[ the kind of sleep he’s been doing could be more accurately defined as blacking out, mind and body dead to the world after dabbling in dissolutions and putting off shutting his eyes for as long as he can. he doesn’t want to dream, not when everything that normally sits neatly contained beneath a layer of his personal brand of spoiled destruction has been raked to the surface, raw and tender each time he so much as breathes. the very specific sound a man makes when half their face gets blown off by an ied, and they don’t die. the feeling of when dag did die. how he and ash could kill together and be rewarded for it, but they couldn’t hold hands because that would get them dismissed. bombs every day. the church bombing while morgan lay shot and bleeding inside.
unconsciousness is preferable to his memories. but even then — abilene chases him into the dark. nowhere to run when the devil is in your own bed, when it’s her hands undressing him. taking freely, like he has an unending reservoir to give and give and give whenever the world asks. are bob’s memories like this? potent, sharp, a knife skimming the surface? embry has spent many years boxing up his hurts, struggling to master the emotions that leash him, because otherwise — it’s this. a bitterly scathing gash wrapped up in guilt, in fear, in shame. impossible to feel anything else, when he’s bleeding everywhere, his walls obliterated in bob’s dredging of his pain. exactly what he told yelena never happened.
it’s almost a relief when it happens again, blessed numbness taking over his mind. almost. it won’t be, when he wakes up. he should have told ash. should have asked greer to stay. should have gone to hawk’s bed. should have done anything but spend his nights alone, when he knows the risk. instead, he leaves his room wearing nothing but low slung linen pants, his steps almost directionless as he makes his way down the length of the floor, newly cleaned of shattered glass, all the bulbs turned low for the night. he stops at danny’s room, his blue eyes betraying nothing in their emptiness. for a long stretch of minutes, he just stands there, not knocking, barely breathing, before he turns away and continues moving down the hall, taking the staircase down. malleable, but not responsive. strung out, but caught in the stasis before unconsciousness, not unlike the heavily drugged moments he spent bleeding out in the chapel, feeling next to nothing.
he makes it out to the indoor pool, no reaction to the change in temperature, the warm, balmy air settling over his skin as he walks toward the gentle azure ripples — no sign of stopping, even as he closes in on the water’s edge. ]
[ in the days after the void’s resurgence, bob doesn’t sleep. he feigns it, when bucky and yelena cart him away for a few days, and when adrian cracks the doors between their rooms to look in on him. stops bothering to pretend when they finally leave him be, choosing to wander the manor halls again, at once exhausted and restless.
on his return, bob was going to seek embry out. apologise, for all he withheld and still withholds. beg forgiveness, for the harm he caused to embry and ash and greer. but the letter unravels his heart thread by thread, line by line. cultivating the kind of upset that makes you physically ill, eyes wet and blurring, vertigo overwhelming. everything’s different now because bob is different, no longer easy and weak and everything that made him appealing before the trial. he finds each line more insulting than the last, words so thorough as to shut him out forever, yet entirely, exclusively about embry fucking moore. embry, as the protagonist of a narrative that just so happens to involve bob as a casualty — a toy or a tool for him to pick up and put down. devoid of interest in bob’s thoughts or feelings about any of it. a fact that should be unsurprising, maybe, when embry never asked after him. when he offloaded any care for bob on adrian. because embry moore is the tragic hero, free to reveal all of bob’s pain and none of his own on the damn network.
to him, the letter says, sorry about the break. somebody else should fix that for you.
so he calls ani instead. ani, who keeps defending him, who keeps protecting him — who he should have been protecting more this whole time. bob tries to tell himself that people like her and hawk, who spoke up at the trial, wouldn’t run the second the void reached for them. (he looks at the evidence proving otherwise, in the letter he returns, and knows that isn’t true.)
for want of dreamless sleep, bob finds himself at the indoor pool, watching the shadows dance above the tile. this and the lake are the closest he has to any coastline, and chlorine has nothing on salt air — but it is what it is. socks piled beside him and sweats rolled to his calves, he perches at the water’s edge. one hand in the water, fingers making ripples, when he hears footsteps behind him. a familiar heartbeat. real or not real? embry’s been in his dreams again, worse than he had even at the commune. an ashen smudge on the floor of his room, lost amongst the dusty remains of the scientists he glimpsed in the void before armand pulled him back, or walking out the door by choice. the final scenario is, of course, the kindest. in his quieter moments, bob doesn’t blame embry seeking self-preservation, even if it means leaving him to bleed out by his lonesome. you have to put on your own oxygen mask first, right?
bob only looks up when a splash calls his attention sideways, to the steps that lead into the shallows. a familiar figure, near bare in the eerie glow of the pool, expression blank. another nightmare, another step forward. the woman in the water, in embry’s memories. ]
Embry? [ uncertainty overriding his hurt, but only just. weakly, ] I was here first, man. You can just — go wallow somewhere else.
[ his eyes slide right over bob, like he's nothing to him, like he hadn't spoken at all. like he isn't even in the room. the water tickles something in the back of his mind. too warm to be the river, too quiet. not nearly ugly enough. why had abilene picked such an ugly place to die? no telling what was going on in her head. he'd never cared to find out, not after what she did to him. to all of them.
he steps in. he's always liked the water, having grown up surrounded by boats and horses and his very own lake at his mother's enormous house — at least until ash begged him to marry him there one beautiful, misty day in september, while embry knelt on the rocky shore and wished he'd never heard the name maxen ashley colchester so he wouldn't have to say no to him, again. he'd liked the water until they fished abilene's ice cold body out of it.
but the water does have its benefits. the farther he goes and the deeper it gets, the less he feels. he barely feels anything at all, his mind flickering through memories like an old school projector, watching someone else's life. he hears something that could maybe be his name, but soon that's gone too, when his head goes under and he lets himself sink. weightless. not even relief thrums through him. the complete absence of feeling, better than any drug, any drink. bubbles stream from his nose as he breathes out, eyes closed. ]
[ bob never dared attempt a summer as a lifeguard, on account of his piss-poor perception and focus (on account of either morphine or meth, depending on the year; on account of his dad, on account of the accident, on account of — ). too high stakes, with all the kids paddling in the ‘burbs. but anyone who grows up by the water knows the rules of a rescue: never get in the deep end yourself. always throw out a ring or a line, so you don’t join the drowning beneath the waves.
that approach fails to address someone willingly walking to a watery grave. not drowning by accident but by choice. watching embry go under, bob suddenly feels as though he’s the one in the deep. deep space, deep sea. air wheezes from his throat, like his divesuit is losing oxygen, and he can’t find the goddamn rip.
he doesn’t know how long it takes him to snap out of his own stupor. too long, probably, but it takes less than a second for him to join embry in the water, once he decides to act. less than thirty, after that, for bob to wind his arms around embry’s middle, like he had that disastrous night, and haul his ass up. effortless, despite any resistance. his hair flops wet in his face, already reddened eyes stinging. ]
The hell — [ sputtering, half-staggering and half-swimming toward to the edge. ] — are you doing, jackass.
[ there's little resistance, embry's weight falling easily against bob, his cold face warming against bob's cheek. still like he's not here, like he's a ghost in his own body. like bob could take him anywhere and he wouldn't resist. a sudden stutter of breath. then awareness floods back in, his eyes sharpening. before he can do anything he's sputtering water, pressing a hand to his aching face with a loud curse. it takes several extra seconds of splashing before he realizes exactly who he's tangled up in the water with, a separate bout of panic forcibly shoving them apart as he stares wide-eyed at him, his breath ragged. ]
What the fuck are you doing here? [ between coughs, his voice rough. the pool. a quick glance skyward shows darkness through the carved windows. he's not one to take a dive in the middle of the night, so then — ] How did we —
[ he cuts himself off, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. pieces slotting into place. fuck fuck fuck. no memory of anything besides dropping into bed on the other side of the house. the skittering, bug-crawling sensation starts over his skin. ]
Goddamn fucking shit. [ muttered into his hands, now pressed over his dripping face as he floats backwards. quietly, like the words are being pried out of him with a crowbar — ] What did I do?
[ at the first sign of life (of strain), bob lets embry go because — of course there can be no touching between them now, not even this. he can’t hide the the way hurt immediately tears his expression open, already raw with the pain of seeing embry and thinking of him drowned, dead, gone. bob’s white t-shirt clings to his skin, sweats darkened; evidence that he surely did not intend to end up in the water. from his view, embry very much did.
and so bob sticks both hands in the water, and scoops a phenomenal splash right at embry’s stupid head. ]
I couldn’t fucking sleep. [ an accusatory point of his finger. ] You tried to drown yourself. [ he pushes his damp curls out of his eyes. relents, but only a fraction, eyes flinty — ] Sorry I broke the restraining order to save your ass, but I was here first. You’re the one who came within fifteen feet.
