Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bob wasn't sure how he found himself in this cluttered room shoved in the back of the tower. Maybe he had nightmares of stark, blinding lights. Maybe this was as far as he could get from those labs haunting the top floors. Maybe he just wanted to see how far Valentina had repaired. His fingers hovered over the lightswitch. The lights, dim and damaged, were comforting in a way.

He took a step, and his toes bumped into a sloppily labeled box.

Photos

It said. The s was cramped in the corner like an afterthought, and the tape curled off the cardboard. 

He bent down and brushed his fingers over the edges. Curiosity had his nails picking up the tape. Slowly, he opened up a flap. A smiling face stared up at him, sitting next to two others scowling at each other. Foreign memories intertwined with the shadows in the corner of his mind, and Bob got the sudden feeling he shouldn't be privy to them. He hastily pushed it aside.

Lights flickered, and Bob stood, the reminder of shadows pulling him farther into the room. Perhaps the danker it was in here, the further he'd be from cold chemical air and too-comforting rooms.

He trailed his fingertips over stacked boxes, glancing at their labels and snatching his hand away when it felt too heavy. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. Surely there was a balcony somewhere, or a half-repaired room that would serve the purpose he needed.

The lights buzzed sharply, and his attention was pulled to a hulking shadow pressed into the corner. 

His heart stuttered, but the shadow wasn't cool and unnatural. It was warm with memories, and as he focused, Bob could see it take the shape of a grand piano. 

His mother told him many times the story of how she found an upright on the side of the road, and that she and his father had carried it three blocks to the house. She recalled in detail how excited she'd been when she found it, and that the stickiness of some of the sharp keys didn't bother her now that the dream of owning a piano was a reality. 

The kitchen table was covered in sheet music at one point of his life. He remembered falling asleep to the lull of her music, and he remembered falling asleep while she attempted to teach him basic chords. 

He found himself there now, hands hovering over the keys like hers did when she guided him. They were shaking. He didn't remember when hers started— if there ever was a time they didn't.

His fingers touched down on the keys. Warmth bloomed at his fingertips.

“You play?”

Several light bulbs popped as Bob launched himself out of the piano seat. He turned, heart racing, to see Yelena staring at him from the other end of the room, hovering near some boxes. Bob clenched his fists, working out the shock. The “New Avengers” had an assignment this morning, so she'd been here earlier, but Yelena always left to spend the night somewhere else, wherever that was. 

“You're here late.” Was all he could manage, mouth gone dry. She just shrugged, murmuring something about ‘needing to find something,’ and moved away from the boxes, approaching him and the grand.

“You play?” She prompted again, gesturing with a hand. Bob watched her for a moment. There was a stiffness in her movements that wasn't usual.

“My mom did.” He tore his eyes away from her, staring at the piano as if it would assist him. Yelena just watched him, and Bob sank back into the seat, yearning for that feeble warmth he felt earlier. “She played all the time. Could replicate any song by ear.” He couldn't hear Yelena move, but he felt her presence closer than before. He rested his fingers on the keys, pushing them slow enough to not make any noise. Maybe he felt another presence too. “She tried to teach me, but I was never interested— thought drums were way cooler, wanted to start a band, y'know?”

He felt Yelena's eyes on him, and he turned slightly, facing her. She looked at him with interest. “You drum?” Bob fell silent and slid his hands off the keys, putting two fingers around his wrist and twisting. The quiet thump of the hammers bouncing into place snapped him out of it.

He shook his head. “Not really. Was all too expensive.”

“Ah.” Was all Yelena said. The moment dragged on. Bob could hear his mother's music in his right ear, echoing from the still piano. 

“You play anything else?” She ventured. Bob found himself wondering how much music she was exposed to in the Red Room. How much real music.

He opened his mouth to say no, but a hazy memory came into view. He grabbed onto it, remembering. “I can play some guitar.” He said simply, for that was all he knew. “Just some chords; a song or two.”

