Chapter Text
Bob had good days and, of course, he had bad days. For a while, he had been having good days, weeks even. Moving into the watchtower with the rest of the team had done wonders for him; he no longer felt that deep feeling of loneliness and instead found purpose. Sure, he wasn't able to be much help on missions or take part in debriefings, but he wasn't entirely useless, or at least he hoped he wasn't. He cleaned up Alexi's messes, did the dishes, and washed and folded everyone's laundry. When permitted, he joined on missions and tried his very best to help, whether it be surveillance or helping civilians, he did it. Sure, he tried not to do much fighting or use his powers in case ‘he’ came out because of it, but he did his part, and that's what was important to him. He helped. It was nice. The routine helped him feel normal again.
The team bonded as well, watching movies together and cooking meals for each other–well, it was more John cooking and yelling at anyone who dared step foot in “his” kitchen, yet he’d always make the perfect meal for whoever was blessed to be on the receiving end of his cooking. It almost felt like family, like he had a place to call home again.
He loved it, loved them, loved the newfound family he had acquired. But, at the same time, part of him told himself it wasn't real. He fights the thoughts off anytime they arise, but things have been too good lately. Everyone's far too nice to him, they let him take his time adjusting, asking how he is constantly. It's sweet, but he knows he's simply lulled himself back into a fake sense of security.
These people, his ‘family’ as he calls them, they're better off without him. They only ask how he is to make sure the void won't come back out and force them into shame rooms. He shakes his head, trying to shoo the thoughts away. He's sitting in-between Yelena and John right now, watching a movie he got to pick out with little fuss from the group. Bucky is sitting on the far end of the couch, next to his left is Ava, then Alexi. He's wanted, needed even, he repeatedly tells himself like a mantra, willing his brain to believe those words. They're not sitting with him out of obligation, but because they want to. They aren't being nice to him just because they’re scared of the void, no, they want to be his friend.
It's hard sometimes. Hard to ignore the void when he's constantly breathing down his neck, whispering hurtful little nothings in his ear. No matter how hard or often the others reassure him, the void is always there to crush those hopeful thoughts. The thought that he may be somebody.
He wants to be somebody, he thinks. He wants to mean something to others, for his life to amount to something rather than a trainwreck of human failure. While the team tells him he is someone, that he is important, their voices are often drowned out by the ever-present voice of the void. He shakes his head again, pleading for the voice to lessen, to release its crushing grip. The voice constantly reminds him that he's nothing, reminding him of his place in the world. That he is alone, and always will be.
“Bob,” a voice calls out. He can't focus on it right now, try as he might.
He shakes his head for a third time, blinking some focus back into his eyes. Yelena’s hand has found its way into his, fingers interlocking in a comforting gesture. Looking at their hands, he notices a familiar darkness has crept up his hand, down his wrist, and just below the cuff of his sweater. Slowly, the darkness fades away, leaving his pale skin to be seen instead. Twisting to face Yelena, he sees the concern in her eyes, the flash of worry he's seen far too often from her. He doesn't like making her, or any of the team, for that matter, worry about him. It puts a certain heavy feeling in his chest, the feeling of being a burden, of weighing down the others.
He pulls a shaky smile onto his face, not nearly as convincing as he wants it to be, “I'm okay.” He whispers to her before turning back to the movie.
He hears Yelena sigh quietly, but her grip on his hand only tightens, and she leans her head onto his shoulder. It's comforting in a way, the pressure of another human against him. It reminds him that he is real, tangible, and alive. He takes a breath, heavy and deep, and relaxes back into the couch. He lets the steady breathing next to him comfort him into a calm. He lets the pressure on both sides of him–John is pressed into his side, manspreading like he owns the couch–quiet the voices in his head, and instead remind him he isn't alone.
The movie ends shortly after, and the team begins to disperse. Ava first, sleepily stumbling off to her room with a yawn. Bucky follows next, stating he has paperwork to catch up on, and soon after, Alexi leaves with a big yawn. It leaves Yelena, John, and him.
He knows the two are tired, he had watched John’s head fall back several times as he nearly fell asleep, yet forced himself to stay awake anyway. He wondered why that was. Yelena, too, was tired yet had stayed awake anyway. He waited for one of the two to make a move to their rooms first, yet neither did. Part of him, the grossly selfish part, didn't want them to leave. He wanted their company, for them to stay with him and keep him grounded, but he knew it was wrong to force that upon his friends. That's what they were, friends, not babysitters. He wondered if the two saw what they had that way. He wondered if they thought of him as a friend, or as the weirdo they had to babysit, or if he'd destroy all of New York again.
