Chapter Text
It’s exactly the same.The bright linoleum. The orange countertops. The ticking of the wall clock. Your dress sticking to your skin with sweat and…
Blood. So much blood. You gasp and stagger backward, the blade clattering to the floor. Your hand pulses, pulsing in waves of pain, and your breath comes too fast, too shallow, because…
Because you remember. All of it. The lab. The experiments. The powers. Bob. Your Bob. Loving him. Finding him. The Void. Losing him. The mission. The attack. The snap of your neck.
The moment you died.
And now? Now, you’re back here. In the house. Still bleeding. Still trapped. You stumble toward the counter, hand shaking, and that’s when the door bursts open.
“Y/n—!”
Bob’s voice, ragged, half-shouted. Desperate. He barrels into the kitchen, wide-eyed, golden energy crackling faintly around his skin. He sees the blood. He sees the knife. He sees you, and his knees nearly give out.
“No— no, no, no, please—” he’s already at your side, grabbing a dish towel, fumbling with your hand, trying to stem the bleeding. “Oh God, oh God, I thought— I thought you were gone again—”
You look at him. And now you see him clearly.
Not just the perfect suburban husband with the gentle hands and soft voice. But him. Bob Reynolds. The man who engulfed the entire city of New York in shadow. The man you so softly and severely fell in love with. The man who shattered reality to keep you. The man who couldn’t bear to let you go.
“Are— are you okay?” he stammers.
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He cups your face with one bloodied hand, his eyes shimmering with something wild and broken and too much.
“You remember,” he whispers. It’s not a question.
You nod, just barely. Your lips tremble.
Your entire face creases in confusion, in pain. “I— I died,” you manage to get out, though it nearly cracks you in two.
He freezes. His eyes lock onto yours, wide and burning. And then his breath catches. His hands shake harder, pressing on your wound.
“Did you…” he says, brows furrowed, voice gone low and dangerous. “You— you slipped me the sleeping pills, didn’t you?” The question isn’t an accusation so much as a stunned breath. “You— you—” his face creases, hurt, almost betrayed. “You drugged me. You waited until I was asleep. You— you went to it. You let it show you.”
“Bob—”
“You remembered dy—” His voice breaks on it, but it’s loud, too loud, like thunder caught in his chest. He blinks like someone waking up. For a second the anger that climbed his face dissolves into something like shame. He presses his palm to his mouth and then pulls it away, fighting for control. “You let yourself feel all of— of it again. The pain, the— God—” His jaw clenches so hard you hear it grind. “Do you have any idea what— what you’ve done to yourself?”
The air hums around him. The lights overhead flicker.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, more fiercely now, his face too close, golden static sparking across his arms. “You shouldn’t have…”
You stumble back a step, but he follows, blood dripping from the towel he’s still clutching around your hand. His voice drops, trembling, furious and pleading all at once. Your back hits the counter as you retreat. He follows without realizing, leaning in, trying to catch your gaze. His nearness is overwhelming, too much.
“I— I— I told you not to go out there,” he goes on, softer now, shaking. “I begged you not to. Because it doesn’t give you answers. It doesn’t heal you. It— it just hurts you. It kills you. Every time.”
Your throat feels raw. “I needed to know.”
“No. No,” he says, and this time it’s almost a sob. “You needed to trust me.”
His hands shake so much that they slip from yours, along with the towel, soaked crimson. The pain in your hand spikes, but it’s nothing compared to the panic in his voice. At first, he doesn’t notice the blood dripping onto the linoleum, only that you’re pulling further from him. But the steady stream becomes too hard to ignore.
Bob’s eyes snap down to it, then back up to you. His panic sharpens, ragged at the edges.
“Heal it,” he says, quick and desperate. “Please, sweetheart, heal your hand.”
You shake your head, backing another step into the counter. “N— no.”
“Honey, please,” he begs, his hands hovering like he doesn’t know if he should reach for you again. “You’re bleeding out. Just— just fix it, just close it up—”
“St— stop!” you cry out, pulling your hand away from him. The blood streams down the front of your dress and paints your shoes deep and dark red. “I don’t care about my hand,” you choke out, tears burning hot in your eyes. “I care about what you’re not telling me.”
