John had done his nightly rounds, making sure everyone was still breathing.
He checked one by one, and as usual, stayed by Bob's door, watching him for a moment longer than what would be considered normal.
But after staring long enough at his curled up form under the blankets, he didn't see his chest rise.
The more he watched, the quicker his heart pumped. His skin was tighter over his own bones and a prickly feeling washed over him.
“Bob,” he called out with no response. Panic truly seeped in as he quickly stepped inside and stood by his bedside.
“Bob, wake up,” he lightly pressed a hand to his shoulder, shook with caution, checked his breathing again. He hasn't moved an inch.
"Bobby, please,” he got on his knees to be eye level and shook again and again. His heart was going to explode if Bob didn't open his eyes, or respond, make at least some noise, one movement, anything.
John held onto his shoulder for a moment to regain any semblance of composure and clarity of what to do, which he failed to obtain.
He stood, and breathed in once before sprinting out of the room and down the hall.
John knew Bucky was awake. He saw him as he passed the kitchen. John didn't want to bother him, so he had moved on. Now, he raced to Bucky seeking his help.
"Bucky, it's Bob,” John said panting. Bucky looked to be doing a crossword puzzle, but abandoned it upon John's arrival seeing his disheveled state.
"What?” he asked, putting his pencil down.
“Help,” is all John managed to get out. Bucky was up in a second and out the kitchen following behind John.
The thump of his own heart was louder than his steps. It banged against his ribs like it was a prisoner, and rushed his blood around like it was restless.
He couldn't even feel his feet as he made it to Bob's doorway once again. He stared into the abyss of his room and could barely step inside without dread enveloping him like a lake swallowing him whole.
Bucky was right there with him, watching John gaze down at a wide eyed Bob, staring back up at him. Like this, in the dark, Bob was nothing more than a shadow, but his eyes sparkled from the light in the hall.
“Bob…you–” John started, but didn't know where to end his thought. He didn't really have any right now. His mind kept coming up empty.
“What's going on?” Bob asked as he rubbed at his eyes and carefully sat up properly like he would disturb the air if he moved too quickly.
"John, what is going on?” Bucky pressed. There was an edge to his voice that John recognized as obvious inquiry, but mostly suspicion and maybe even concern.
“I thought…” John trailed off as his heart sank into a different kind of dread.
It was a mistake. One that needed to come with an explanation. A reasoning he couldn't disclose.
He hadn't told a single person about his routine. His nightly watch. It was not only embarrassing, but it was absolute paranoia that fueled it, and he couldn't bear to admit it.
John couldn't stop looking into Bob's confused eyes. He was afraid to move, afraid to speak. There was nowhere to hide and nothing to say to make this make sense.
“I'm sorry," John choked out. "I thought…” he shook his head, “I was wrong, I'm sorry.”
John rushed out of the room without another glance. Bucky called out and attempted to follow, but he was quick to get to his room.
There, back leaning against the door, he held onto his head as it pounded.
He replayed the moment like a twisted song on repeat. He recalled how lifeless Bob looked as he picked apart what he could have missed, what went wrong with his perception. John let it ruminate in his mind until it made him sick.
There was nothing he could do to make the memory reflect reality than the warped version he kept.
John waited until the world came to a stand still and he could lay back down, but he couldn't shut his eyes, not until he exhausted his brain of the memory of a dead Bob.