Yelena's eyes dragged over the dimly lit piles. She snagged on something he couldn't see, and disappeared.

She materialized with a guitar, somehow, and held it out to him.

Bob didn't know what to do besides take it, so he did, and he slid off the piano bench onto the floor. It took a moment to find the hold, but he soon got the guitar positioned in his lap, fingers hovering over the strings like they did with the keys. Memories are there, just out of his reach. Hazy in the high way, not amnesiac.

Yelena fell to the floor with him, resting her back on some boxes and fixating him with blue eyes that turn gray in the lighting.

“I learned to play from a friend I was holed up with. I was pretty much out of it twenty-four seven, but,” His fingers strummed a random chord. Memories flooded back as the strings vibrated and Bob pressed his palm into them to quiet the sound and his thoughts. “I guess I learned quick when I was high.” He ran his fingertip over a string. The scar tissue there used to have calluses that made it easier to play. Now they had faded, and it just hurt. “I miss being high,” he said quietly. And he didn't know why he said that. They weren't even that well acquainted, not really. His hand fell away from the strings. “They pumped me up with so much shit I guess I never felt the withdrawals but,” the corner of his mouth twitched up, brows furrowing. “I sure am feeling it now.”

He could feel the eyes of his companion. Could feel the pity there. A hysterical laugh ripped itself out of his chest. The guitar hummed as it shook with him. “Now I don’t—” Bob’s features twitched into something blank, and his words came out in a long breath. “I don’t think I could get high if I tried.” 

“Could you play me something?” Bob’s eyes dragged over to Yelena’s face. He studied her expression, though he knew she could mask what she felt just like the rest of the people in this building. Ava told him once he was terribly obvious about everything he’s ever felt. She looked guilty after that. He felt that familiar pit in his gut. “Yeah,” He whispered, fingers plucking random strings as he dredged up chords he hadn’t played in years. The tune came back to him, carrying memories of a friend with a banged-up guitar and a love for ketamine when music wasn’t enough. Bob wasn’t a singer, but as he strummed lightly and wiggled his fingers on the neck of the guitar, he found himself humming along. 

Two minutes and some improvised chords later, Bob ended the song, his memory unable to turn up with the rest of it. Strands of hair fell into his eyes as he looked at Yelena. His fingers twitched with nerves. The guitar hummed along with his anxiety. “I like it,” She said. Her lips pursed, and some notes slipped from her, like she was trying to commit the song to memory. “What’s it called?”

“Oh, I’ve got no idea.” He shrugged, running his fingers along the strings to feel that burn. “Just something someone showed me once.” His friend lived near the pier. One day he didn’t anymore. 

Yelena fixed him with one of those looks again, and Bob resisted the urge to strum until his fingers started to bleed. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Her hand twitched, hesitant, before putting a hand over his. Her hands were rough against his knuckles; she’d probably have no problem playing.

“Thanks.” 

She cleared her throat and stood, clasping her hands together and squeezing. “It’s getting late.” 

“Oh, yeah. Going home at this hour must suck.”

Yelena shook her head and scratched an inch between two knuckles. “Not tonight.”

Bob looked up in surprise, something unfurling in his chest. “You’ve moved into your room?”

She shakes her head again, almost looking regretful. “No, Alexei’s couch.” 

“Oh,” he whispered, trying his best not to sound disappointed. Yelena’s pinched eyebrows indicated he failed. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Bob.” She exited swiftly, only looking back to comment, “You should start playing again.”

“Which one?” The piano hovered in the corner of his eye. The silhouette of his mother hovered next to it.

Yelena just shrugged, murmured another goodnight, and Bob was left in the dim room, alone. He strummed the guitar once more and fixed his eyes on the piano. Maybe he’d pick up both.