His breath stutters. Static flickers over his skin again, brighter this time, jittery arcs of gold snapping in the air. “I’m telling you everything that matters. Okay? I’m telling you I’m keeping you safe.”
You shake your head harder, voice rising. “Safe from what? From the truth? From what I already saw?” You press the injured hand against your chest like a shield. “I’m not a child,” you say, but your voice is smaller than you meant. “I need answers, Bob. I can’t—” Your words break on the memory, on the flash of the lab and the explosion and the tower. “I need to know what’s real.”
His fingers curl, then loosen. He takes another careful step forward, but he keeps his hands open at his sides, palms out like he’s trying to show you there’s nothing sharp in them. “I’m sorry.” He takes another tentative step, then another. His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I’m sorry. I should have been better. I should have—” Another shake. “I can’t— I can’t always make it right the way I want. But I swear to you, I’ve been trying. I’m doing everything I can.”
You can hear the tremor in his sentence; you can see it make his shoulders shake. It’s not performative. It’s the entire truth, ugly and plain. He hates what he’s become when fear gets tangled up with power. He hates that the thing everyone calls on him to hide— the glow of his eyes, the way the air tastes like metal when he’s close to breaking— comes out when he can’t hold himself together.
“How am I here?” you ask, lip trembling. You don’t understand why you need to keep choosing between fear and him. You don’t understand why he can’t just tell you what’s happening.
His face twists. You feel the heat coming off him, like he’s carrying the sun under his skin.
“Heal your hand.”
You clutch it tighter against your chest, blood seeping through your shirt. “Not until you answer me.”
“Y/n—” His voice cracks, raw and pleading. “You don’t understand, I can’t— I can’t watch you bleed. I can’t—” He drags both hands down his face, almost tearing at his skin, before he drops them again and surges closer. “Please, Y/n. Just heal it. P— please, honey, please.”
You dodge him again, slipping away from the counter, toward the center of the room, and shrink further and further away. “Stop it! Just stop! Why won’t you tell me the truth?”
“Because I’m trying to protect you!” he roars, the words ripping out of him like something tearing free. “And you—” His breath hitches, tears starting to rim his lashes. “You think I’m the enemy. You think I’d lie to you. After everything, after—”
“You won’t—” Your voice cracks. You’re crying, too, though you don’t know when it started. “You won’t let me see, won’t let me choose. You just keep holding me here—”
“Because if I let go, you die!” His roar rattles the glass in the cupboards. The air surges golden, harsh and hot. For a second you think the lightbulbs will burst. He’s close again, too close, the air buzzing around him. “I don’t understand why this— this isn’t enough for you,” he says. “I— I don’t get why you did that.”
You whisper, “I had to.”
He snaps his gaze back to you, and the force of it nearly pins you in place. For a moment, he’s not the soft-spoken man with trembling hands. He’s something bigger. Brighter. Terrifying in his devotion.
“You don’t have to do anything but stay alive.” His voice drops low, gravelled and dangerous, but the rawness underneath makes your chest ache. “That’s— that’s all I want from you. Do you understand? I’m— I’m trying— God, I’m trying so hard— to— to keep you here. To keep you— keep you safe. And you…” His voice cracks, his shoulders hitching. “…you don’t trust me enough to— to let me.”
“Bob—”
“No.” He shakes his head sharply, fists clenched so tightly the glow from his knuckles flares white-hot. He’s trembling, his whole body taut with something just shy of breaking. “You need to trust me. You— you have to. Because if you keep doing this— if— if you keep listening to it, touching it, letting it crawl inside you— it’s going to— to take you from me again. And I can’t—” His voice collapses into a ragged whisper. “I can’t lose you again.”
The silence that follows feels brittle, like one wrong breath could shatter it. The clock ticks, blood drips against the tile, and Bob’s golden aura flickers like a dying star.
