hi and welcome to my new masterlist. So before we get on, there are some things I want you to know.
🌸 If an imagine could possibly be triggering, I will have a warning in the beginning.
🌸 I want you all to request, but remember that it might take awhile for me to get it done. But I really want to write so don’t worry. As for now, you can request from this prompt list or send in your ideas.
🌸 I am currently only writing outer banks.
🌸 I will update the masterlist every time I post a new imagine.
🌸 I will write for Rafe Cameron, but he is not going to be a murderer and disgusting person in those :) So don’t hate me (Actually he might depending on the fic.)
✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences
✮ word count: 10.6k
✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo
The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.
He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.
"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"
The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.
"Need a hand?"
You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.
"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."
He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.
"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"
"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."
Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.
"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"
"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."
He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.
"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."
"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."
"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.
"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"
He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.
Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.
It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.
He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.
"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."
"No problem."
He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"
He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.
"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."
It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."
He's so fucked.
The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.
When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?
So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.
But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.
You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.
"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."
"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.
"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."
You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.
Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.
He should stay away.
He doesn't.
"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"
"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."
"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."
"I smile."
"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"
Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."
"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"
The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.
"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"
"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"
"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."
Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."
"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."
Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.
But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.
"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.
Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."
The faucet thing turns into a whole production.
You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—
"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."
The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.
"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.
"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."
He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.
"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"
"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.
Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.
"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.
"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."
He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."
"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.
Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."
It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.
"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.
"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."
"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"
"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."
"So don't go."
"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."
He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You were going to ask me to go with you."
"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."
"I really don't."
"There's an open bar."
"Still no."
"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."
That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...
"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."
The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.
He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.
The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.
"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."
"Did it work?"
"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."
He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."
"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"
"I said no dancing."
"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."
"That's not a law."
"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."
The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.
You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.
"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."
His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."
Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.
"Bucky—"
"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."
You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."
But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.
He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.
"I'm sorry if I—" you start.
"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"
"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."
"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."
You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.
You pull back after that.
It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.
"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.
"I don't mope."
"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"
Bucky's silence is damning.
"What'd you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."
Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."
"...okay?"
"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."
"Why?"
"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"
"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"
"Then she's naïve."
"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."
Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?
He's already standing before he realizes it.
"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."
Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.
"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."
He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.
"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.
"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"
"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.
You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.
"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.
"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."
Each observation feels like being flayed open.
"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."
"You can't know that."
"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."
"You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"
He kisses you.
It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.
The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.
You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—
Reality crashes back like ice water.
He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.
Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.
"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."
"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.
"I should go," he manages.
"Or," you say, "you could stay."
The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.
You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He leaves.
The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.
He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.
Now he wants to break his own.
You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.
It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.
"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"
He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."
Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."
Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.
It's fine. It's working. You're safe.
He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.
Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.
"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."
"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.
"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."
Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.
The mission goes sideways in minute three.
"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"
The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.
"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.
It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.
"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."
Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.
They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.
His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—
Your door is open.
Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—
The deadbolt is broken.
The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.
Bucky goes utterly still.
His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—
Blood.
Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.
"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—
Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.
Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.
He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.
His phone rings. Unknown number.
"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.
"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."
"Where is she?"
"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"
Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—
"What do you want?"
"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."
The line goes dead.
Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.
Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.
He's going to paint the city red for it.
"Buck, slow down—"
"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.
Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"
"Watch me."
"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"
"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"
That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.
"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."
"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."
"Buck—"
"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."
"So what, you're going in alone?"
Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.
"They touched her," he says simply.
"I know, man. I know. But—"
"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."
"Buck, come on. At least let me—"
"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"
"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that."
Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—
Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.
"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.
The trail goes cold in six hours.
Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.
"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"
Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."
"We'll find her."
We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.
He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.
Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.
"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."
"Get out."
"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"
"I said—"
"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."
The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."
"I know that."
"Then stop giving them what they want."
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.
"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.
"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."
"I am focused."
"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."
He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.
"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"
Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.
His blood turns to ice, then flame.
"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."
She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.
"Just me," he says. "Let her go."
"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."
The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.
You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.
"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.
You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."
The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.
"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."
You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."
Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.
"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."
"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.
This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.
"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."
Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"
The video cuts.
Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.
"That bad?" Yelena asks.
He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.
Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.
"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."
"I know."
"You can't just walk in there like idiot."
"I know."
"So what's plan?"
He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."
"Barnes—"
"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."
The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.
"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."
"Rooftop," from Yelena.
"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."
"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.
The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.
"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."
"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."
"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.
"Where is she?"
"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."
"We?"
The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."
"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."
The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."
Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.
Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.
"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."
"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."
"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"
The knife moves toward you.
The world explodes.
Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.
Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.
Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.
"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"
He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.
When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.
"Come any closer and—"
Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.
"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."
But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.
"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."
"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.
He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.
"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.
Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.
After that? After that, everything changes.
But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:
Never again.
Never fucking again.
The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.
"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."
"I'm fine."
Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.
"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."
He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?
"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."
Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.
"When will she wake up?"
"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."
"Sam already made that joke."
"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."
She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.
Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.
"You're spiraling again."
Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.
"You're awake."
"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"
"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"
"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."
"It's fine."
You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.
"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"
"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."
Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"
"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."
"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."
"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."
"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"
"That's not—"
"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."
"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"
"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."
You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."
"Stop."
"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."
The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.
"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.
"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?"
"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."
"I should have protected you better."
"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."
"I should have never let them take you in the first place."
"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."
"You are—"
"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."
He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."
"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."
"I know."
"Like, incandescently furious."
"I know."
"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."
His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"
"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"
He kisses you.
There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.
His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.
The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.
When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.
Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.
"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"
"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."
You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."
"I'm already in therapy."
"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."
"...fine."
"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."
"Okay."
"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."
"Deal."
"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."
He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.
"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."
"I know."
"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."
"I can take it."
"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."
"Noted."
You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."
He freezes. You squeeze his hand.
"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."
His throat feels tight. "I can do that."
"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."
"It's not that bad."
"Bucky."
"Fine."
But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.
The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.
"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.
"Yeah."
"And stubborn."
"Definitely."
"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."
He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.
The least he can do is try to prove you right.
When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.
And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.
"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.
"Hey yourself."
You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.
Summary: A scare at the park leaves you hurt — and feeling forgotten when Bucky rushes to your daughter first. But back home, amid quiet apologies, lavender baths, and heart-shaped waffles, he reminds you exactly where you belong.
Disclaimer: minor injury (reader), emotional hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, husband and girl-dad Bucky, post Thunderbolts* era, occasional appearances/mentions of the rest of TB* members, Bob's missing because he'd rather read and do the dishes
Word count: 4,297
──
The fall happened fast.
You didn’t even have time to yell — just that sharp inhale of fear, that split-second freeze before everything spun sideways. Two boys on scooters came tearing down the park path, shouting and laughing with reckless joy, like they owned the space. Your daughter’s soft giggle — pure light and happiness — turned into a startled squeak as you scooped her up in your arms and spun to shield her from the collision.
Your foot slipped on the jagged edge of the path. The world tipped brutally. Your ankle twisted at an unnatural angle, your knees slammed hard into the gravel and dirt. You hit the ground with a thud that shook your bones. A sudden, searing pop echoed up your arm as your wrist slammed against the uneven path. Pain exploded in your ankle, hot and sharp, and you rolled onto your side, trying to protect your daughter.
She landed in your lap with a thud and a cry — not hurt, just scared. Still whole. Still breathing. But shaking.
Your vision blurred for a heartbeat. The pain blossomed in your ankle, fierce and swelling fast. Your wrist throbbed, already beginning to puff up like a twisted balloon. You gritted your teeth through the burning ache, brushing dirt and bits of gravel from your daughter’s tangled hair as she clung to your shirt with trembling fingers.
Her soft waves — light brunette like Bucky’s, kissed with warm sun and a glint of your gold — were tied in little pucca buns today. You remembered how she’d giggled earlier, spinning around in front of the mirror, calling herself “Princess Soldier.” Now, the buns were lopsided and messy, her wide eyes full of confusion and fear.
You hadn’t even realized your Apple Watch had triggered an SOS alert in the fall — but you were grateful for the shrill, urgent sound when it rang out.
The screech of tires on pavement.