He stood up, deciding to move first. He couldn't be selfish, not this time. “Good night,” he whispered to the two. With a small, more subdued smile aimed their way, he made his way to his room.
“Bobby,” John called out. He paused, turning to look at the man who was now standing up. “We’re here for you, y'know. You aren't alone.” He spoke.
He smiled, a little more genuinely this time. Leave it to John to know what to say to help him feel better. It was endearingly sweet. “Thank you.” He spoke before disappearing into his room, shutting the door behind him.
His room had become his little sanctuary. Filled with whatever comforting items he could find, his room had been a way for him to escape his thoughts. Most of the things in his room had been snuck into his room by the team; he had a hard time accepting gifts, yet somehow little trinkets, sweaters and hoodies, or blankets and plushies would miraculously show up one day. It was nice, each gift reminded him that the team did care about him enough to think about getting him things. No matter how silly it was, or how much guilt he felt for each gift, he could never get rid of any of them.
Turning a small lamp on in the corner of his room, he let himself collapse into the plush bean bag chair in the corner, opting to settle there instead of his bed, knowing he wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight.
When they had moved into the watchtower, he had embarrassingly admitted to the team that certain things triggered him more than others, the dark being one of those things. He had expected to be taunted, laughed at, maybe even yelled at like his father. They had been kind, instead. Bucky had bought several lamps, night lights, and assorted lights for his room and the hallway outside his room, just in case. He had been eternally grateful, especially for nights like this where the darkness already threatened to swallow him whole.
With another deep breath, he relaxed into his bean bag chair, staring at the string lights that covered the wall above his unused bed. He felt childish and weak. He was a grown ass man who still needed a night light. He wondered how long the team would put up with his weakness. How long would they allow him to weigh them down?
He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. He tried to drown the voices out and fall asleep instead. Sleep wasn't often kind to him, yet it was also better than lying awake. He tried calming himself, focusing on positive things, stuff he was excited about. Yelena, Ava, and he planned on going to a bookstore tomorrow before they left for a mission the following day. John had promised him chocolate chip pancakes since they ran out this morning. Alexi had given him more of his giant sweaters–he liked it when the team let him wear his clothes, it brought him more comfort than he’d ever be able to explain. A smile made its way onto his face, he was okay; yesterday would be better. Soon enough, he felt himself drift off, sleep catching up to him quicker than he had expected.
“Stop! Don't touch her, stop it!” He yelled, standing in-between his father and mother. His poor mother was on the ground, face bloodied from his father's fists once again. He couldn't fight; his body was too weak to stand against his father, but he could take hits in place of his mother.
He braced for the hit, biting his tongue as his father's fist connected with his face. He fell to the floor in a heap as his mother cried out. Blood spilled out of his mouth as he coughed.
“You think you’re some hero, Bobby?! Huh?!” His father yelled.
“Robert, don't! You’re just going to make things worse!” His mother cried out.
He pulled himself up off the ground on wobbly legs, tears brimmed his eyes, and a nasty bruise was already forming on his cheekbone.
His father roared with laughter, “You think you can stand up to me?! That you’re better than me?!” The older man grabbed him by the collar and hit him again and again, “You’re nothing, Bobby! Hear that?! You’re nothing, just a pointless weak waste of space!”
The tears poured down his face in steady streams. He would prove his father wrong, one day he’d prove him wrong.
The older man shoved him harshly to the ground, kicking him in the abdomen as he walked past to the fridge to pull out another beer, before stalking off to the living room.
~~~~~~~~
He didn't recognize where he was, he never did as of late. He was on a cement floor, a makeshift mattress created out of clothes and blankets. There were needles everywhere, someone passed out in the corner–or maybe dead, he thought briefly–and filth from floor to ceiling.
The meth had worn off long ago and the itch was back. The deep feeling of need was back. He reached into his own pockets and came up empty, not a damn dime to his name.
He spent several long hours–maybe days, he couldn't remember–suffering through withdrawals, lying on the cold cement floor as his body ached. He felt fuzzy, confused, yet couldn't get it to stop. This had to be by far the longest he had gone without the drugs that practically kept him running, having run out of money and connections long ago.
He forced himself off the ground, shaking and jittery. He needed something to take the edge off, to get his mind to calm down. He walked outside, wincing at the brightness. It took him nearly an hour of wandering to find a dealer, someone who could help him.
