sometimes home is a person team — bob reynolds x witch!reader
ᯓ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝖻𝗈𝖻 𝗋𝖾𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗌 𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 / 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
ᯓ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝖮𝗇 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖳𝗁𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽: 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖡𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗅—𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖡𝗈𝖻 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄. (This is long fyi)
ᯓ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 𝖧𝗎𝗋𝗍/𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖥𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖥𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖡𝗎𝗋𝗇
ᯓ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍, 𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒
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♪ “ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ” — ᴄᴏʟᴅᴘʟᴀʏ “ᴄʟᴏᴄᴋs”
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The facility was too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that meant “mission accomplished.” No — it was the stillness of something waiting to be found.
John Walker slowed his pace, eyes narrowing down the long metal corridor. Behind him, Bucky adjusted the grip on his pistol. Bob, at the rear, scanned the shadows with a soft, worried crease in his brows.
“Anyone else hear that?” Bob asked suddenly, voice low.
They all froze.
A soft, broken sound echoed down the hallway.
It was faint — nearly drowned out by the hum of flickering lights and the cooling bodies of dead tech — but it was there.
A whimper.
Sharp. Wet. Human.
“Third door on the right,” Bucky murmured, already moving.
They reached the door in seconds. Reinforced steel. Padlocked shut.
Walker knelt beside the frame and tugged at the handle. “Locked.”
Bucky frowned. “Someone didn’t want this opened.”
More whimpering.
This time it was clearer — like someone trying not to cry. Trying to disappear.
Bob’s breath caught in his throat. “We need to open it. Now.”
No more questions.
With a grunt of effort, Walker raised his shield and slammed it into the lock. The door didn’t budge.
Bucky stepped in beside him, metal arm gleaming.
“Together,” he said.
The door flew open with a deafening clang, slamming into the wall and revealing a room that reeked of blood, bleach, and desperation.
And there — in the far corner, curled so tight you looked half your size — was you.
Your arms were wrapped around your knees, trying to hide your chest. Your skin was scraped, bruised, and streaked with dried blood. IV ports dangled from your arms. And worse — you were naked.
You let out a cry and shoved yourself deeper into the corner, eyes wide with terror as the three men stood frozen in the doorway.
“Shit,” John muttered. “She’s just a kid.”
“Hey,” Bucky said softly, kneeling down and holding up both hands. “It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.”
But you were shaking. Mute. Pressed into the wall like it might swallow you whole.
Bob took one step forward — slow, careful, eyes flicking instantly to your exposed body. His face tightened.
Then, without a word, he unclasped the thick, blue cape from his shoulders.
He held it low so you wouldn’t flinch, then gently draped it over your shivering form.
“There we go,” he said quietly, voice soft as clouds. “You don’t have to be scared. I’ve got you.”
Your breathing hitched as you stared up at him. Tears filled your eyes. And Bob, he didn’t hesitate. He knelt down and, with one careful motion, scooped you into his arms — cape tucked tightly around you, shielding every inch of skin.
You didn’t fight him.
You just trembled. Silent. Fragile.
Bucky and John exchanged a glance but said nothing. Whatever you’d been through… it was worse than they imagined.
⸻
When they met up with the others in the hangar, Yelena’s smile dropped instantly.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, stepping forward.
“She was locked in,” Walker said quietly. “No food. No clothes. They left her to rot.”
“Animals,” Ava spat.
Alexei stared for a long moment, then crossed himself.
Bob just held you tighter.
“She didn’t say anything,” he murmured. “Not a word. But she let me carry her.”
Your face was buried in his chest, arms trembling under the thick folds of his cape. You didn’t speak, but you clung to him like a life raft.
And that’s exactly what he was.
⸻
On the Jet the flight home was silent — not with tension, but with reverence.
Bob stayed seated with you nestled in his lap, his arms cradling your body as gently as if you were made of glass.
You never once moved away.
Yelena passed him a water bottle to offer you. He held it near your mouth, and to everyone’s shock, you sipped. Barely — but you trusted him.
You didn’t acknowledge the others. Couldn’t. Not yet.
But when turbulence hit and your fingers tightened in Bob’s suit, he only smiled down at you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered again.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, you let yourself believe it might be true.
You were a test subject. You were a kid—probably no older than twenty. And the second you stepped foot into the Thunderbolts’ tower, your healing began.
⸻
Your healing journey started with yelena:
Yelena didn’t push when you didn’t eat the first night.
She just stared down at the untouched food with a sigh and muttered in Russian under her breath, something halfway between annoyance and concern. The next morning, she came back — tray in hand, this time with oatmeal and banana slices shaped into a smiley face, and a mug of something warm with cinnamon steam curling into the air, something the former Captain America had made just for you.
“You didn’t eat,” she said matter-of-factly, setting the tray beside you. “So now I’m bribing you. Congratulations. You’ve become a hostage to my hospitality.”
You blinked at the bowl, then at her.
“I swear it’s not poisoned,” she added, holding up both hands. “If it was, Bob would’ve cried halfway through stirring.”
She didn’t expect a thank you. She didn’t get one, either.