Then a too-familiar booming Russian voice from the street:
“MOVE! MOVE! Avenger papa coming through!”
And then he was there.
Bucky vaulted out of Alexei’s questionable stretch limo like a man on fire — tactical jeans stretched tight over thick, muscular thighs, a black shirt soaked in sweat clinging to every sculpted dip of his chest. His broad shoulders and arms — one flesh, one metal, both veined and strong — swung with purpose as he sprinted, boots pounding the path in steady, urgent rhythm. His dark hair clung damp to his face and nape, curls kissed with adrenaline and panic sparkling in his steel-blue eyes.
The dog tags around his neck jingled — his wedding ring threaded through them — catching the sunlight as he skidded to a stop in front of you.
But he didn’t look at you.
He dropped to his knees and swept your daughter into his thick, muscled arms like he could fold her into his chest and hide her from the world.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured against her temple, voice thick with raw emotion. “You okay? Did they hit you? Where does it hurt?”
His hands — big, calloused, capable of breaking bones or healing wounds — moved over her with trembling care, brushing away tears, checking her tiny limbs. She hiccupped against his neck, little fingers tugging his shirt, and he held her tighter, as if he could shield her from all pain forever.
You sat there in the grass, jeans torn and stained, skin scraped and aching. You told yourself it was fine. That he’d look up any second now.
You waited.
He didn’t look at you.
──
“Okay, ow, you’re definitely swelling,” Ava said gently beside you, snapping on gloves. You hadn’t even noticed her approach — not over the rush of blood pounding in your ears, or the quiet sting of being unseen.
“Let me see your ankle, yeah?”
You nodded numbly, blinking down at it — the skin already a deep purple-blue, puffed like rising dough, throbbing with every beat of your heart.
Yelena crouched beside Ava, eyes narrowing like a hawk assessing prey.
“You look like you fell down a cliff,” she muttered with dark humor. “Are you bleeding internally or just outside?”
You forced a weak smile. “I’m fine.”
You weren’t. Not really.
You were hurting — in more ways than the visible bruises and sprains.
John stood behind Bucky, arms crossed, watching quietly. Then he leaned down and murmured something close to Bucky’s ear.
Your husband stiffened.
He finally turned his head toward you, and when he saw the bruises, the dirt on your skin, the swollen wrist cradled against your chest — he looked gutted.
“Baby,” he said, soft and broken, already rising with your daughter held on one arm like she weighed nothing.
He walked toward you slowly now, crouching beside you with that massive frame towering but gentle, eyes searching your face like he’d just woken from a nightmare.
“I didn’t even—” His voice cracked. “I was so focused on her I… fuck, doll. I’m sorry.”
“She’s okay,” you whispered, not meeting his eyes.
“But you’re not,” he murmured, guilt plain in every inch of his stupidly handsome face. “You’re hurt, and I didn’t see you. That’s not okay.”
You shrugged weakly, pain making you shaky. “Just… missed being your first thought.”
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.
“You are. Always. I just skipped you today. That’s not the same.”
He kissed your cheek, then carefully passed your daughter to Yelena — who looked like she might drop dead from surprise — and scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing.
And those arms? Wrapped around your back and under your knees, they were pure strength — one cool vibranium, one warm flesh, thick with muscle and trembling with worry. You felt the power in him, but also the tenderness. The unshakable care.
As he carried you to the limo, you let your head rest against his chest — damp and warm, heart beating fast beneath solid pecs — and let the tears fall quietly.
You weren’t second place.
He’d just lost sight for a second.
And now? He wouldn’t let you go.
──
The ride home was quiet — or as quiet as it could be with Red Guardian humming Soviet rock in the front seat, and Yelena making up ridiculous stories for your daughter in the back.
You curled into Bucky’s side on the limo bench, your ankle carefully elevated on a cushion Alexei insisted was “imported from an actual former palace.” Bucky hadn’t let go of you once — not your waist, not your hand, not the stubborn kisses pressed against your temple every few minutes.
He’d helped you inside like you were made of glass. You were laid out on the couch with pillows fluffed under your foot, wrist braced and wrapped, painkillers starting to take the edge off. Your daughter was tucked into her little nap cot with a stuffed wolf and three bodyguards watching her like she was royalty.