[ is this another mindgame because he didn’t tell the little prince thank you for his scraps? it seems deranged, even for embry, but then so is calling out to the void, entertaining a serial killer, and so fucking on. ]
[ he doesn't miss it, the hurt in the distance embry puts between them. how many times has he touched bob with no second thoughts behind it, only wanting? now, he can't not know. can't not think about the shattered, ugly mess of his life that bob could see.
he ducks so bob's splash doesn't hit him directly in the face, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes as he cautiously turns back toward him. ]
Oh. [ he says nothing for a long moment. he thinks maybe he should be more surprised that he nearly drowned himself, but the truth is he only feels relief. ] I'm glad I didn't hurt anyone this time.
[ he makes a move to get out of the water, but then thinks better of it, eyeing the way bob looks at him with obvious anger. aimless drifting it is. ]
It's not usually — it varies state by state, but there's no minimum or maximum distance. It's not usually less than 100 feet, though. There are... street exceptions. [ closing his mouth, he swallows and looks away, uncharacteristically off balance. what if bob hadn't been here? the question has already scrolled through his mind fifteen times. he's starting to tremble. ] I didn't try to — I mean, it wasn't on purpose. It's the sleepwalking thing. Because I died.
[ it wasn't on purpose. i didn't mean to. the same tired refrain. he draws in an unsteady breath. ]
You could've kept the book. [ hamlet. a wildly stupid accusation out of nowhere. ] It didn't do anything to you.
[ i’m glad I didn't hurt anyone this time makes him stiffen all over, words plucked from his mind. variations on the theme of his life. apologies he didn’t get the chance to utter, before he was summarily dismissed. i’m sorry i hurt you. i’m sorry i didn’t warn you. i never wanted it to touch you.
bob looks askance, a tick in his jaw. the sleepwalking thing makes his chest pang, but there’s nowhere for his tenderness to go. petulantly, he wonders why embry can’t understand his misery when he has a problem of a similar kind, beyond his control. (he knows why, when one endangers the self and the other endangers all.) with a hard swallow, it occurs to him that embry was in real danger. that he’s in danger every night he sleeps alone, and still he refuses any help —
not any help, bobby. yours. right. no danger greater than him. ]
Whatever. [ a lift of his shoulders. his hand drops back into the water, useless. ] Guess you’d know. [ about restraining orders, having crossed every line ani marked out. 100 feet, no contact, the works. it’s — meaner than he usually gets, sure. a gap between what he wants to say and what he can, now that embry has set himself apart. what he wants to do and what he can (when touch and comfort of any kind have been deemed the opposite, corrosive). ]
[ quietly, ] I actually had really good grades, when I dropped out, y’know. It was just — the attendance. [ a shake of his head and his hand, momentarily distracted. ] Don’t need your help smartening me up for the next sucker, anyway.
[ having read it as some kind of reading rainbow, make-a-wish gesture of pity. what else could it be, when embry so clearly wants to be rid of him?
his next look lingers more than he’d like, caught on the deep lines of embry’s face. unable to tear himself away from the barely there shiver in his limbs. bob studies him, unable to hide his doing so, then softens enough around the eyes to add, ]
You should get out of the water. Take my towel. [ folded by his socks. ] I’ll, uh, hang back.
[ there's the bite, and embry remembers the lines drawn in the sand. remembers all the things ani told ash too that somehow turned him away from him. you did that all on your own. stupid, to blame anyone else for his increasing isolation. ]
I did look into it. [ what the hell does it matter? bob has already seen inside of him. frankly, he doesn't know how many times it might've happened, even if his heart tells him bob wouldn't do that. wouldn't dredge up his life without him knowing. or — wouldn't let whatever thing inside of him do it. ] It makes things complicated when you share a kid with the person you want to avoid, though.
[ thankfully, abilene took herself out. jesus christ, embry. this is why you're going to hell.
he looks up at that, surprised at how greedy he is for even the smallest look into bob's life. his mouth tightens, just briefly. ]
I don't want to think about you and the next anything. [ bob moving on from this was always an inevitability. maybe — it didn't have to end so violently, though. with so much raw, unspoken hurt between them. a frustrated breath, as he tamps down his jealousy. ] Although I understand why you'd say something like that to piss me off.
[ bob's socks and towel are the only dry things between them. he looks at his dripping sweats, at the familiar contours of his body through his translucent shirt. embry swims forward, floating to the pool's edge. straying closer to bob even as his mind tells him not to. ]
If you stay here, will it come out again? [ it. his brows knit, uncertain. ] You said to watch your eyes.
[ confusion, first, in the crease of his forehead. the brief flash of something unreadable in his eyes. mouth thin, tongue pressed against his teeth. a kid? ].
You have a kid. [ testing out the truth in his mouth, brows arched, before he can think better of it. the kid with walker’s blue eyes. with embry’s blue eyes. the kid alone the crib. the little hand in yours. the kid standing with their mother. dark hair, red hair, dark hair, red hair stark against the deep blue. stomach churning, acid in his throat, his mouth. not love and longing, like walker felt for the woman with the dark hair, trapped beneath his scar tissue. no. disgust. fear. everything the void likes best.
his mouth parts around a question, but he snaps it shut. the void already took so much of embry’s life and mixed it up with the all the others in his head. what right does he have to more?
instead, ]
You don’t want to think about me at all. I got the message. [ snappish still, a sheen to his eyes as he looks at the rippling surface. anywhere but embry. draws his arms inward, fingers ghosting along the hem of his shirt, debating whether to drag it off. anything for his hands to do, so there’s less a chance of touching embry when he drifts closer.
he snorts, more surprised by the question than anything else. ]
It’s not, like, a shark.
[ most active during the witching hour, except he worries it might be — at least, coincidentally. the last time it’d done serious damage, bob had been passed out, recovering from a fatal jolt of electricity. it’s why he so fears rest now. a nocturnal strike is surely likely after clawing its way so close to the door, rattling at the back of his mind. ]
Sorry. [ for how dismissive that sounds, when it certainly responds to chum in the water. ] I know it’s scary. [ voice small, though it still manages to echo in the cavernous room, bouncing off the walls like the pool lights on his face. ] But I can’t feel it. Not any more than usual, anyway, so. Probably not tonight, no. Not while I’m awake.
[ hence the present night walk to swim pipeline. ]
His name is Galahad. Don't laugh. [ his lungs feel like they could expand three sizes as he closes his eyes and allows himself to picture his soft cheeks and dark hair and diaper butt waddling around in his corduroys and deck shoes. ] He looks like a Glo Worm. He's perfect. He's my Holy Grail knight.
[ the only good thing he's ever done in his life, despite the tragedy of his birth. his greatest fear was that abilene would put galahad in danger, but she'd made up for her incurable coldness and complete lack of parental instinct by hiring the best nanny in the district and allowing embry to be all parental instinct every hour, every minute.
eyes back up at bob, at his sharp words. it's not the bite that hurts, but the dejected pain behind them. the wounded shimmer in his eyes. ]
Your return letter — [ a generous stress to the word letter. ] made it sound like you didn't want to think about me, either.
[ unfair, perhaps, when embry goaded him into it (like always). i know it's scary. a pulse of hurt in his chest. more scary for bob to have to live with it, and yet he does, every day, and still manages his kind, sunny smile. ]
I just didn't want... [ he trails off, swallowing as he looks down, his hair dripping into his face. he dispels his memories with a quick shake of his head. the dark, creaking attic. the wrongness of bob's voice wrapping around him like a snake. ] I didn't want to make it happen again, but I don't want you to leave yet.
[ he lets those words hang uselessly between them. with the heel of his palm, he wipes the water from his eyes. ]
Are you afraid to sleep? [ since what happened. so much he doesn't know and feels no right to ask. how are you feeling since i fucked you up in the head? ]
[ bob doesn’t laugh. doesn’t even say you guys are so pretentious or rich people always pull that shit, like maybe he would, if they were still talking-talking and not — staring across still water. he can see that embry would be a good dad. thinks, briefly, of the night embry read to him. of the comfort he pressed into his hands and heart when he thought bob was deserving of such things.
he isn’t, of course. perhaps that’s why embry finds it so much easier to gift him hurt than affection. instinct led him to see bob clearer than most here. the boy who deserves all that he gets. who’ll find a way to deserve it, given the chance. pushing embry to his break point. risking everyone he touches. guilt loosens the tense lines of his neck, jaw, shoulders. a deflation of his defences. ever the open wound, vulnerable to infection. ]
Don’t put that on me, man. [ is all he can muster, now that embry stands sopping and trembling before him. he peels his shirt off his skin, the wet fabric tangling his hair and sticking to his forearms on the way out. anything, to keep his hands busy. i didn’t want to make it happen again. he lobs his shirt over the side, watching the arc of it in the air. listening to the wet thud of it, trying to drown out embry’s juddering heartbeat. are you afraid — ]
Yeah. [ resigned to it. accustomed to feeling terror in places that are meant to be safe. your home, your head, your body. ] Since the first time it happened — when I was. Out. [ a semantic distinction, in lieu of “technically deceased.” he imagines he was also out at the lab, when he killed the scientists. ] The second time I was asleep.
