white dot that shone in the corner of your pupil disappearing when there was no threat, turning you almost into an angel when he saw the tenderness in your dreamy eyes when things looked a little better.

Now, sitting against the headboard of your bed, one leg tucked under the other, Bob shows you the book in his hand, a nervous smile on his lips.

Pride & prejudice.

“I finished it.”

“At an alarming rate.” You chuckle as you sit on your side of the bed: and Bob, who liked to stop and look at the flowers in the park near the tower, pet the cats in the front yards of the houses and read poetry, smiles with the compliment. “How long did it take you?”

“About 9 hours.”

“I’m impressed, Bob.” You smile proudly, and Bob will be able to see that sweet image of you clearly in his mind for the rest of his life, even when his head becomes foggy.

Then, a thought that was meant to stay inside, finds its way out from between the cracks of his own shyness.

“You smile pretty.” With him near to your lamp on the nightstand, the amber light makes his hair and messy locks shine, especially when his sweet smile disappears from his lips and Bob lowers his head for a moment, revealing the profile of his defined face and a glimpse of his flushed cheek. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Only one of your fingers makes contact with his chin, pushing it upward as soft as a feather, but with enough determination for him to meet your smile and hold it, though his gaze falters, nervous, but always warm and sincere. “We can watch the movie tomorrow if you want.”

“Is there a movie too?”

His eyes widen slightly, eyebrows rising.

“There are several, actually.”

His surprise doesn’t seem to fit in his expression, and it’s adorable and amusing until you both lie down under the thick blanket.

It doesn't take long for Bob to fall asleep after a long day (too tired from always overthinking about everything) lying on his left side, burying half his face in the pillow that smells like you, making him feel as if you were a memory from his childhood that he knows never happened, but one that he does want to remember and not erase from his fragmented mind.

However, there's a moment that breaks the peacefulness of his night with the noise from the other side of the big glass window, in a world rebuilding itself after the horrors experienced by his darkest side.

You're lying on another pillow, half sitting, back against the headboard of the bed with the same book in your hands, now looking at him. There, with no intention of overstepping his boundaries, your own fingers, the ones you once raised so that an entire building would crack and collapse, slide across his forehead, softly pushing back that brown lock of hair that frames one side of his lovely face—but you can see, you can feel, that this dream is less terrifying, less painful.

“Bob…”

Like a whisper that finds every dark corner of his mind, disappearing every shadow of that future nightmare forming in his head, your soft voice makes Bob wake up with a slight, barely audible gasp. He opens his eyes, looking lost just for a second, but he instantly recognizes where he is, the lavender scent of the place caressing his heart until it calms his confusion.

His gaze searches yours, head still on the pillow.

“I’m sorry. I dreamed 'bout that chicken costume again.”

You chuckle softly, a warm sound like that ray of sunshine on his skin during his time in Los Angeles. Bob looks like a tiny caterpillar in the safety of his little house—or that’s what your mom used to say about you—when he pulls the blanket closer to him, his body making a slight movement to scoot closer to you.

“Don’t worry, Bob, we can do this until you feel better.”

“Thanks, (Y/N). You are so nice.” But when reason stumbles for a moment, Bob finds the strength to speak, in a whisper so as not to clash with the peaceful surroundings, closing his eyes because there with you, the darkness behind his closed eyelids isn’t an endless pit trying to swallow him up. “Can we do this forever?”

Your hand strokes one side of his hair, and a soft smile appears on his lips.

You can almost see the iron blows from his father's fists that sank into his body, that played cruel tricks on his mind until that little brown–haired, blue–eyed angel had his tiny wings ripped off and was convinced that heaven never existed.

But now, for Bob, it is real. At least with you, it is.

“Sounds perfect to me.”