And then — silence. Just you and him.
You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to.
You felt him — his towering form pacing, fidgeting, unsure.
He finally crouched next to you again, annoyingly perfect hair damp from a quick rinse, a clean black henley hugging every inch of his broad chest. The sleeves were pushed up over thick forearms — real one veined and solid, metal one gleaming in the soft light.
“You’re mad,” he said finally.
You stared at the ceiling. “Nope.”
“Doll.”
You gave a little shrug. “I just got out-attentioned by my own toddler. Not a big deal.”
He groaned softly, dropping his head to your good knee.
“She’s three,” he mumbled.
“She’s fast,” you grumbled back.
His shoulders shook with a quiet laugh. “You’re not seriously jealous of her.”
“I am,” you said flatly. “And I’d do it again.”
He lifted his head and stared at you — the corner of his mouth twitching in that way that meant he knew better than to smile.
“You’re ridiculous.”
You sniffed. “You didn’t even look at me.”
“I know,” he said softly this time. “And I hate that I did that. You could’ve been seriously hurt and I just— I was scared. I saw her crying and I… tunnel vision.”
You stayed quiet.
He shifted closer, kneeling in front of you now, arms braced on either side of your hips.
“I’m taking today and tomorrow off,” he said. “Told Val. Told Alexei. Walker already agreed to babysit.”
You raised an eyebrow. “John agreed?”
“He volunteered with Bob,” Bucky said dryly. “Ava told him he could either help or she’d show the team that video of him crying during Encanto.”
You snorted. “It was emotional.”
Bucky’s lips twitched again, but he stayed serious.
“You get the rest of the day. And tomorrow. I’ll wait on you hand and foot. You want foot rubs, snacks, someone to plump your pillows? Done. You want me to carry you everywhere? Fine. You want to watch Breaking Dawn Part 2 for the fifth time this week while I feed you grapes like a Roman emperor? I’m your man.”
You finally looked at him.
“…You forgot ‘clean the house.’”
He stood. “Where do I start?”
──
First, the dishes. You stayed propped up on the couch, a smug little smirk tugging at your lips while Bucky grumbled through your daughter’s unholy collection of snack-stained plates and glitter cups. You made him wear the frilly apron. He didn’t argue — not even when you caught him sneaking a glance at you through the straps.
Then came the vacuuming. Every time he bent down, his black henley pulled tighter across his broad back, outlining the powerful sweep of muscle beneath. You made sure to whistle just loud enough for him to hear.
“You’re ogling me while I vacuum?” he said with a crooked grin, straightening up like a warrior victorious.
“You deserve it,” you said, biting into the crisp apple slice he’d peeled just for you. “Now flex your arms more.”
He did, deliberately — biceps bulging, forearms veined and hard as steel. You couldn’t help but admire the contrast: one arm flesh and muscle, the other gleaming vibranium.
Later, you sent him to water the plants — which he did with exaggerated care, cooing to them in that deep, gentle voice he usually reserved for bedtime stories and pillow talk.
──
“Time for your bath, your majesty,” he murmured, voice low and full of mock ceremony.
You narrowed your eyes but didn’t protest when he slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other cradled your back.
“You sure?” you mumbled as he lifted you effortlessly. “Could be a lot of work. You might forget I’m in there.”
The words came sharp, meant to tease. Instead, his face softened with quiet guilt. He didn’t flinch or argue.
“I deserved that,” he said quietly. “Let me make it up to you.”
You asked him to carry you to the bathroom, and he did — bridal-style, arms strong and steady beneath you, so warm and sure that your chest ached in the best way. Each time he glanced at you, it was as if the rest of the world had vanished, and only you existed in his sight.
Every kiss pressed to your wrist was reverent, every glance toward your swollen ankle full of regret.
“Hurts still?” he asked softly, helping you shift carefully as he fluffed the throw blanket over your legs.
You nodded, then looked up at him, voice small but honest. “But it hurts more thinking you forgot me.”
His flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing slow circles along your jaw.
“I could never,” he said, voice low and fierce. “You’re my heart, baby. My whole damn world.”