[ one hand at the nape of his neck, thumbing over a place as unmarked as the rest of him. the chip isn’t even there anymore, per yelena and bucky’s orders, but he remembers the sudden, sharp jolt. the nothingness, paradoxically. hard not to think everyone would be better off, if he’d died then. ]
You don’t, you didn’t make anything happen. [ gaze faraway. he performs a two fingered, rolling gesture with his free hand, an effort to explain his messed up head. ] You didn’t fucking help, but — it’s me. I make it happen, whenever it happens. [ he lets his hand drop with a splash. ] Sorry I let you take the fall for it.
[ bob seems to unravel right before his eyes, the sorrow living in him bleeding out from wounds that embry has always known were there. never hidden, easy to find, easy to press up against. easy to bruise. defenses that are a joke at best.
his eyes now rove hopelessly over bob's torso when he strips off his shirt, hands flexing. a twinge, as the neat line of stitches across his palm pulls. ]
The first time it happened was with Yelena and Bucky. [ framed more like a question. ] Or the second time?
[ how many times has it happened since? or maybe he's just uniquely fucking terrible in that he draws out catastrophic experiences for people. he almost, out of pure instinct, reaches for bob. catches himself, his fingertips trailing water instead. ]
You don't have to say that. [ any of it. that he didn't make it happen. that he's sorry he took some imaginary fall for his actions. he offered during the games — put my name forward instead. he wouldn't do it any different now. ] I wanted to — I didn't want people to look at you any differently or think that you hurt me. I wanted to protect you. But I shouldn't have said anything at all, because there's a whole side of you that I don't know, and — I understand why you didn't tell me. But I had no fucking idea what I walked into, and I would've done everything differently if I knew how much it would hurt you. That's not —
[ the way that i want to hurt you. he hates himself for even thinking it. for everything he did to him at the commune, which was no different from this. it's all hurt in the end. ]
[ picking up where embry leaves off, ] I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I know you didn’t know. [ know now hardly seems like a word at all. ] I didn’t warn you. Not really. I don’t — I don’t know how to talk about any of this. And Stephen said it all his way, and you said it yours, and now that’s how people understand it. Not that I understand any of it.
[ a jumble of words he hopes makes enough sense to embry to communicate the incommunicable. or, at least, to try. how can he talk about something he’s only just beginning to grasp? how can he correct what people assume now that the narrative has spiralled out of control? he takes in a shuddery breath. forces himself to meet embry’s eyes. ]
The first time was in New York. With Bucky and Yelena and the rest of my team. I listened to somebody I shouldn’t have ‘cause she told me she’d make me the next great American hero. [ in the tone of next great american idiot. ] Backfired. Turns out they build failsafes into nuclear weapons, just in case they turn on the home team. Only it didn’t work so much as, uh, flick the switch.
[ he drags his tongue along the bottom of his teeth, head tilted to one side. ]
The second time was the week we got back from the commune. Powers back for five whole days, and I can’t take it. [ too wounded from the commune and the games. abilities eking with embry, jess, da-lua. ] Bucky and Yelena don’t know about that. [ they were so proud of him for getting better. safe in the tower. alone in the tower. ] Nobody — just you. [ before this, when bob mentioned it over text. i gave somebody the nightmare of their life. the audible anguish starts there, with you. cracks on — ] Armand. He’s the one I hurt. I don’t even remember it. He could make me remember, but he hasn’t. He offered, and I just put it off. [ seeking something in embry’s expression then. confirmation, maybe, for the truth of his poor character. ] Isn’t that messed up?
[ every time he gets the chance to do the right thing, he pulls back. cowardly and selfish. leaving armand alone with the hurts he inflicted. risking embry without him even knowing everything that could go wrong. bob’s probably the reason he’s sleepwalking tonight. ]
No wonder you got out of there fast.
[ that night, in the aftermath, with his letter. i didn’t want people to look at you differently offered because embry can’t look at him the same. said so in his perfect handwriting. the void cuts to the marrow. you can’t experience it and come out unchanged. ]
[ i know you didn't mean to hurt me. an echo of ani in his head. i know you're fucking sorry. doesn't mean i have to do shit with it. he can't take back what was done, what was said, how she feels. how bob feels. none of it. he should have thought, for a single fucking second, not to prostitute his feelings across the house. or at least come up with a better story.
five days after getting back. five days where maybe embry should have asked after him, after what they did at the commune. no, you would have made it worse. same outcome, just sooner. better for it to be armand, who can actually help him. ]
It's not messed up. Now that I know what it's... like.
[ a slip, if he intended to convince bob he doesn't remember anything either. that maybe embry didn't even get pulled in. four seconds of contemplation unravel just how much of a stupid idea that is. lying to yelena and bucky is one thing. lying to bob is entirely another. no wonder you got out of there so fast. he takes in bob's explanation, trying to reconcile it with the unsettling throb that's been running through him since he opened his eyes to his room littered with glass. worse right now, with his poor but belated sense of self preservation kicking in after his subconscious trek across the manor and into the pool. ]
You would forgive me. [ soft, like pointing out some sort of fatal flaw in bob's code. a reason he gets hurt and hurt and hurt. embry would know, having chained himself to a singular cause. ] You would let me back in. If I got on my knees right now and begged for your forgiveness, if I showed you how sorry I was, would you say no to me? I didn't get out because I want you any less. I did it because you won't do it for yourself.
[ his gaze holds, somehow breathing despite the guilt puncturing his lungs. ] This is the part where you call me selfish. You should've saved the book, so you could throw it at my head. Also, if anyone saw us together, they'd probably shove me out of a window.
[ bob’s expression tightens, hurt fading as his former irritation draws his brows closer and twists his mouth. it’s not messed up, another lie, the same as embry saying he didn’t see it. things embry can say because they’re never going to talk about this again, so he won’t be caught out.
he blinks quick. one, two, three. his spine snaps into alignment, out of its depressive slump. ]
Do you even hear yourself? [ squinty. ] I don’t forgive you. [ not for leaving him on his own with this, not for the stupid letter. his guilt is separate thing from the pain that’s been inflicted in the aftermath. ] And I don’t believe you. You don’t really want me, Embry. I don’t think you ever have.
[ it’s easy to see it now, in retrospect. psychosis and convenience at the commune. self-harm at the pound and in his room. pity in between. because when you want someone, you don’t abandon them. it’s a simple rule of thumb that tells him everything he needs to know. ]
This — it’s all bullshit. [ a golden glint in his eyes. he wades close enough to touch. ] Because you want me to still like you, even when you’re not around. [ half to himself. ] You think I’ll forgive you because I’m the guy who likes getting hurt, right. That’s what you’re saying to me. [ knowing what you know. ] So you’re actually the hero, doing me a fuckin’ favour. ‘Cause I’m too stupid to know what’s good for me. [ dropout, junkie, rescue dog. too many breaks that never healed quite right. ] Well, I know how your Shakespeare shit goes, actually. You can shove it up your ass.
[ with that, bob elbows past him to reach the lip of the pool. ]
[ at least he knows armand is good at keeping secrets. bob moves forward and embry's heart shudders in his chest, from fear, from want. a thrill that sends electric heat all the way down to his freezing fingertips. a half step back, almost faltering in the pool from the rush of adrenaline that hits him like a truck. ]
I don't need you to forgive me. I don't want you to forgive me.
[ when bob is done and turning away. he flushes, snatching his wrist without thought, to pull him back. a natural, easy response, because not reaching for him is the hard part. he doesn't miss the glint of gold, like the specific hour of sunset, that flashes through his eyes. his nerves that tangle at the sight of it. the gut-wrenching want that follows just after. ]
You can believe all those things you want about me, that I'm trying to be a hero, that I don't think you know what's good for you — whatever you want, Bobby. You can act like there's any other way for us to be right now. [ he gives bob a hard shove despite knowing he could lift one finger and put him in his place, wounded anguish in his eyes, lit up by anger. ] But fuck you if you believe that I never wanted you. That I don't want you now. If you want to erase everything that's ever happened between us because you're not getting your fucking way — [ another shove, his voice echoing in the empty room. ] that's the shittiest thing you've ever done to me. Shittier than dragging me into your haunted house brain and making me relive all the things I regret.
[ easy to believe his feelings were never there, that it's all a lie. because you're embry moore, selfish fuck extraordinaire. what good have his feelings ever been for anyone? ]
[ it’s all instinct, going along with the pull at his wrist. nothing can move him anymore, or so he tells himself (the same way nothing can hurt him; it can). embry manages to push him back precious inches, shock slackening his features. thrown off balance, water spattering with the movement. but on the second shove, he’s rock solid. lightning quick, too, with his hands on embry’s chest, reversing their momentum. doesn’t have to push, after all, when he can walk embry back like he weighs nothing.
adrenaline unites all his hurt and anger, twisting it into a single tether between them. ten times the usual thrill he gets when he baits a guy who’s obviously strong than him. not anymore. ]
You don’t want me. [ pressing down on the bruise, the one place he’s managed to strike true. he watches for embry’s reaction, undaunted by any resistance (because if embry’s angry with him, at least he feels something for him, compared to the nothing bob has sat with for days.) ] You want me to want you. That isn’t the same thing. [ embry’s back hits the pool wall in no time, water sloshing over the edge. ] Maybe you wanted me to fuck you, once. Also not the same thing.