The man demanded money, but he knew he had nothing, no money, nothing valuable. He refused to leave, though he needed it. He would do anything to feel the sweet relief of a high.
He doesn't remember the rest of that night and the weeks following, having gotten so beyond high he could barely remember his name. What he did remember, however, was the feeling of scraped skin off his knees and a burning in his throat. None of it mattered to him; he got what he needed, and that's all that mattered.
~~~~~~~~~
His head swam. He had come to Malaysia for a new start, to become something better. To finally prove his father wrong. But something was utterly wrong. He remembers his arms being strapped down to a table, a needle being stabbed into his arm, and he thrashed around wildly. He remembers blood draws, tubes, needles–so many goddamn needles after he just got sober–and so much pain. His head throbbed as if it were splitting in two, and he felt like vomiting.
They were supposed to make him better, so why did he feel so much worse? Why were they hurting him when they had promised he would never hurt again? What the hell was happening to him?!
He forced his eyes open, vision hazy and unfocused. He could see a woman not far from the table he was strapped down to, her hair was cut into a bob, streaks of white throughout the black. She spoke with command, with the force of someone who believed they were almighty. He feared her and what she was doing to him. Turning to the side, his heart froze, rows of tables similar to his, only those tables were covered in what resembled…body bags?!
He turned back to the woman who was now staring at him with what seemed like surprise, maybe. He felt his chest seize in fear and immediately began to struggle, attempting to free himself of the straps holding him down.
He didn't want to die like this! He couldn't, not like this!
Her voice cut through his hazy panic, “What a shame, this one's out of control again. Sedate him.” She waved at a man in a medical getup, yet he had the feeling he couldn't possibly be a doctor to subject him to this. He didn't want it, he tried to scream, he didn't want any of this! He didn't want to be sedated, he just wanted to go home!
And wasn't that funny? He begged and pleaded to go home, but he didn't even have one. Where was it he wanted to go back to? To one of the many crack houses he stayed in? Back to his childhood house with his father? He didn't have a home to go back to, yet he still pleaded like a child. He felt a needle stab into his arm, and soon his vision filled with darkness.
He shot up from where he was lying, his breathing was laboured, hitching in these weak, pitiful sounds. He was drenched in a cold sweat from head to toe.
He couldn't stop it, stop the voices from swallowing him whole. The voices that told him it was all his fault, that he was truly and forever alone. A sob ripped through his throat, cutting through him like a sharp blade. Faintly, he could hear a knocking, but he couldn't find where it was coming from.
He felt lost, and opening his eyes only exacerbated that. The lights in his room were all off, he faced pitch black instead. He gasped, another sob rocking through him.
The void had won, he had been too weak and let the void take him, and now all of New York would be forced to face their fears–their traumas again. The team would be forced to go through it again because he hadn't been strong enough.
He curled into himself, letting his panic-filled state consume him. He constantly had nightmares, which wasn't out of the ordinary, but it wasn't usually this bad. He always woke up to the light surrounding him, not the darkness. Not this time, no, he had let the void win. He had been too weak, too pathetic.
He clutched the fabric around his chest, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His lungs hurt, burned with the lack of oxygen. Sobs racked through his frame, tears pouring down his face. Everything hurt; he felt like he was back on that table all over again as his body shook with imaginary pain. He wanted it to stop.
It was dark, he was alone, the void had won, and he was fucking scared. He didn't want to hurt anymore, he didn't want to remember or feel anymore. He pleaded to the emptiness for it to stop, for the darkness and voices to leave him alone through his sobs.
“BOB!” A voice had cut through his never-ending thoughts, a pair of hands clutching his shoulders. He flinched back, hard, his breathing picking up as he shook harder. The hands retreated, and somehow that made him feel so much worse. He was alone in the dark again. He didn't want to be alone, but he didn't want this person touching him; he couldn't handle it, everything was too much!
“Bob, listen, it's Walker. You’re okay. You know me, it's Walker, can I touch you?” His voice sounded calm, there was an underlying hint of worry–well, it wasn't very hidden, his voice was more drenched in worry. His voice was soothing, though it brought him back enough to open his eyes enough to see a small light emanating from John's phone flashlight. He must have turned it on since the lights in Bob's room were off. He could see the darkness of the void had spread through the expanse of his room, and, sparing a glance at himself, it had covered him up to his shoulders. He really had allowed the void to win again, he was just too weak.
He couldn't bring himself to speak, his voice caught in emotion. He sobbed once more but nodded, leaning into John's touch as the man wrapped his arms carefully around him in a comforting embrace.