You take a small step toward him, even as your knees threaten to give out. “I just wanted the truth.”
His laugh is hollow, broken, nothing like the sound you remember. “The truth?” He drags a hand over his face, and when he looks at you again, his expression is carved out of anguish. “The— the truth is I’m already breaking every law of reality to keep you here. The truth is that— that— that thing out there wants you because it knows I can’t let you go. And the truth, sweetheart…” His voice catches, low and trembling. “…is that every time you push for more, you’re ripping yourself further away from me.”
You’re not sure if you want to reach for him or run. His hand hovers in the air between you, fingers shaking like he’s begging for yours again. His eyes are ruined, red and wet and shining, but still that desperate gold hums just beneath them.
“Please,” he rasps, broken. “Don’t make me fight you too.”
For a long moment, he just stares at you. You want to pull away, but you can’t move. His eyes search yours, every ounce of sorrow and love and desperation spilling out all at once. His chest heaves, ragged, as though every breath might splinter him apart. Then, softer, hoarse from the roar still echoing in your ears:
“Y/n, please. Heal your hand.”
You clutch it tighter against your chest, shaking your head, hiccuping through your sobs, because you can’t let him just steer you away from this, not after what you’ve remembered. But the look on his face guts you. He looks wrecked, completely undone. Not the glowing, terrifying god, but Bob. Your Bob. The man who once held you through the night while you mended your friends with your gift. The man who pressed his lips to your temple like it was a prayer. The man who you loved, and who you loved back with everything you were.
You can’t stop the sob that shudders through you. The tears blur his face, but you can still see the pleading there, the trembling curve of his mouth, the panic in his eyes.
“I can’t— I can’t help you if you don’t— Please, honey, please. Just heal it.” His hand— still painted red— lifts, hovering near your face but not daring to touch, shaking with the effort of holding himself back. His eyes glisten, wet and ruined. “I swear I’ll give you whatever I can, but— I can’t until you’re whole. Please.”
Your tears fall faster. You choke on a sob, shaking your head even as your resolve wavers.
He steps closer, a breath away now, his voice nothing but a ruined whisper: “Please. I love you. Just heal it.”
Your heart twists, because no matter how many gaps there are in your memory, no matter how much terror hangs over your head, that— his love for you, your love for him— that was always real.
And in the blur of memory that still lingers behind your eyes, you remember how. You remember lying in the tower medbay with Ava watching from the door, urging you to focus, telling you she trusted you. You remember the warmth that pulsed in your palms when you stitched Yelena’s ribs back together after the rooftop mission in Bolivia. You remember the quiet pride in Bob’s voice when he whispered you were incredible.
So you close your eyes. And you clasp your hand around the other. It’s almost instinct, now that the memory is unlocked. The warmth flares, faint at first, then steady. It pours through your hand, burning and soothing all at once, and you watch as the torn flesh seals.
Bob lets out a sound that’s half a gasp, half a sob of relief. His shoulders slump forward, as though he might collapse. “Oh God… oh thank God…” He presses your healed hand to his chest, to the frantic pound of his heart, his tears dripping onto your knuckles. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
Your hand is whole again. Perfect. But the blood doesn’t vanish. It stays caked in thick streaks down your clothes, smeared across your skin, puddled on the floor in dark, sticky pools. The copper tang hangs heavy in the air, a reminder of the wound that isn’t there anymore.
“I love you,” he whispers. “So much. You know that, right?”
Then he wraps his arms around you before you can react, his power humming against your skin. You’re locked in, helpless, pressed against the tremor of his chest.
You shove at him, but it’s like trying to move stone. “Bob— let me go—”
“Shh,” he breathes into your hair. “I know. I know, sweetheart. It’s just too much. It’s too much, too fast.”
You twist in his grip, your healed hand pinned awkwardly between your bodies. The blood stains his shirt, seeps into the glow pulsing beneath his skin, and he groans like the sight of it is killing him.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I didn’t want to, I swear, I just— I can’t lose you again. Not again. I love you so much, I—”
“Bob, please—”
“It won’t hurt,” he says fiercely, almost a growl, almost a prayer. “I— I promise. It won’t hurt. I’ll take it all away. You won’t remember.”