[ as wanting him in a substantial, meaningful way. as seeing him in the daylight or going to him in his darkest hours. how did it take him this long to twig it, huh? he’s known plenty of guys like embry moore; it’s only that the manor means he can’t run out in the morning. ]
Should I beg you to take me back? [ all teeth and strong jawbone. every accusation is a fast swing, artless but relentless. one hand presses high on embry’s shoulder, the other against the flat of his abdominals, so he feels the jut of the poolside at the centre of his back. ] That way you can say no, and tell everybody you did it to protect me. Or are you already bragging about your charity work? [ it was on the network, in that disaster of a post. bob bets it’s been served up to anyone pissed at embry for what happened. won’t happen again, as sloppy a fix as he can mange, but it’ll do. ]
Can you give yourself a medal of honour for not literally fucking the guy you fucked over, Mr. President?
[ he doesn't know if it's bob or the sentry or whatever else lives in him. the void, as bucky called it. it doesn't matter, because all of them know embry, and so every blow lands with precision. he only distantly feels the pool's edge despite the bruising dig of it. definitely feels bob's hands, always running warm, burning into him, feeling every quiver of his jagged breath. ]
I do. [ barely hears himself, isn't even sure he said it. you don't want him. that's not love. that's a lie. everything twisted up in bob's voice, but the one that doesn't sound at all like him, pulled straight from his memories. you want me to want you, spoken like a fucking curse. like the things he wants are dirty, abhorrent things that should never be uttered aloud. the cosmic joke of his life, where he finds something only to lose it in the same breath. same pathetic song. of course i want you to want me. to want me back.
he cuts his eyes away the accusation, blinking rapidly. bob gives him no respite, lobbing hit after hit like he doesn't see the lacerations he's leaving. or no longer cares. why should he, when he's hurt bob down to his marrow? hurts on top of a lifetime of hurts. he swallows down the taste of bile in his mouth, a cheap, ugly shot bob must have pulled straight from his head — medals pinned on his uniform, for killing. threats and danger and his entire life crumbling — ash's life — for loving. ]
Yeah. I'm telling everyone about you. [ ground out, barely keeping his voice steady, tears needling his icy gaze. ] I've never had a public fucking relationship, asshole. Not anything that was real. What would I even be saying? Yeah, that's Bobby. I never meant to fuck him up this bad. I never meant to care so much about him, either. So much that I'd probably do anything for him, if he asked me. But he's not gonna ask me, because there isn't anything in me worth asking for.
[ bob, the sentry, the void. they’re all the same thing, in the end. a tangled mess of hurts — of dark matter, weighing him down when nothing else can. a jerk of his chin, ready for the counter-strike. having said all the wrong, hurtful things to win a punch.
but of course when he wants the pain, it never comes. i do, i care, anything slash after slash where he least expects it. ]
You said enough.
[ the closest he’s come to relenting, tilting back enough that embry can breath his own air. not gonna happen again. you can have him blinking up at him when he awoke. messages that amount to we aren’t fucking, we aren’t in a relationship, we aren’t even friends. he’s somebody else’s problem. the force behind his hands eases. engineered to do harm now (to take valentina by the throat, bucky by the arm, koby by the head —) and yet still wanting. before he realises what he’s doing, he cups embry’s jaw, thumb sweeping over the taut line of it in apology. his other hand gentles over embry’s chest, trying to calm his stuttering breaths.
it’s exactly what he told koby. always saying the harshest, sharpest thing that comes to your mind isn’t any better than choking it down. sometimes it’s worse, like now, with embry’s sky eyes damp at the corners. never had a public relationship in his mouth, as if everyone here doesn’t know about ash and greer. back home, he must mean, where ash is — ]
I don’t — I don’t believe you. [ not about wanting him or doing anything for him. that’s the shit you say with your back against the wall, exactly where bob has him. ] If I ask you to stay, you’ll tell me no. [ shoulders bunching, words rushing together much the same way. ] You told me no before I could ask. You just told me off for thinking about it.
[ to play the tragic hero, albeit less convincingly by the second. maybe just in the interest of garden variety selfishness. self-preservation, at best, the animal instinct to run when faced with the horror of the void — of whatever robert reynolds has become, shifting in the light. more shadow than person. the creature who frightened him and hurt him and ruined everything. if not that night, then in this exact moment. ]
But that’s the only thing I want from you. [ a low, wounded note infiltrates his voice, traitorous as the shake in his hands. like he has any right to be upset, when embry walked in here out of sorts, out of body, out of his goddamn mind. ] I’ve never had any relationships. [ but embry already knew that. no beloved thing goes missing, the way he did. ] So if I ask you not to leave me, you can’t — you can’t let me ask, if you’re gonna say no.
[ it’s humiliating. heartbreaking. proof that embry was right about him being foolish and broken enough to line up for another hit, the kind he won’t recover from. ]
[ an automatic flinch, when bob cradles his jaw. swiftly, he brings a hand up to cup his wrist, thumb firmly over his pulse, so he won't pull away. he loosens a breath, slow, beneath the gentle press of bob's palm. you said enough. his ugly words to bucky, because everything between them has been ugly lately. assuring everyone he wouldn't go near bob again. in trying his best to put distance between them, to salvage a spiraling situation, he hadn't thought about bob waking up to read every selfish word from his mouth. ]
I only wanted to do the right thing. [ voice low, the barest waver. even with ash, with greer. with everyone. even when he walks away. ] I only ever — want to do the right thing. I did try, and — I'm sorry.
[ his eyes close, sticky, filmy, the past hour hitting him at once — the parts he can remember, anyway. the ache in bob's voice threads around his heart. ]
I had to say no. I had to stop you from asking. [ ash on his knees, ring in hand, the whole world in his eyes. his stomach twists at how much he hated him in that moment. hated him for loving him. hated that he would make him bear the pain of saying no. he opens his eyes but doesn't meet bob's gaze, staring instead at some fixed point in the water, every breath a lance in his chest. an old hurt made fresh. ] If I let you ask, I wouldn't have been able to say no. I couldn't leave you. Couldn't look you in the eye and say it. I do want you to want me, at least as much as I want you. And I'd go back into your head if it meant you would.
[ that flinch reverberates through his person. bob would pull away in apology, if not for embry’s grip at his wrist. a counterweight, tethering him here. i’d go back in your head. total insanity, water in his lungs and his brain. impossible to process despite his stuttering lashes trying to make sense of things. more of bob's words in embry's mouth: i only wanted to do the right thing. i was trying to help. i didn’t mean to make things worse.
a heartbeat of hesitation, in which he wishes he could say they put all this inside me, but the serum only enhances who you already are. his mood swings, the bursts of aggression and upset. there’s more than one reason people haven’t stuck around, beyond the riptide of his addiction. ]
Okay. [ fingers splayed at his cheek, squeezing his shoulder. anything to hold embry together, when he’s so close to rattling apart. because of you. another way in which they’re the same, bleeding out and contagious. ] Okay, Embry, I believe you. I don’t want you back in there, man — just. Right here. It’s okay.
[ he pulls against embry’s hold in service of a higher calling, both hands on his waist. waits for a brief moment, for embry to realise what he’s going to do, maybe even to look at him or protest, before bob lifts him up and onto the pool’s edge. of course, his plan to fetch the towel and finally do what he should have when embry sputtered back to life is derailed by the view from below. bob lingers there, with embry in hand, at home in the v of his legs, to confess — ]
I lied, when I said that’s all. [ all he wanted, when he's hoarse with need. ] Please let me be something good for you tonight. [ the obverse of what he said to embry, when the cracks started showing in his room. i’m not good for anyone. ] I know I’ve been an asshole, but please let me help.
[ they take turns bleeding out, trading hurts. even now, embry wants to beg him to let him go, to not go down this path again when they know exactly where it'll lead. for all he's tried to convince himself that he's been in control, that he's had bob under his thumb this entire time, it's never been less true. one touch and he's gone again, his stupid, useless heart drawn back in, desperately wanting to protect him. bob. the guy who can turn him inside out. who accidentally took a plow to his most private memories and left him so raw that a breeze hurts. who lifts him like he weighs nothing to finally take him out of the water.
his heart skips, stutters. hands automatically skimming bob's shoulders as he nestles between his legs. say no. fuck no. this isn't what he said he'd ask for, not even fucking close. bob and his warmth and the openness in his wide eyes that never hide anything, not his sadness, not his need. staring up at him. asking. embry's heart feels like it's trying to crawl out of his throat now. ]
You are an asshole. [ he cradles his face in both hands, just as much to keep himself steady as it is to be close to him. ] I guess you can just blame the other guy, though.