Chapter Text

Exhausted from yesterday's mission and irritated at the idea of being awake, John stumbled through the dark. He hadn’t spent enough time in this place to memorize the layout, and it was filled with a ridiculous amount of empty hallways to navigate, in his opinion. Hand firmly planted on the wall, he made his way through the corridor, tripping and nearly face planting over a pile of clothes that Alexei left in the middle of the floor. He faintly recalled the man claiming he’d put them in the laundry the next morning. John furrowed his brows and kicked the clothes. Yeah, right. 

Out of habit, he turned his phone on for some light, and out of consequence, it didn’t turn on. The wall dropped off. Right, this is where the hallway ended. John waved at the door sensor to get its attention in the dark. The doors slid open, and lights from the elevator illuminated the small foyer. He made his way over, staring at those numbered LEDs and hoping they’d adjust his eyes enough so he wouldn’t be flash-banged when the door opened. 

News flash(bang): It didn’t work. John grumbled, his hand flying up to cover his eyes, and felt his way into the elevator. He split two fingers to peek through his hand and find the right button. When the light had bled through enough where his eyes were used to it, John’s hand fell to his side. His fingers drummed on the wall. The elevator ride was smooth, which unnerved him; it felt like he wasn't moving at all. The doors opened, and instead of the pitch black John was expecting, he was met with a harshly illuminated common room and the large TV in the corner mumbling a news story.  

John crept forward. Did someone leave it on? He approached from behind the couch, eyes scanning for the remote, when he found himself looking at a mop of hair. 

He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, and the mop of hair turned into a startled Bob, trying his best not to launch himself off the couch. John shifted back, startled at the sudden movement. “Guh- sorry.”

Bob twisted back to look at him, his breathing slowly going from rapid to the previous slightly faster than normal. His brows were furrowed, and his stance guarded, but the tears in his eyes betrayed him to be more vulnerable than John was ever comfortable with. “What are you doing here?” He said.

“Just looking for my charger,” John said defensively. “I left it in here.”

“Haven't seen it,” Bob said quietly. He was reaching for the remote that had been knocked to the ground, and that was how John remembered the TV was on. 

He scoffed at Bob's words, “Fuckin’ Ava,” and looked up, squinting to read the headline.

THE BLACKOUT: WILL IT RETURN?

A woman was on the screen. Her short-cropped blonde hair blew in the slight breeze, and she stood in a familiar New York Street. Behind her, John could see roadblocks and a hulking piece of concrete. She pointed down, and the camera panned to the ground. The faint outline of a person was stained into the sidewalk. 

“—You can see, the signs of this horrific attack are still here, etched into the concrete like a reminder. Will this terrorist return? The New Avengers have proved to be a capable bunch, but we never even saw how they defeated this threat, and people are still terrified.”

The screen switched to a News Anchor.

“Thank you, Dana. Next, an interview with one of the victims of the horrible Hurricane Valentine, and following that, a story on who the mysterious man is who appeared next to-”

The remote was in his hand. John switched the TV off. 

They were thrown into a stifling darkness, like someone put their hands over his eyes and plunged him into freezing water. The silence droned on for long, dragging moments. His arms prickled, numb. Bob’s voice broke the quiet just as John’s eyes adjusted to the faint light leaking from the elevator behind them. “Couldn’t sleep.” He breathed out. 

John traced the remote buttons with his thumb. “Have you seen my charger around?” He asked quietly. He could see the outline of Bob’s head, now. 

“Nope, sorry.”

“Uh,” John set the remote down on the couch and lingered there for a moment. He could feel Bob’s eyes staring through him. “You saw–” He grunted, uncertain, and reset his train of thought. “I couldn’t stop going through what they said about me either,” he managed. “What I’d– What I’d done.” He straightened, turning to leave. “G’night.”

When he reached the elevator, and Bob hadn’t moved, John paused. “They don’t know what happened.” He spoke into the darkness, holding out an olive branch. “They don’t know anything.”

“Night, Walker.”

The elevator dinged and John stepped through.