The next day, it was scrambled eggs and toast — cut into little squares (courtesy of Bucky) like she was feeding a toddler. She perched on the foot of your bed, scrolling through her phone like she had nowhere better to be.
“Just one bite,” she murmured, almost like she was talking to herself. “Then I can yell at John with a clear conscience.”
On the fourth day, your fingers shook when you reached for the spoon. She didn’t say anything — just passed you a napkin without looking up. Her voice stayed light. Teasing. Like this was all normal.
By the end of the week, there were post-it notes all over the kitchen.
“If you eat the soup, I’ll let you braid my hair. Warning: I talk a lot of trash.”
“Bob made muffins. You don’t want to disappoint him. He has sad eyes.”
“Eat something or I’ll tell Alexei you need cheering up. You know what that means.”
You still hadn’t spoken. But you were eating.
One night, when you drifted off on the couch, curled into John’s army hoodie, Yelena pulled the blanket over your legs. The sleeve slipped off your arm.
And that’s when she really saw you.
The outline of bones. The thinness of your wrist. How your shoulder blades looked like they might cut through your skin.
Her expression didn’t change. Not outwardly.
But her hand stilled.
And for the first time, her voice wasn’t joking when she whispered to the empty room, “I’ve got you now, okay? You’re not going to break.”
Then she sat on the floor beside you.
And stayed.
⸻
Next came the loudest member, alexei:
Alexei was loud, clumsy, and had absolutely no concept of personal space.
But somehow… you didn’t mind.
Maybe it was because he didn’t look at you with pity. Didn’t tiptoe or whisper. He just treated you like you were alive, not fragile — like joy was still something worth chasing.
One afternoon, he barged into the kitchen wearing a dish towel as a cape and a colander on his head. “Do not be alarmed,” he announced. “Red Guardian is here to defend snack time.”
Bob blinked. Yelena rolled her eyes.
You… let out a small, unexpected snort.
Alexei gasped, hand on his chest. “Was that laugh? Did I hear laugh?! You have been blessed by the Guardian’s presence!”
Your hands flew to your mouth, surprised by the sound. He grinned wider.
From that day on, he was relentless. Sock puppet shows. Dramatic retellings of old missions (“There were six bears, I swear—no, seven!”). A constant, chaotic storm of ridiculous energy designed for one purpose: to make you forget, just for a minute.
One night, after you smiled — a real one — he sat back in his chair, quieter than usual.
“They did not take you,” he said. “You are still here. I see it.”
And in that moment… you believed maybe he was right.
⸻
bucky was next after that day:
You never said a word. Not to him. Not to anyone.
But Bucky never asked you to.
He noticed early — the way your eyes tracked every sound like they might be a threat. The way you kept your back to the wall, flinching when anyone entered the room too fast. The way you gripped the hem of Bob’s hoodie like a lifeline.
So Bucky gave you space… but he also gave you presence.
You’d find him in the hallway outside your room some mornings, sitting with a mug of coffee, reading a weathered paperback. He didn’t knock. Didn’t hover.
He just existed nearby — calm. Predictable. Someone who could sit in silence without making it uncomfortable.
One evening, you startled during a movie — a sudden explosion on screen.
Before you even registered it, Bucky was beside the couch, crouched down in front of you, one hand held palm-up near yours, not touching.
Your breath hitched.
“I get it,” he said gently. “Too much noise sometimes.”
You didn’t answer. Just stared at his hand — scarred, calloused, real — and after a long moment, you let your pinky brush his thumb.
He said nothing. Just nodded like it meant everything.
The next day, he brought a book to your room. The Secret Garden.
He didn’t read it aloud. Just left it on the nightstand and tapped the cover once. “One of the good ones.”
Later, he caught you curled on your side with it open on your lap, lips moving silently as your finger traced the words.
When the nightmares came — and they always came — you’d find your door cracked open. Not by accident.
Bucky would be down the hall, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds in one ear, metal arm resting on his knee. He never asked questions. He just sat there. Every night.
And though you couldn’t say it yet… a small part of you started to believe:
You weren’t alone. Not anymore.
⸻
Ava was next:
The phaser never hovered.
She didn’t overwhelm you with softness or pity. She simply showed up — a quiet presence with clean clothes folded in her arms and a hairbrush in her hand.
“These might be too big,” she said one morning, holding out a plain black hoodie and leggings. “But they’re yours. No having to return or borrow.”
You took them without meeting her eyes.
Afterward, she found you in the bathroom mirror, trying to tame the mess of your hair with shaking fingers. You didn’t ask for help. But you didn’t flinch when she stepped beside you and gently reached for the brush.
“Can I?” she asked.
You hesitated, remembering when those people would yank and pull your hair, or cut it but still you nodded.
She worked slowly — careful not to tug, careful not to crowd. Her fingers were warm and steady as she moved through the tangles, the silence between you soft and comfortable.
“There,” she murmured, brushing a final strand behind your ear. “Better.”
You glanced at your reflection — the clean clothes, the neat braid, the faint color in your cheeks.
For the first time, you looked like someone becoming.
Over the next few days, she left little bundles on your bed — folded tops in soft fabrics, sweatpants with drawstrings, simple rings and earrings like you might’ve picked for yourself once.