“N— no,” you cry, trying to wriggle free, your tears hot against his collar. “I don’t want to forget—”
You try to shove him away, but his arms are iron around you, crushing you to his chest. His heart’s beating too fast, pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to crawl out of his body. The hum of his power isn’t gentle anymore. It’s jagged, crackling, like before a storm.
“Bob, let go—” Your voice breaks on a sob. You can’t get enough air. Every nerve ending is raw, screaming. “You’re hurting me—”
“Don’t— don’t say that, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I— I— I don’t mean to—” His voice is shaking, ragged with panic. “Just stay still. P— please. Just stay with me.”
Your sob catches against his chest, and he rocks you like he can cradle the fight out of you. His lips brush your hair, fevered and frantic.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, shhh. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you. You don’t have to do anything, don’t have to be anything, except here. Alive. With me.”
“No, I promise I won’t—” The words tear out of your throat, hoarse and desperate. You feel like that ten year old version of yourself, strapped down to the table. “I promise I’ll stop trying to— Bob, please, just let go!”
He shakes his head violently, almost like he can’t even hear you, like he’s arguing with someone only he can see. “No, no, no, no, not this time. Not again.”
His fingers slip into your hair, holding you in place as his forehead presses to yours. His eyes are glowing faintly now, not the comforting warmth you know— something hotter, unstable, too bright. The gold burns.
You don’t know what to say anymore.
“I don’t want you remembering the hurt.” His thumb swipes a tear from your cheek, smearing your own blood across your skin. “I don’t want you to ever feel that again.”
“Bob, please—” You’re sobbing now, shaking all over. You try to pry his hand off your face, but he’s too strong.
“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks on the words. “You’ll feel better once you forget.”
“No— no, no, Bob, don’t—”
But his hands are already glowing brighter, gold searing into white. The hum in the room swells, louder than your heartbeat, louder than your screams. The world tilts sideways as something pushes into your mind, flooding through every crack in your skull. You thrash, choking on your own sobs, but his grip doesn’t falter.
“Shhh,” he murmurs against your temple, even as his tears fall hot against your skin. “Just let go. Just let it all go…”
And the last thing you see is his face, tear-streaked and apologizing as the light overtakes your vision.
Everything goes white. Then, you have flashes. Not of your childhood, of the past, of memory. But of right now, you think. Broken and bleeding through the cracks, too fast and too bright to make sense of.
You’re strapped down again. The table is cold beneath you. Metal cuffs dig into your wrists. Your skin is clammy. Your lungs won’t pull in enough air. You try to scream, but your throat only cracks open with static.
Sound comes to you like someone slipping a record into place, snagging at first, then the whole thing grinding into motion. A beep. A murmured name. A warm feeling at your temple. You’re not sure if you’re in the kitchen or a room full of glass and machines anymore; the edges of everything are soft and soggy.
“Mr. Reynolds, the scans show ongoing degradation. Repeated memory resets are eroding her neural map. We’re losing consolidation. Each wipe takes more than it gives back.”
Bob’s voice is low and anxious. “Then— then patch it. Do something. Don’t let her feel it. She can’t go through that again.”
“We can patch symptoms,” the other voice says. “But she’s been in direct contact with Void signatures. We can try targeted stabilization to slow the degradation, but if the Void’s imprint has integrated, erasing and rewriting will create new instabilities. Repeated resets will accelerate degradation. I mean, you’re not just overwriting trauma; you’re overwriting association nodes.” You hear the sound of marker on a whiteboard. “We’ll strip memory, yes, but we’ll also strip the networks that let those memories integrate. Long-term identity traces— personal narrative— will fade. At some point there won’t be a person left to receive the overwrite.”
The words land on you like icicles. There won’t be a person left.