“There you go, Bobby, you’re-” A sob tore through him at the nickname, and instantly he pulled away, his breathing quickening once again. “Hey, hey, I'm sorry. I'm no good at this. Bob, you’re okay.” John spoke as he wrapped his arms back around him more carefully this time, as if waiting for a ticking bomb to detonate. The man's hands gently rubbed between his shoulder blades in circular motions.
He felt the man's chest rise and fall dramatically and soon realized he wanted Bob to follow along, and slowly but surely he did. It was grounding and slowly he felt himself relax into the older man’s arms completely, damn near going limp in the man's arms. His breathing had smoothed out, and the tears had all but stopped. He still felt off, but he felt better.
“You want to talk about it?” John asked. He wasn't pushing, but he could tell the man was at least curious. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. The words stuck in the back of his throat. Instead, he closed his mouth and shook his head, and tucked his face into John's shoulder instead.
He felt the man take a deep breath, then gently card his finger through his hair, "You don't have to talk, that's okay.” He said, fingers scraping gently at his scalp. It was weirdly helpful; the sensation of John's fingers in his hair helped to ground him, helped him feel real again.
They stayed that way for a while, Bob silent and pressed against John while the latter played with his hair gently.
"I had a nightmare, well, it was more like three combined into one? I'm not sure..” he began slowly, his voice shaking slightly.
“You don't have to explain yourself to me, I get it. We all have nightmares, and sometimes we just need a little help coming down from them, yeah?” John spoke. Somehow, it both made him feel better and worse. He didn't want to rely on someone else to pull him out of a nightmare, to keep the void away, but at the same time, he wasn't the only one who needed help?
He hadn't heard anyone else needing help with things like this, at least not as much as he had needed everyone's help. A voice in the back of his head told him it was because the others didn't need him; he was the only one burdening them with his nightmares, pulling them away from their much-needed sleep.
“I'm sorry..” he mumbled. “I probably woke you up, you can go now, swear I'm fine..” he said, pulling himself out of John’s warm arms. He missed the heat and pressure the embrace had brought him already. God, he was so weak.
“I was already up, Bob. Like I said, you’re not the only one who gets nightmares.” John said. He wanted to speak up, to ask something, but the man cut him off before he got the chance to, “I’ll leave if you want me to, but I am here for you, just like I said earlier. I care about you, we all do.” He said before standing up.
He watched as John grabbed his phone, and suddenly he was filled with fear again–if John left, the light from his phone would be gone, and he’d be alone in the dark again. He didn't know why the lights in his room were off, but he knew he didn't want that; he couldn't handle being alone in the dark again. The void always hit harder with the strength of darkness guiding him.
“Wait! Wait, please..” he said quickly, grabbing hold of John's hand. “I, uhm, I don't like the dark..” he muttered, suddenly feeling ashamed. Here he was, burdening John with his silly fear of the dark.
He wanted to be selfish and ask John to stay with him, but he knew that was far too much to ask.
He shook his head and let go of John’s hand, “You don't have to stay or anything, uh, just help me turn the lights back on?” He asked, looking anywhere besides at John.
“Yeah, sure, we can do that,” John said, his voice still kind, but sounding more impatient by the minute. The older man offered his hand to help Bob up, and he accepted it. Once he was up out of his chair, he turned to the lamp closest and flicked the switch. Nothing. Flicked it again. Again. Nothing. He frowned. Maybe he had unplugged it somehow? He moved to the light switch on the wall instead and flicked it. Nothing.
He heard John curse but didn't have time to question it when Yelena practically threw herself into his room and whipped around till her eyes locked on his.
“Jesus, Lena-”
“Not now, Walker! Bob, you’re okay, right? The power went out for the whole tower,” she spoke, looking him up and down with a frown. She took several steps towards him and pulled him into a hug without any further words.
“Yelena, I'm fine, I swear-” he began.
“Hush, I can tell you aren't.” She spoke with utmost certainty.
He hated it, honestly. He hated how well she could read him, how easy it was for her to tell he was weak and falling into his mind.
He loved Yelena, she was the first person he could finally trust, the first person who saw anything of value in him. With that, she was the first to see the real him. To see the void and what it did to him and others. To see his monsters that hid in the shadows. And yet, even seeing all of that, she continued to be his friend and support him. Hell, she didn't even know everything he went through entirely, and she still stayed with him.
It made his heart hurt in more ways than one. He finally had someone in his corner, but how long would it last? How long till she can't put up with him anymore? How long till she finds a reason to leave him behind, and he knew there were far too many reasons for her to kick him to the curb, any sensible person would have done so months ago.