[ you can't help me. it's on the tip of his tongue. he draws bob in closer, closer, and he can't stop it because he can't hurt him again, not even to protect him. guilt and disgust knot in him at the thought of putting that wounded look back in his eyes. at his choices. you're just a coward taking the easy way out when you know it isn't right. ]
You're always good, Bobby. [ he kisses him, and it's like tasting the sun, warmth flooding all his cold and lonely places. mouth soft and wet, need scraping against need. and when you hurt him again? he kisses him harder, his thighs tightening around him, a hand sliding down to his throat, his shoulders, the planes of his chest. an ied in human form. he could hurt you too. badly. again. then who's to blame? he hoists bob out of the pool, water spilling across the dark, slick marble, embry's back hitting the floor as he pulls bob on top of him, kiss turned ravenous. teeth and tongue against bob's soft mouth, his fingers tangled in the damp mess of his hair. ]
None of what happened changed that. [ not the void, or anything that came after. ] You're still good. You're always good.
[ he’s not trying for anything more than comfort, bob tells himself, than care. he puts his hands on bare skin, fingers splaying to cover the space between one rib and another. so vulnerable there, everywhere, open to invasion. one wrong thought, a pulse of his power, and embry will be ruined again. let go. he puts his hands in the space between embry’s legs, pushing himself up as embry cradles his face. nowhere else to go, called forward by the softness at the corners of embry’s red eyes. mesmerised by the lull of his voice.
you’re always good. he’s a goner — is what he is. his mouth parts on a soft sound, too easy. he goes with embry’s momentum like he doesn’t have a choice, like he isn’t immovable and unbreakable and all fucking powerful. he puts his hands — everywhere. palms dragging up and down his sides. half on top of him, chests slick and legs tangled. you’re still good. you’re always good is enough to make him shudder, no matter how untrue it is. embry makes it feel true.
(when he was most right at the end of their disastrous night together. all of him, no other guy to blame. three parts that compose a whole. all of whom want embry, to be sure.)
bob kisses him until he can’t taste the water any longer. until maybe he forgets drowning there and in his memories. like he has to prove how good he can be. ]
This isn’t how I meant it. [ something good. a clarification murmured against his mouth, half-hearted. hitched up on his elbow, weight on his side. he drags embry’s soaked pants lower, over his hips, down his thighs. a preamble to getting a hand on his cock before embry can pull into the lead. ] I wanted to walk you to your room. Put you to bed. [ with his leg hooked over embry’s knee, his body pressed to embry’s side, he needs only apply the faintest pressure to have him pinned. ] But you did say I could have anything.
[ instructive, almost, as he strokes embry root to tip and noses below his ear, where his damp hair has already begun to curl. a kiss to that sensitive stretch of skin. a squeeze at the base of his cock.
and maybe embry would usually deny him something this soft, but the bargain’s already been struck, hasn’t it? ]
You wanted to — [ eyes pressing shut, needing to reorient himself. buzzing with the energy that only comes from brushing up against death, swarming him now that he's not preoccupied with yelling at bob anymore. walk him to his room, like he can't be trusted to do that on his own (apparently true). put you to bed. it's so fucking sweet, far sweeter than he deserves after the whirlwind of ungenerous thoughts blowing through his head. ] I did say that.
[ more to himself than bob. he said it and he's been saying it and he can't fucking complain now that bob has decided to call his bluff. hard to hold any thoughts in his head between the buzzing and the heady arousal, his hips immediately rocking into bob's hand, his touch far more potent than it would be any other day. any other day he didn't walk into a pool and try to drown himself without even realizing it. ]
I wouldn't have let you leave, if you did that. I need —
[ a sharp breath, his cock twitching with every kiss bob gives him, his breath hot on his skin. he just needs, and there's no other thought after it. lost to his desires, fucking gone like he's twenty-five again. he tries to move, strains to roll over so he can grind all over bob and then come on the beautiful canvas of his body, but bob has him effortlessly pinned, not like before when his control was overwhelming, consuming, but just enough that all his decisions are cut off at the knees. which might be just as well, considering where his head is. ]
Please. I need it. [ a plaintive, obscene moan, head tilting to brush his panting mouth against bob's cheek. his cock weeps pearls of wetness along bob's fingers, his whole body trembling with need. the darkness of a carpathian forest flits behind his eyes, a starless sky. the metallic scent of blood in the air, from his own bullet wounds. ] Please, Bobby. I'll — I'll do whatever you want. You can do whatever you want to me. Just let me come. Please fucking touch me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action → sleepwalking, post bobgate. (cw war trauma, assault, no suicidal ideation yet but lol)
unconsciousness is preferable to his memories. but even then — abilene chases him into the dark. nowhere to run when the devil is in your own bed, when it’s her hands undressing him. taking freely, like he has an unending reservoir to give and give and give whenever the world asks. are bob’s memories like this? potent, sharp, a knife skimming the surface? embry has spent many years boxing up his hurts, struggling to master the emotions that leash him, because otherwise — it’s this. a bitterly scathing gash wrapped up in guilt, in fear, in shame. impossible to feel anything else, when he’s bleeding everywhere, his walls obliterated in bob’s dredging of his pain. exactly what he told yelena never happened.
it’s almost a relief when it happens again, blessed numbness taking over his mind. almost. it won’t be, when he wakes up. he should have told ash. should have asked greer to stay. should have gone to hawk’s bed. should have done anything but spend his nights alone, when he knows the risk. instead, he leaves his room wearing nothing but low slung linen pants, his steps almost directionless as he makes his way down the length of the floor, newly cleaned of shattered glass, all the bulbs turned low for the night. he stops at danny’s room, his blue eyes betraying nothing in their emptiness. for a long stretch of minutes, he just stands there, not knocking, barely breathing, before he turns away and continues moving down the hall, taking the staircase down. malleable, but not responsive. strung out, but caught in the stasis before unconsciousness, not unlike the heavily drugged moments he spent bleeding out in the chapel, feeling next to nothing.
he makes it out to the indoor pool, no reaction to the change in temperature, the warm, balmy air settling over his skin as he walks toward the gentle azure ripples — no sign of stopping, even as he closes in on the water’s edge. ]
no subject
on his return, bob was going to seek embry out. apologise, for all he withheld and still withholds. beg forgiveness, for the harm he caused to embry and ash and greer. but the letter unravels his heart thread by thread, line by line. cultivating the kind of upset that makes you physically ill, eyes wet and blurring, vertigo overwhelming. everything’s different now because bob is different, no longer easy and weak and everything that made him appealing before the trial. he finds each line more insulting than the last, words so thorough as to shut him out forever, yet entirely, exclusively about embry fucking moore. embry, as the protagonist of a narrative that just so happens to involve bob as a casualty — a toy or a tool for him to pick up and put down. devoid of interest in bob’s thoughts or feelings about any of it. a fact that should be unsurprising, maybe, when embry never asked after him. when he offloaded any care for bob on adrian. because embry moore is the tragic hero, free to reveal all of bob’s pain and none of his own on the damn network.
to him, the letter says, sorry about the break. somebody else should fix that for you.
so he calls ani instead. ani, who keeps defending him, who keeps protecting him — who he should have been protecting more this whole time. bob tries to tell himself that people like her and hawk, who spoke up at the trial, wouldn’t run the second the void reached for them. (he looks at the evidence proving otherwise, in the letter he returns, and knows that isn’t true.)
for want of dreamless sleep, bob finds himself at the indoor pool, watching the shadows dance above the tile. this and the lake are the closest he has to any coastline, and chlorine has nothing on salt air — but it is what it is. socks piled beside him and sweats rolled to his calves, he perches at the water’s edge. one hand in the water, fingers making ripples, when he hears footsteps behind him. a familiar heartbeat. real or not real? embry’s been in his dreams again, worse than he had even at the commune. an ashen smudge on the floor of his room, lost amongst the dusty remains of the scientists he glimpsed in the void before armand pulled him back, or walking out the door by choice. the final scenario is, of course, the kindest. in his quieter moments, bob doesn’t blame embry seeking self-preservation, even if it means leaving him to bleed out by his lonesome. you have to put on your own oxygen mask first, right?
bob only looks up when a splash calls his attention sideways, to the steps that lead into the shallows. a familiar figure, near bare in the eerie glow of the pool, expression blank. another nightmare, another step forward. the woman in the water, in embry’s memories. ]
Embry? [ uncertainty overriding his hurt, but only just. weakly, ] I was here first, man. You can just — go wallow somewhere else.
cw mentions of suicide
he steps in. he's always liked the water, having grown up surrounded by boats and horses and his very own lake at his mother's enormous house — at least until ash begged him to marry him there one beautiful, misty day in september, while embry knelt on the rocky shore and wished he'd never heard the name maxen ashley colchester so he wouldn't have to say no to him, again. he'd liked the water until they fished abilene's ice cold body out of it.
but the water does have its benefits. the farther he goes and the deeper it gets, the less he feels. he barely feels anything at all, his mind flickering through memories like an old school projector, watching someone else's life. he hears something that could maybe be his name, but soon that's gone too, when his head goes under and he lets himself sink. weightless. not even relief thrums through him. the complete absence of feeling, better than any drug, any drink. bubbles stream from his nose as he breathes out, eyes closed. ]
all the way down ⬇️
that approach fails to address someone willingly walking to a watery grave. not drowning by accident but by choice. watching embry go under, bob suddenly feels as though he’s the one in the deep. deep space, deep sea. air wheezes from his throat, like his divesuit is losing oxygen, and he can’t find the goddamn rip.
