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Walker finds himself lingering at the door of Bob’s room for a few good minutes before he finally plucks up the courage to knock. There is, however, no answer. Maybe, Bob’s already asleep. Or, maybe, he’s so absorbed in reading, or listening to music, or doing god-knows-what, that John should just try his luck next time.
The problem is, the next time might not happen.
Because John by no means gathers all his strength for The Talk again.
It’s not like he’s one hundred percent ready to talk at this very moment either. Hell no. Every word that crosses John’s mind seems empty, trivial, out of place. Every word he can think of seems artificial, not capable of showing that Walker really means all the things he wants Bob to hear. John wishes he could properly articulate everything that’s been in his thoughts, he really fucking does. But he sucks at verbalizing his feelings. He doesn’t know how to make the words significant, how to attach real value to them.
The longer he thinks about it all, the worse it gets.
The longer he thinks about it, the more he wants to escape in defeat. Very Super Soldier of you, Walker.
Ah, screw it.
Having decided not to let the doubts get the best of him, John slightly pushes the door and looks inside the room.
Bob is sitting on the bed, diligently working on his Rubik’s cube; the way his hands swiftly twist and turn the puzzle feels almost hypnotic. His tongue is sticking out, and a loose strand of hair covers his eyes, but Bob is so concentrated—even detached from reality—that he seems to take no notice.
John can’t keep from staring at him for a while. There’s something comforting and reassuring in seeing Bob be fine—well, as fine as possible after all this mess. Still, there is also something vaguely different in how he’s holding himself: a little more tension in his posture, a little more anxiety in his breathing. This is a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, so faintly discernible, that John could have easily looked past it.
Unless, of course, he recognized all the signs from his own experience.
In the meantime, the last cubelet finally takes its prescribed place, and Bob lets out a quiet gasp of joyous relief. To that, Walker inadvertently gives a light chuckle. The sound catches Bob’s attention, making him immediately rivet his amused eyes on John.
“I knocked,” John says. That, for some reason, comes across aggressively defensive. And, judging by Bob’s guilty look, even accusing.
“Oh... I probably didn’t hear you, then. Sorry.”
“No problem.” There’s a beat of awkward silence. “You know, I got spellbound just watching you solve it. You were like... a fucking magician.”
A grateful smile crosses Bob’s face, “Thank you. It’s actually not that difficult.”
“Rocket science for me,” John retorts.
“I can teach you,” Bob blurts out quickly, so quickly as if he doesn’t give himself a single chance to reconsider. “Well, I mean, if you even want to...”
Walker doesn’t hesitate for a second, “Sure. Sign me up.”
Bob beams another smile at him and frantically moves aside, making some space. Just a couple of steps, and John takes a seat on his bed. This close, their shoulders and knees are almost touching, and it’s probably supposed to feel awkward and uncomfortable.
John finds himself thinking that he doesn’t feel awkward and uncomfortable at all.
“So,” Bob says, not taking his eyes off the Rubik’s cube, that he’s thoroughly mixing up, “what did you want?”
The question is so straightforward and sudden, that, even with a thought of The Talk still looming at the back of his mind, John gets a little bit taken aback by it, “What do you mean?”
Bob shrugs his shoulders, “I doubt you have made it all the way up to my room only to ask me to teach you how to solve a Rubik’s cube.”
There’s a small beat, until John decides that well, fuck it, in for a penny, in for a pound and admits, “Yeah, I wanted to talk.”
“About?..”
“About what happened... there.”
Bob, yet pretty shaken up because of the whole Void ordeal, instantly blushes with embarrassment. His posture tenses. His hands start to tremble slightly, and Walker reflexively wants to put his hand on Bob’s to somehow reassure him but he quickly decides against it: they aren’t that close, after all—they’ve just seen each other’s most shameful moments, it’s surely not a big deal, right?
Still, feeling the need to be somehow reassuring, John reminds him, “Hey, it’s okay now. It’s over, remember?”
He knows, though, that it’s not over. And it definitely won’t be okay for a long time. Bob might put his hair in a messy half-up ponytail and wear new comfortable clothes, but he’d still feel the starchiness of a hospital robe, he woke up in, on his skin. He hasn’t got a single bruise or graze on him, yet he scratched his face and neck all the time, as if there were physical wounds healing. He took the room which was spacious and full of light, because even though he still didn’t remember everything that had happened clearly, a trip into the Void made him subliminally more cautious of the darkness. He was trying to get away from it, but the Void’s grasp was still firm and relentless. Everyone in their little Brady Bunch felt it, sure thing, but for Bob it—without a doubt—was much worse.
Walker was actually quite impressed with how Bob had been holding on so far.
The silence, meanwhile, drags on, making John feel the need to add, “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say. One word, and I’ll fuck off.”
Bob puts the Rubik’s cube away and—just like a child, afraid to face his deepest fear—buries his face in his hands. Breathes in. Breathes out. John can almost hear the doubts circulating in his head, bickering, talking over one another, twisting and intertwining into one hell of a thought mess, so he lets Bob take the time he needs to finally say, “No, you’re right. I’m just... still processing it, I guess.”
“Yeah,” John nods, “we all are. Think that’s why I needed to talk to you.”
Bob chuckles lightly and nervously, “Never took you for a guy who enjoys talking things through.”
“Trust me, I’m a shit of a talker.”
“Now that checks out,” Bob agrees, and John lets out a quiet laugh. “Anyway, what was that, Walker?”
He turns his gaze—clear and piercing, yet soft—to John, and, shit, these eyes work like a fucking truth serum, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Bob raises his eyebrows in such genuine confusion, that John for a second believes that he really did nothing to be sorry about.
“For being an asshole.” Bob doesn’t get even the merest chance to answer: the words, as sharp and reproachful as they are, light the bomb fuse making John erupt, “Look, when we were in... in there—I saw that fucker treating you like shit, and it just clicked. I pushed you, I belittled you, shit, I was like his fucking reincarnation.”
“You were,” Bob says quietly. It, however, doesn’t sound accusatory at the slightest. It just seems... sad.
“I know. And I can’t take it back, and I can’t magically make it better with just one word, but... I’m sorry.” Letting it all out like that is unexpectedly easy and nice, solacing, even. “I mean it. Really.”
A slight smile tugs at the corners of Bob’s mouth, “I didn’t really... Have a lot of people apologise to me when they were wrong. That really means a lot. Thanks.”
John just shrugs his shoulders. He instinctively wants to brush it all off with a detached it’s not a big deal, but immediately reconsiders. After all, for Bob it seems to be a very big fucking deal. And John—for what it’s worth—is done dismissing his feelings.
“Well,” Bob dusts off his hands, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I don’t like to hold grudges, so... Apology accepted, Walker.”
It’s like the weight’s been lifted from John’s shoulders: not even because The Talk is over, but because it feels... nice. To be heard. To not be judged.
“By the way,” Bob clears his throat, “you’re still up for our Rubik’s cube lesson?”
To be accepted even after all the shit you’ve done.
“Of course.”
And with a grateful grin, John takes the puzzle from Bob’s hand.