“Not… not if I can stop it,” Bob says. His voice is small in the room, and then it isn’t. Then it’s filling the air, raw and too large for his body. “We don’t get a person again if— if— if she’s dead. I won’t— I won’t let that happen. Do— do you understand that?” You can hear the desperation in him, the way the syllables stumble. Something hums under his skin, low and animalistic.
The other person— a doctor, or some kind of medic, you gather— lets out a dry breath. “Sir— Mr. Reynolds— we understand your— your fear, but we have to consider neurological viability. The longer she’s exposed to those signatures, the less likely she is to— to— to re-encode. Wiping her again is— is palliative, at best. It removes the pain from her experience, but it also removes the scaffolding of self. We can hold on to isolated functions— basic motor, basic reflex— but her narrative continuity will erode.”
“I can’t have her feeling it,” Bob says, voice shaking so hard it sounds like it could break. “She can’t remember it. She can’t— she can’t carry it.” His hands curl into fists. Gold flickers at his fingers and then subsides. “If we keep her here— if— if we keep her safe— she’s alive.”
The doctor exhales, frustration and pity in equal measure. “Alive in what sense, Mr. Reynolds? A body that breathes? Consciousness without history? We can’t ethically—”
“Ethics,” Bob spits, and there’s an edge to him that makes the techs glance at each other. “You want ethics? Nothing in her life has been about ethics. There were no ethics when they strapped her down as a kid and told her it was for the greater good. When she was forced into all of this. She didn’t even want… Don’t— don’t talk to me about ethics.” He sounds small and vicious at once.
Someone else— another tech, younger, voice tight— speaks up. “Mr. Reynolds, you’re asking us to perform repeated mnemonic resets on a subject whose neural integrity is compromised by…” she struggles to get the words out. “By— by the Void. Each overwrite increases the brain’s dysfunction. Functional recovery becomes exponentially less likely each time. This is not just ‘she’ll forget.’ At a point, there is no network left to—”
“Better than nothing!” Bob snaps. The sound is a fracture. Lamps flicker. A door downstairs slams. Somewhere beyond the room someone who might have tried to intervene beats against an impossible barrier, and the sound dies. “Better than her being gone. Better than— than her not existing.”
The argument continues to play out above you. “Mr. Reynolds. She’s not just at risk. Her contact with Void signatures has degraded reconsolidation capacity. If— if we force another reset now we’re likely to create permanent dissociation. Also—” her voice drops— “there could be wider systemic effects. You know as well as I do that we don’t fully understand what’s happening here. Doing this again might create cascading interference. We could cause network failures elsewhere.”
Bob stands at the foot of the table. His hands shake. “If we stop now, she’ll wake up in pain. She’ll remember everything.”
“She’ll remember who she is,” one of them argues, voice shaking. “Mr. Reynolds, you’re not exactly… You’re not giving us a choice—”
A hard thud echoes from somewhere outside. A door slams. Muffled shouting. You can’t tell if it’s in your head or the hall. Someone tries the lock. The lights flicker.
Bob’s voice cuts through the noise, soft and ragged. “I’m not letting anyone take her from me again.” He flattens his hand against your forehead. He swallows. “Wipe it. Please. Wipe anything that hurts her so— so she doesn’t have to feel it anymore.”
Someone else hesitates. “Full temporal dampening, then the memory suppression sequence. We warn again— severe degradation will occur.”
“Now,” Bob says. He doesn’t need to shout; his tone makes it final.
One of the medics flicks a switch. Machines hum. The room narrows to the sound of that hum and the rasp of breath. Pressure builds at the base of your skull like submerging underwater. The world tilts and folds inward.
Hands, Bob’s hands, are still holding you. His whisper keeps threading through the noise, a ragged promise that’s almost a plea. “I’m sorry. I’m— I’m sorry, Y/n. I’m doing everything I can. I’m doing this because I love you."
You try to hold on to his face, to the sound of him saying your name, but thoughts slide free of you like beads rolling off a string: the rooftop, the hospital room, a woman laughing with short hair. One by one your memories lift away until there’s nothing but the white hum and the warm weight of someone who won’t let go.