he doesn’t know how long it takes him to snap out of his own stupor. too long, probably, but it takes less than a second for him to join embry in the water, once he decides to act. less than thirty, after that, for bob to wind his arms around embry’s middle, like he had that disastrous night, and haul his ass up. effortless, despite any resistance. his hair flops wet in his face, already reddened eyes stinging. ]
The hell — [ sputtering, half-staggering and half-swimming toward to the edge. ] — are you doing, jackass.
no subject
What the fuck are you doing here? [ between coughs, his voice rough. the pool. a quick glance skyward shows darkness through the carved windows. he's not one to take a dive in the middle of the night, so then — ] How did we —
[ he cuts himself off, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. pieces slotting into place. fuck fuck fuck. no memory of anything besides dropping into bed on the other side of the house. the skittering, bug-crawling sensation starts over his skin. ]
Goddamn fucking shit. [ muttered into his hands, now pressed over his dripping face as he floats backwards. quietly, like the words are being pried out of him with a crowbar — ] What did I do?
no subject
and so bob sticks both hands in the water, and scoops a phenomenal splash right at embry’s stupid head. ]
I couldn’t fucking sleep. [ an accusatory point of his finger. ] You tried to drown yourself. [ he pushes his damp curls out of his eyes. relents, but only a fraction, eyes flinty — ] Sorry I broke the restraining order to save your ass, but I was here first. You’re the one who came within fifteen feet.
[ is this another mindgame because he didn’t tell the little prince thank you for his scraps? it seems deranged, even for embry, but then so is calling out to the void, entertaining a serial killer, and so fucking on. ]
no subject
he ducks so bob's splash doesn't hit him directly in the face, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes as he cautiously turns back toward him. ]
Oh. [ he says nothing for a long moment. he thinks maybe he should be more surprised that he nearly drowned himself, but the truth is he only feels relief. ] I'm glad I didn't hurt anyone this time.
[ he makes a move to get out of the water, but then thinks better of it, eyeing the way bob looks at him with obvious anger. aimless drifting it is. ]
It's not usually — it varies state by state, but there's no minimum or maximum distance. It's not usually less than 100 feet, though. There are... street exceptions. [ closing his mouth, he swallows and looks away, uncharacteristically off balance. what if bob hadn't been here? the question has already scrolled through his mind fifteen times. he's starting to tremble. ] I didn't try to — I mean, it wasn't on purpose. It's the sleepwalking thing. Because I died.
[ it wasn't on purpose. i didn't mean to. the same tired refrain. he draws in an unsteady breath. ]
You could've kept the book. [ hamlet. a wildly stupid accusation out of nowhere. ] It didn't do anything to you.
no subject
bob looks askance, a tick in his jaw. the sleepwalking thing makes his chest pang, but there’s nowhere for his tenderness to go. petulantly, he wonders why embry can’t understand his misery when he has a problem of a similar kind, beyond his control. (he knows why, when one endangers the self and the other endangers all.) with a hard swallow, it occurs to him that embry was in real danger. that he’s in danger every night he sleeps alone, and still he refuses any help —
not any help, bobby. yours. right. no danger greater than him. ]
Whatever. [ a lift of his shoulders. his hand drops back into the water, useless. ] Guess you’d know. [ about restraining orders, having crossed every line ani marked out. 100 feet, no contact, the works. it’s — meaner than he usually gets, sure. a gap between what he wants to say and what he can, now that embry has set himself apart. what he wants to do and what he can (when touch and comfort of any kind have been deemed the opposite, corrosive). ]
[ quietly, ] I actually had really good grades, when I dropped out, y’know. It was just — the attendance. [ a shake of his head and his hand, momentarily distracted. ] Don’t need your help smartening me up for the next sucker, anyway.
[ having read it as some kind of reading rainbow, make-a-wish gesture of pity. what else could it be, when embry so clearly wants to be rid of him?
his next look lingers more than he’d like, caught on the deep lines of embry’s face. unable to tear himself away from the barely there shiver in his limbs. bob studies him, unable to hide his doing so, then softens enough around the eyes to add, ]
You should get out of the water. Take my towel. [ folded by his socks. ] I’ll, uh, hang back.
no subject
I did look into it. [ what the hell does it matter? bob has already seen inside of him. frankly, he doesn't know how many times it might've happened, even if his heart tells him bob wouldn't do that. wouldn't dredge up his life without him knowing. or — wouldn't let whatever thing inside of him do it. ] It makes things complicated when you share a kid with the person you want to avoid, though.
[ thankfully, abilene took herself out. jesus christ, embry. this is why you're going to hell.
he looks up at that, surprised at how greedy he is for even the smallest look into bob's life. his mouth tightens, just briefly. ]
I don't want to think about you and the next anything. [ bob moving on from this was always an inevitability. maybe — it didn't have to end so violently, though. with so much raw, unspoken hurt between them. a frustrated breath, as he tamps down his jealousy. ] Although I understand why you'd say something like that to piss me off.
[ bob's socks and towel are the only dry things between them. he looks at his dripping sweats, at the familiar contours of his body through his translucent shirt. embry swims forward, floating to the pool's edge. straying closer to bob even as his mind tells him not to. ]
If you stay here, will it come out again? [ it. his brows knit, uncertain. ] You said to watch your eyes.
no subject
You have a kid. [ testing out the truth in his mouth, brows arched, before he can think better of it. the kid with walker’s blue eyes. with embry’s blue eyes. the kid alone the crib. the little hand in yours. the kid standing with their mother. dark hair, red hair, dark hair, red hair stark against the deep blue. stomach churning, acid in his throat, his mouth. not love and longing, like walker felt for the woman with the dark hair, trapped beneath his scar tissue. no. disgust. fear. everything the void likes best.
his mouth parts around a question, but he snaps it shut. the void already took so much of embry’s life and mixed it up with the all the others in his head. what right does he have to more?
instead, ]
You don’t want to think about me at all. I got the message. [ snappish still, a sheen to his eyes as he looks at the rippling surface. anywhere but embry. draws his arms inward, fingers ghosting along the hem of his shirt, debating whether to drag it off. anything for his hands to do, so there’s less a chance of touching embry when he drifts closer.
he snorts, more surprised by the question than anything else. ]
It’s not, like, a shark.
[ most active during the witching hour, except he worries it might be — at least, coincidentally. the last time it’d done serious damage, bob had been passed out, recovering from a fatal jolt of electricity. it’s why he so fears rest now. a nocturnal strike is surely likely after clawing its way so close to the door, rattling at the back of his mind. ]
Sorry. [ for how dismissive that sounds, when it certainly responds to chum in the water. ] I know it’s scary. [ voice small, though it still manages to echo in the cavernous room, bouncing off the walls like the pool lights on his face. ] But I can’t feel it. Not any more than usual, anyway, so. Probably not tonight, no. Not while I’m awake.
[ hence the present night walk to swim pipeline. ]
no subject
[ the only good thing he's ever done in his life, despite the tragedy of his birth. his greatest fear was that abilene would put galahad in danger, but she'd made up for her incurable coldness and complete lack of parental instinct by hiring the best nanny in the district and allowing embry to be all parental instinct every hour, every minute.
eyes back up at bob, at his sharp words. it's not the bite that hurts, but the dejected pain behind them. the wounded shimmer in his eyes. ]
Your return letter — [ a generous stress to the word letter. ] made it sound like you didn't want to think about me, either.
[ unfair, perhaps, when embry goaded him into it (like always). i know it's scary. a pulse of hurt in his chest. more scary for bob to have to live with it, and yet he does, every day, and still manages his kind, sunny smile. ]
I just didn't want... [ he trails off, swallowing as he looks down, his hair dripping into his face. he dispels his memories with a quick shake of his head. the dark, creaking attic. the wrongness of bob's voice wrapping around him like a snake. ] I didn't want to make it happen again, but I don't want you to leave yet.
[ he lets those words hang uselessly between them. with the heel of his palm, he wipes the water from his eyes. ]
Are you afraid to sleep? [ since what happened. so much he doesn't know and feels no right to ask. how are you feeling since i fucked you up in the head? ]
cw suicidal ideation
he isn’t, of course. perhaps that’s why embry finds it so much easier to gift him hurt than affection. instinct led him to see bob clearer than most here. the boy who deserves all that he gets. who’ll find a way to deserve it, given the chance. pushing embry to his break point. risking everyone he touches. guilt loosens the tense lines of his neck, jaw, shoulders. a deflation of his defences. ever the open wound, vulnerable to infection. ]
Don’t put that on me, man. [ is all he can muster, now that embry stands sopping and trembling before him. he peels his shirt off his skin, the wet fabric tangling his hair and sticking to his forearms on the way out. anything, to keep his hands busy. i didn’t want to make it happen again. he lobs his shirt over the side, watching the arc of it in the air. listening to the wet thud of it, trying to drown out embry’s juddering heartbeat. are you afraid — ]
Yeah. [ resigned to it. accustomed to feeling terror in places that are meant to be safe. your home, your head, your body. ] Since the first time it happened — when I was. Out. [ a semantic distinction, in lieu of “technically deceased.” he imagines he was also out at the lab, when he killed the scientists. ] The second time I was asleep.