And she never made it a big deal. Never told you what to wear. She just let you choose.
That was her way of saying: This body is yours again.
Not theirs.
And when she caught you one evening tracing your fingers over the silver band on your thumb — the one she’d quietly slipped into the pile — Ava smiled.
“You picked a good one.”
⸻
john was next:
John didn’t pretend to understand what you’d been through.
But he knew how to rebuild something broken — brick by brick, breath by breath. So when you started eating again, sleeping through the night, and walking with a little less tremble in your step, he showed up at the training room early one morning with two mats and a towel slung over his shoulder.
“No punches,” he promised. “Just movement. Just control.”
You hovered by the doorway, unsure.
He didn’t coax. Just dropped into a stretch and started his warmup like it was nothing. Five minutes later, you quietly sat across from him, copying his motions — stiff, slow, but willing.
The sessions stayed wordless for a while. No pressure. No lectures. Just him, showing up. Patient. Steady.
And then came the sparring.
He kept it light, barely tapping your arms, letting you find your footing. You hated how weak you felt. He saw it in your eyes — the frustration, the fear that you weren’t someone anymore.
Then one day, it happened.
You blocked a blow just a little too hard — or maybe it wasn’t your muscles that reacted. Maybe it was something deeper.
A burst of blue light, violent and raw, cracked through your palm like lightning. It slammed into John’s chest with a force neither of you expected.
He flew backward. Crashed into the far wall with a heavy, echoing thud.
You froze. Eyes wide. Heart racing.
Then you crumpled into the corner of the room, pulling your knees to your chest, trembling like a child who had broken something too precious.
John groaned, dragging himself up, hand over his ribs.
“Okay,” he muttered, coughing. “That was new.”
You didn’t look up. Just shook your head, curls hiding your face. Your chest heaved. You thought he’d be angry. Scared. You were scared.
And then — boots stepped closer.
And arms wrapped around you.
Strong. Real. Safe.
John knelt there in front of you, holding you to his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.
“Hey, hey. I’m alright. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t.”
You clung to his shirt, breath shaky, chest tight.
“You’ve got power,” he whispered. “That’s all. And we’re gonna figure it out — together.”
No bark. No orders. Just warmth.
Just John — letting you fall apart without judgment.
And staying until you could breathe again.
⸻
bob was last:
Bob had watched them all find their way to you.
Yelena with her constant hovering, armed with snacks and sass and fierce protectiveness — always pretending it wasn’t tenderness underneath.
Alexei, storming through every room like a bear in a costume shop, pulling laughs from you like it was the only thing that mattered.
Ava, so gentle, giving you soft fabrics and quieter choices — never treating you like glass, but always giving you control.
Walker, guiding you through each move in the gym, pushing just enough to show you your strength — and holding you when your powers cracked through the surface.
Even Bucky had found his way in. Sitting beside you on the bad days. Letting silence be safe again.
Bob… wasn’t sure what was left for him.
He was the quiet one. The overlooked one. Always had been.
But you kept sitting next to him.
Not touching, at first. Just close. Like his presence was a lighthouse in a fog you couldn’t name.
And then one day, as you sat on his lap like you had on the jet and at some-point you ended up hiding you face into his chest when an silly argument between Alexei and Walker started, he let you stay like that.
And then again, the next day. And the next.
Eventually, your spot wasn’t beside him — it was on him. Curled in his lap on the jet, pressed into his chest on the couch, dozing off with your palms on his chest. He never moved unless you wanted him to. Never asked questions. Just offered you the stillness you’d been denied for so long.
He didn’t talk much. Not because he didn’t want to — but because you never looked like you needed words.
You needed breath. Warmth. Something safe to rest your bones against.
And that, he could give you.
But late at night, when the tower was quiet and the others had gone to bed, he’d stare down at the top of your head and wonder: Am I helping? Or am I just here?
He told himself it didn’t matter.
That just being was enough.
Then one night, while you were curled in his lap under a shared blanket he brought from his room, he sighed and murmured, “Yelena’s furious with me. Says I stole her muffin again. Swears she counted them this time.”
Your head stirred faintly against his chest.
“She’s wrong, though,” he continued softly. “It was Alexei. I saw him. Tried to hide it in his boot like a goblin hoarding treasure.”
There was a beat.
And then — the faintest breath of a sound.
A snort. Half a laugh. And then, quieter still:
A hoarse voice spoke “…Liar.”
Bob froze.
You did too.
The word hung in the air between you — fragile, trembling, real.
His eyes widened. He looked down slowly, breath catching.
“Did you just…?” He blinked. “Did you—say something?”
You were already curling into yourself, pulling the blanket tighter, face warm with embarrassment.
But he smiled — soft and stunned — and took your hand gently in both of his.
“You did,” he whispered. “You talked.”
You didn’t answer, but you didn’t pull away either.
And after a moment, you rested your head on his shoulder again — quieter now, but not afraid.
“I knew you’d find it,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I didn’t know it’d break me like this, but… I’m glad it was me.”
He didn’t tell anyone that night.
He just held you while you fell asleep against his chest, warm and safe and finally home.
