[ bucky slips past him, and bob drags fingers through his fur as he goes. makes a sound of disgust and delight, at the licking. how strange, to think neither werewolf nor vampire frightens him with their sharp teeth and claws. not so different from a boy shaped in shadow. and it was always the mundane that hurt him before, anyway. his dad, the car accident, the drip drip drip of the iv. no fairytale monsters featured in his nightmares — at least until he become one himself.
he pads after the wolf that seems familiar in a way that goes beyond instinct. maybe it’s molecular, down to some essential level that he can now feel in his fingertips, even when he doesn’t consciously reach for it. ]
I would’ve cleaned if I knew you were coming over, man.
[ ‘cause walker and barnes are military guys. tidy as hell. bob is more at home in mess, though adrian keeps it from getting out of hand. he picks his sweater off the floor, anyway, and throws it over his desk chair.
the room itself is an incomplete thing, more the house’s space than bob’s, apart from the widow seat that has a blanket and some books. the side table, too, holds the clutter that speaks to bob’s presence: his phone, a folded letter, armand’s calling card, and an open pack of cigarettes. flopping on his unmade bed, bob pats the covers beside him. probably not allowed, but who cares? ]
Never had a dog, y’know.
[ which he knows is for the best, considering how his dad treated him, but he always wanted one, anyway. a dog. a sibling. a friend he could invite back to the house without worrying what they’d see. ]
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he pads after the wolf that seems familiar in a way that goes beyond instinct. maybe it’s molecular, down to some essential level that he can now feel in his fingertips, even when he doesn’t consciously reach for it. ]
I would’ve cleaned if I knew you were coming over, man.
[ ‘cause walker and barnes are military guys. tidy as hell. bob is more at home in mess, though adrian keeps it from getting out of hand. he picks his sweater off the floor, anyway, and throws it over his desk chair.
the room itself is an incomplete thing, more the house’s space than bob’s, apart from the widow seat that has a blanket and some books. the side table, too, holds the clutter that speaks to bob’s presence: his phone, a folded letter, armand’s calling card, and an open pack of cigarettes. flopping on his unmade bed, bob pats the covers beside him. probably not allowed, but who cares? ]
Never had a dog, y’know.
[ which he knows is for the best, considering how his dad treated him, but he always wanted one, anyway. a dog. a sibling. a friend he could invite back to the house without worrying what they’d see. ]