[ one hand at the nape of his neck, thumbing over a place as unmarked as the rest of him. the chip isn’t even there anymore, per yelena and bucky’s orders, but he remembers the sudden, sharp jolt. the nothingness, paradoxically. hard not to think everyone would be better off, if he’d died then. ]
You don’t, you didn’t make anything happen. [ gaze faraway. he performs a two fingered, rolling gesture with his free hand, an effort to explain his messed up head. ] You didn’t fucking help, but — it’s me. I make it happen, whenever it happens. [ he lets his hand drop with a splash. ] Sorry I let you take the fall for it.
[ *while he was passed out. ]
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his eyes now rove hopelessly over bob's torso when he strips off his shirt, hands flexing. a twinge, as the neat line of stitches across his palm pulls. ]
The first time it happened was with Yelena and Bucky. [ framed more like a question. ] Or the second time?
[ how many times has it happened since? or maybe he's just uniquely fucking terrible in that he draws out catastrophic experiences for people. he almost, out of pure instinct, reaches for bob. catches himself, his fingertips trailing water instead. ]
You don't have to say that. [ any of it. that he didn't make it happen. that he's sorry he took some imaginary fall for his actions. he offered during the games — put my name forward instead. he wouldn't do it any different now. ] I wanted to — I didn't want people to look at you any differently or think that you hurt me. I wanted to protect you. But I shouldn't have said anything at all, because there's a whole side of you that I don't know, and — I understand why you didn't tell me. But I had no fucking idea what I walked into, and I would've done everything differently if I knew how much it would hurt you. That's not —
[ the way that i want to hurt you. he hates himself for even thinking it. for everything he did to him at the commune, which was no different from this. it's all hurt in the end. ]
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[ a jumble of words he hopes makes enough sense to embry to communicate the incommunicable. or, at least, to try. how can he talk about something he’s only just beginning to grasp? how can he correct what people assume now that the narrative has spiralled out of control? he takes in a shuddery breath. forces himself to meet embry’s eyes. ]
The first time was in New York. With Bucky and Yelena and the rest of my team. I listened to somebody I shouldn’t have ‘cause she told me she’d make me the next great American hero. [ in the tone of next great american idiot. ] Backfired. Turns out they build failsafes into nuclear weapons, just in case they turn on the home team. Only it didn’t work so much as, uh, flick the switch.
[ he drags his tongue along the bottom of his teeth, head tilted to one side. ]
The second time was the week we got back from the commune. Powers back for five whole days, and I can’t take it. [ too wounded from the commune and the games. abilities eking with embry, jess, da-lua. ] Bucky and Yelena don’t know about that. [ they were so proud of him for getting better. safe in the tower. alone in the tower. ] Nobody — just you. [ before this, when bob mentioned it over text. i gave somebody the nightmare of their life. the audible anguish starts there, with you. cracks on — ] Armand. He’s the one I hurt. I don’t even remember it. He could make me remember, but he hasn’t. He offered, and I just put it off. [ seeking something in embry’s expression then. confirmation, maybe, for the truth of his poor character. ] Isn’t that messed up?
[ every time he gets the chance to do the right thing, he pulls back. cowardly and selfish. leaving armand alone with the hurts he inflicted. risking embry without him even knowing everything that could go wrong. bob’s probably the reason he’s sleepwalking tonight. ]
No wonder you got out of there fast.
[ that night, in the aftermath, with his letter. i didn’t want people to look at you differently offered because embry can’t look at him the same. said so in his perfect handwriting. the void cuts to the marrow. you can’t experience it and come out unchanged. ]
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five days after getting back. five days where maybe embry should have asked after him, after what they did at the commune. no, you would have made it worse. same outcome, just sooner. better for it to be armand, who can actually help him. ]
It's not messed up. Now that I know what it's... like.
[ a slip, if he intended to convince bob he doesn't remember anything either. that maybe embry didn't even get pulled in. four seconds of contemplation unravel just how much of a stupid idea that is. lying to yelena and bucky is one thing. lying to bob is entirely another. no wonder you got out of there so fast. he takes in bob's explanation, trying to reconcile it with the unsettling throb that's been running through him since he opened his eyes to his room littered with glass. worse right now, with his poor but belated sense of self preservation kicking in after his subconscious trek across the manor and into the pool. ]
You would forgive me. [ soft, like pointing out some sort of fatal flaw in bob's code. a reason he gets hurt and hurt and hurt. embry would know, having chained himself to a singular cause. ] You would let me back in. If I got on my knees right now and begged for your forgiveness, if I showed you how sorry I was, would you say no to me? I didn't get out because I want you any less. I did it because you won't do it for yourself.
[ his gaze holds, somehow breathing despite the guilt puncturing his lungs. ] This is the part where you call me selfish. You should've saved the book, so you could throw it at my head. Also, if anyone saw us together, they'd probably shove me out of a window.
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he blinks quick. one, two, three. his spine snaps into alignment, out of its depressive slump. ]
Do you even hear yourself? [ squinty. ] I don’t forgive you. [ not for leaving him on his own with this, not for the stupid letter. his guilt is separate thing from the pain that’s been inflicted in the aftermath. ] And I don’t believe you. You don’t really want me, Embry. I don’t think you ever have.
[ it’s easy to see it now, in retrospect. psychosis and convenience at the commune. self-harm at the pound and in his room. pity in between. because when you want someone, you don’t abandon them. it’s a simple rule of thumb that tells him everything he needs to know. ]
This — it’s all bullshit. [ a golden glint in his eyes. he wades close enough to touch. ] Because you want me to still like you, even when you’re not around. [ half to himself. ] You think I’ll forgive you because I’m the guy who likes getting hurt, right. That’s what you’re saying to me. [ knowing what you know. ] So you’re actually the hero, doing me a fuckin’ favour. ‘Cause I’m too stupid to know what’s good for me. [ dropout, junkie, rescue dog. too many breaks that never healed quite right. ] Well, I know how your Shakespeare shit goes, actually. You can shove it up your ass.
[ with that, bob elbows past him to reach the lip of the pool. ]
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I don't need you to forgive me. I don't want you to forgive me.
[ when bob is done and turning away. he flushes, snatching his wrist without thought, to pull him back. a natural, easy response, because not reaching for him is the hard part. he doesn't miss the glint of gold, like the specific hour of sunset, that flashes through his eyes. his nerves that tangle at the sight of it. the gut-wrenching want that follows just after. ]
You can believe all those things you want about me, that I'm trying to be a hero, that I don't think you know what's good for you — whatever you want, Bobby. You can act like there's any other way for us to be right now. [ he gives bob a hard shove despite knowing he could lift one finger and put him in his place, wounded anguish in his eyes, lit up by anger. ] But fuck you if you believe that I never wanted you. That I don't want you now. If you want to erase everything that's ever happened between us because you're not getting your fucking way — [ another shove, his voice echoing in the empty room. ] that's the shittiest thing you've ever done to me. Shittier than dragging me into your haunted house brain and making me relive all the things I regret.
[ easy to believe his feelings were never there, that it's all a lie. because you're embry moore, selfish fuck extraordinaire. what good have his feelings ever been for anyone? ]
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adrenaline unites all his hurt and anger, twisting it into a single tether between them. ten times the usual thrill he gets when he baits a guy who’s obviously strong than him. not anymore. ]
You don’t want me. [ pressing down on the bruise, the one place he’s managed to strike true. he watches for embry’s reaction, undaunted by any resistance (because if embry’s angry with him, at least he feels something for him, compared to the nothing bob has sat with for days.) ] You want me to want you. That isn’t the same thing. [ embry’s back hits the pool wall in no time, water sloshing over the edge. ] Maybe you wanted me to fuck you, once. Also not the same thing.
[ as wanting him in a substantial, meaningful way. as seeing him in the daylight or going to him in his darkest hours. how did it take him this long to twig it, huh? he’s known plenty of guys like embry moore; it’s only that the manor means he can’t run out in the morning. ]
Should I beg you to take me back? [ all teeth and strong jawbone. every accusation is a fast swing, artless but relentless. one hand presses high on embry’s shoulder, the other against the flat of his abdominals, so he feels the jut of the poolside at the centre of his back. ] That way you can say no, and tell everybody you did it to protect me. Or are you already bragging about your charity work? [ it was on the network, in that disaster of a post. bob bets it’s been served up to anyone pissed at embry for what happened. won’t happen again, as sloppy a fix as he can mange, but it’ll do. ]
Can you give yourself a medal of honour for not literally fucking the guy you fucked over, Mr. President?