He felt a pinch of pain right in the center of his forehead, and his eyes immediately snapped open in surprise, just to see Yelena flick his forehead again.
“Get out of your head, Bob. Whatever you’re thinking now, it's wrong.” She spoke, her voice was kind yet stern. It threw him for a loop more often than not. “The power should come back in any minute now. Bucky should be fixing it,” she said.
He frowned, feeling guilty for having so many people having to help him because he was scared of the dark. He was so weak. Why was the team keeping him around when he wasn't any help?
The lights flickered back on, and he heard John let out a sigh of relief. The guilt clawed at his chest. He really had forced John to help him when he should be resting. They had a mission the next day; he needed that rest, yet here he was.
“Okay, Bobby. Think Yelena's got this handled better than I can, call if you need anything.” John said, his voice rough, almost sounding unhappy as he made his way out of his room. John left quickly, more so than he needed to, and honestly, it worried him. He wanted to ask the man to stay, to keep him company, so the voices would be quiet, but that was selfish. He was selfish and weak, he couldn't pull John down with him into that void when the man had been nothing but kind to him. He stayed quiet.
He shook his head briefly before sinking back down into his bean bag chair. He didn't want to think about how selfish or weak he was anymore, he didn't want to think about anything, honestly.
He tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. Deep down, part of him wished he could turn to getting high to quiet his mind, but he knew how well that had ended the first time. Even then, he wished for something to get his mind to just turn off, to get the void's words out of his head.
“Bob,” Yelena spoke, her voice slicing through his overwhelming thoughts.
He opened his eyes and looked at Yelena. She was sitting on the floor close to him, her hand in his. “Hm?” he muttered.
“Would you like to talk? Everyone can tell you are struggling and have been all day. Talking helps.” She said, her voice calm and kind as usual.
His eyes dropped to his hands, fingers picking at the skin around his cuticles, constantly needing to fidget one way or another. “I don't think talking will help, Lena..” he said quietly.
“You won't know till you try?” She offered instead. An olive branch of sorts to try and get him to open up.
His eyes didn't rise to meet hers; instead, he stared down at his hands. “The void isn't just…a separate identity from me. He's always there, always. I hear him constantly, telling me these things I already know.” he shook his head, feeling a tightness growing in his chest.
“Even on my good days, I hear him, but on my bad days? It's like my torture, only I can hear. It never stops, it’s-he’s never quiet.” He continued. He could feel tears gathering, then falling down his face in steady streams. God, he was so fucking weak.
“Bob, you should have told us. We want to help you-”
“But you can't!” He cried. He shook his head, messily wiping at his tears. “It's not that easy, it never has been! For years, I tried everything to get it to stop, to feel normal for once, but-but that's not how he works. Nothing gets his voice to stop, not talking, not meth, nothing…” he spoke, voice shaking slightly.
He didn't mean to raise his voice, but why couldn't she understand that he couldn't be helped! He was a lost cause, a project to be scraped instead of saved.
He felt Yelena's hands cup his face gently, as if she was holding something fragile. And he was, wasn't he? He was fragile, weak, breakable. He couldn't understand why she would want to protect that, to protect him. To keep putting her effort into him when he just wasn't worth it.
“Bob. Whatever you think you are, it's not true. I don't know what the void is like for you, you’re right. But we all want to help you, no matter how grumpy the team acts.” She joked slightly, her thumbs wiping at the tears still streaming down his face. “Let us help you, Bob. I know it's hard to accept help, but we want to. It might not be tonight, or this week, or even this month, but we’ll help get rid of that voice.”
“Lena, I told you-”
“And I'm telling you to give us a chance to try.” She said firmly. He finally looked up, his eyes locking with hers. She was so full of determination, her eyes shining like they had when she had found him in the void and helped him out with the support of the team. How many times had he taken the help? How many times had it failed him? How many times had it failed, pushing him further into that void?
“Please, Bob, a chance is all I ask for?” She asked, pleading. His chest hurt, with what he had no clue. He didn't want the help, he knew what it led to. It led to concrete floors writhing in pain. It led to metal tables and too many tests. He looked at Yelena once more, searching for something. For some hint that she was being disingenuous, yet he found nothing but determination and kindness.
Slowly, he nodded. Yelena broke out into a wide grin and pulled him into a tight hug, he couldn't help but hug her back, leaning into the comforting embrace. He felt tears fall down his cheeks. She wouldn't last. She would give up on him, deem him unsaveable. They always did.