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I do. [ barely hears himself, isn't even sure he said it. you don't want him. that's not love. that's a lie. everything twisted up in bob's voice, but the one that doesn't sound at all like him, pulled straight from his memories. you want me to want you, spoken like a fucking curse. like the things he wants are dirty, abhorrent things that should never be uttered aloud. the cosmic joke of his life, where he finds something only to lose it in the same breath. same pathetic song. of course i want you to want me. to want me back.
he cuts his eyes away the accusation, blinking rapidly. bob gives him no respite, lobbing hit after hit like he doesn't see the lacerations he's leaving. or no longer cares. why should he, when he's hurt bob down to his marrow? hurts on top of a lifetime of hurts. he swallows down the taste of bile in his mouth, a cheap, ugly shot bob must have pulled straight from his head — medals pinned on his uniform, for killing. threats and danger and his entire life crumbling — ash's life — for loving. ]
Yeah. I'm telling everyone about you. [ ground out, barely keeping his voice steady, tears needling his icy gaze. ] I've never had a public fucking relationship, asshole. Not anything that was real. What would I even be saying? Yeah, that's Bobby. I never meant to fuck him up this bad. I never meant to care so much about him, either. So much that I'd probably do anything for him, if he asked me. But he's not gonna ask me, because there isn't anything in me worth asking for.
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but of course when he wants the pain, it never comes. i do, i care, anything slash after slash where he least expects it. ]
You said enough.
[ the closest he’s come to relenting, tilting back enough that embry can breath his own air. not gonna happen again. you can have him blinking up at him when he awoke. messages that amount to we aren’t fucking, we aren’t in a relationship, we aren’t even friends. he’s somebody else’s problem. the force behind his hands eases. engineered to do harm now (to take valentina by the throat, bucky by the arm, koby by the head —) and yet still wanting. before he realises what he’s doing, he cups embry’s jaw, thumb sweeping over the taut line of it in apology. his other hand gentles over embry’s chest, trying to calm his stuttering breaths.
it’s exactly what he told koby. always saying the harshest, sharpest thing that comes to your mind isn’t any better than choking it down. sometimes it’s worse, like now, with embry’s sky eyes damp at the corners. never had a public relationship in his mouth, as if everyone here doesn’t know about ash and greer. back home, he must mean, where ash is — ]
I don’t — I don’t believe you. [ not about wanting him or doing anything for him. that’s the shit you say with your back against the wall, exactly where bob has him. ] If I ask you to stay, you’ll tell me no. [ shoulders bunching, words rushing together much the same way. ] You told me no before I could ask. You just told me off for thinking about it.
[ to play the tragic hero, albeit less convincingly by the second. maybe just in the interest of garden variety selfishness. self-preservation, at best, the animal instinct to run when faced with the horror of the void — of whatever robert reynolds has become, shifting in the light. more shadow than person. the creature who frightened him and hurt him and ruined everything. if not that night, then in this exact moment. ]
But that’s the only thing I want from you. [ a low, wounded note infiltrates his voice, traitorous as the shake in his hands. like he has any right to be upset, when embry walked in here out of sorts, out of body, out of his goddamn mind. ] I’ve never had any relationships. [ but embry already knew that. no beloved thing goes missing, the way he did. ] So if I ask you not to leave me, you can’t — you can’t let me ask, if you’re gonna say no.
[ it’s humiliating. heartbreaking. proof that embry was right about him being foolish and broken enough to line up for another hit, the kind he won’t recover from. ]
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I only wanted to do the right thing. [ voice low, the barest waver. even with ash, with greer. with everyone. even when he walks away. ] I only ever — want to do the right thing. I did try, and — I'm sorry.
[ his eyes close, sticky, filmy, the past hour hitting him at once — the parts he can remember, anyway. the ache in bob's voice threads around his heart. ]
I had to say no. I had to stop you from asking. [ ash on his knees, ring in hand, the whole world in his eyes. his stomach twists at how much he hated him in that moment. hated him for loving him. hated that he would make him bear the pain of saying no. he opens his eyes but doesn't meet bob's gaze, staring instead at some fixed point in the water, every breath a lance in his chest. an old hurt made fresh. ] If I let you ask, I wouldn't have been able to say no. I couldn't leave you. Couldn't look you in the eye and say it. I do want you to want me, at least as much as I want you. And I'd go back into your head if it meant you would.
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a heartbeat of hesitation, in which he wishes he could say they put all this inside me, but the serum only enhances who you already are. his mood swings, the bursts of aggression and upset. there’s more than one reason people haven’t stuck around, beyond the riptide of his addiction. ]
Okay. [ fingers splayed at his cheek, squeezing his shoulder. anything to hold embry together, when he’s so close to rattling apart. because of you. another way in which they’re the same, bleeding out and contagious. ] Okay, Embry, I believe you. I don’t want you back in there, man — just. Right here. It’s okay.
[ he pulls against embry’s hold in service of a higher calling, both hands on his waist. waits for a brief moment, for embry to realise what he’s going to do, maybe even to look at him or protest, before bob lifts him up and onto the pool’s edge. of course, his plan to fetch the towel and finally do what he should have when embry sputtered back to life is derailed by the view from below. bob lingers there, with embry in hand, at home in the v of his legs, to confess — ]
I lied, when I said that’s all. [ all he wanted, when he's hoarse with need. ] Please let me be something good for you tonight. [ the obverse of what he said to embry, when the cracks started showing in his room. i’m not good for anyone. ] I know I’ve been an asshole, but please let me help.
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his heart skips, stutters. hands automatically skimming bob's shoulders as he nestles between his legs. say no. fuck no. this isn't what he said he'd ask for, not even fucking close. bob and his warmth and the openness in his wide eyes that never hide anything, not his sadness, not his need. staring up at him. asking. embry's heart feels like it's trying to crawl out of his throat now. ]
You are an asshole. [ he cradles his face in both hands, just as much to keep himself steady as it is to be close to him. ] I guess you can just blame the other guy, though.
[ you can't help me. it's on the tip of his tongue. he draws bob in closer, closer, and he can't stop it because he can't hurt him again, not even to protect him. guilt and disgust knot in him at the thought of putting that wounded look back in his eyes. at his choices. you're just a coward taking the easy way out when you know it isn't right. ]
You're always good, Bobby. [ he kisses him, and it's like tasting the sun, warmth flooding all his cold and lonely places. mouth soft and wet, need scraping against need. and when you hurt him again? he kisses him harder, his thighs tightening around him, a hand sliding down to his throat, his shoulders, the planes of his chest. an ied in human form. he could hurt you too. badly. again. then who's to blame? he hoists bob out of the pool, water spilling across the dark, slick marble, embry's back hitting the floor as he pulls bob on top of him, kiss turned ravenous. teeth and tongue against bob's soft mouth, his fingers tangled in the damp mess of his hair. ]
None of what happened changed that. [ not the void, or anything that came after. ] You're still good. You're always good.
🔞
you’re always good. he’s a goner — is what he is. his mouth parts on a soft sound, too easy. he goes with embry’s momentum like he doesn’t have a choice, like he isn’t immovable and unbreakable and all fucking powerful. he puts his hands — everywhere. palms dragging up and down his sides. half on top of him, chests slick and legs tangled. you’re still good. you’re always good is enough to make him shudder, no matter how untrue it is. embry makes it feel true.
(when he was most right at the end of their disastrous night together. all of him, no other guy to blame. three parts that compose a whole. all of whom want embry, to be sure.)
bob kisses him until he can’t taste the water any longer. until maybe he forgets drowning there and in his memories. like he has to prove how good he can be. ]
This isn’t how I meant it. [ something good. a clarification murmured against his mouth, half-hearted. hitched up on his elbow, weight on his side. he drags embry’s soaked pants lower, over his hips, down his thighs. a preamble to getting a hand on his cock before embry can pull into the lead. ] I wanted to walk you to your room. Put you to bed. [ with his leg hooked over embry’s knee, his body pressed to embry’s side, he needs only apply the faintest pressure to have him pinned. ] But you did say I could have anything.
[ instructive, almost, as he strokes embry root to tip and noses below his ear, where his damp hair has already begun to curl. a kiss to that sensitive stretch of skin. a squeeze at the base of his cock.
and maybe embry would usually deny him something this soft, but the bargain’s already been struck, hasn’t it? ]
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[ more to himself than bob. he said it and he's been saying it and he can't fucking complain now that bob has decided to call his bluff. hard to hold any thoughts in his head between the buzzing and the heady arousal, his hips immediately rocking into bob's hand, his touch far more potent than it would be any other day. any other day he didn't walk into a pool and try to drown himself without even realizing it. ]
I wouldn't have let you leave, if you did that. I need —
[ a sharp breath, his cock twitching with every kiss bob gives him, his breath hot on his skin. he just needs, and there's no other thought after it. lost to his desires, fucking gone like he's twenty-five again. he tries to move, strains to roll over so he can grind all over bob and then come on the beautiful canvas of his body, but bob has him effortlessly pinned, not like before when his control was overwhelming, consuming, but just enough that all his decisions are cut off at the knees. which might be just as well, considering where his head is. ]
Please. I need it. [ a plaintive, obscene moan, head tilting to brush his panting mouth against bob's cheek. his cock weeps pearls of wetness along bob's fingers, his whole body trembling with need. the darkness of a carpathian forest flits behind his eyes, a starless sky. the metallic scent of blood in the air, from his own bullet wounds. ] Please, Bobby. I'll — I'll do whatever you want. You can do whatever you want to me. Just let me come. Please fucking touch me.
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