The bath was already drawn when he carried you in — lavender-scented bubbles rising in soft curls, gentle lighting casting a golden glow, steam curling up the tile walls.
He settled you onto a padded stool with practiced tenderness and began peeling off your clothes one layer at a time. His fingers moved with infinite care around your wrist, touch whisper-light.
He didn’t make it sexual. He made it sacred.
His eyes never left yours, not until you were completely bare — your body stiff with pain, ankle swollen and wrist wrapped — and even then, he looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever been given.
Once he eased you into the warm water, you sank with a slow, relieved sigh, letting the heat soak through the ache.
He knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms thick and veined, sponge in hand.
He said little, simply dipping the cloth, squeezing it out, and slowly washing over your shoulders and chest, then down your back and arms — careful to avoid your injured wrist.
You watched the way his muscles flexed with each movement, his face tight with worry.
“I should’ve seen you first,” he murmured, rinsing your collarbone and cupping your uninjured hand with his vibranium fingers. “I don’t know how I missed you. I hate myself for that.”
You didn’t answer right away, too focused on the raw guilt etched into every line of his face.
“You looked right through me,” you whispered. “Like I didn’t exist. And I know it was only a second, but… it felt like everything.”
His hand stilled on your arm.
“Doll,” he said softly. “You’re my whole damn world. There’s no excuse. Only making it right.”
He moved lower, washing your thighs and calves, treating your body like something sacred. When he reached your ankle, his breath hitched — you saw the flinch, the deep shame in his expression.
“I’d take it for you if I could,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve had worse. I can handle it. But seeing you like this — hurting because I wasn’t looking —”
You lifted your good hand, brushing his cheek.
“I’m still mad,” you whispered, heart breaking open. “But you’re making it really hard to stay mad.”
His lips curved in the faintest smile.
“Let me finish making it harder.”
──
When you were warm and pruney, he helped you out of the tub, wrapping you in the fluffiest towel and drying you with painstaking gentleness, careful not to rub your wrist. He kissed your shoulder when he noticed you flinch stepping down.
Once dry, he pulled his softest sleep shirt over your head — the faded navy one that fell past your thighs and always smelled like cedar and spice. It slipped off one shoulder, exposing your collarbone.
“I married a knockout,” he murmured.
You smirked. “Too late to back out now.”
He leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple.
“Never.”
Then he scooped you up again, bridal-style — arms solid beneath you, holding you like the most precious thing he’d ever carried — and carried you back to the bedroom like you weighed nothing.
You rested your head against his shoulder, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
By the time he tucked you in and propped your foot up on a pillow again, your pout had melted.
But still.
“You better not forget me again,” you said, eyes narrowing playfully.
He sat beside you, pulling the blankets to your waist.
“Never,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re first, sweetheart. Always.”
──
It was well past bedtime when the soft chime of the front door echoed down the hallway.
You stirred slightly, shifting against the pillows propped behind your back. The house had been quiet for a long while now—the kind of quiet that lingers after too much emotion and just enough exhaustion. Your ankle throbbed dully beneath the ice pack, but you welcomed the stillness. It felt like a fragile peace.
From down the hall, you heard the door open—hinges creaking softly, voices exchanged in whispers. Bucky’s familiar low tone was unmistakable, steady and calm, with John’s quieter reply threading behind it. Ava murmured something gentle, too, warm and comforting like a balm. Yelena must have already crashed in the limo, you guessed. She always hit her limit hard after missions—or after any toddler drama.
Bucky’s voice shifted to something softer, gratitude laced with apology, before the door clicked shut again.
A minute later, his footsteps padded softly toward the bedroom.
The door cracked open just enough for him to slip in, his broad frame silhouetted against the hallway light. Cradled in his arms was your daughter, bundled in her hoodie, her wild curls spilling over his shoulder.
“She’s out cold,” he murmured, stepping inside, lowering his voice instinctively.
You gave a small nod, your chest loosening at the sight of her soft, sleepy face pressed into his collarbone. Bucky moved carefully toward the toddler bed—your ingenious solution, attached snugly to your side of the big bed—and gently eased her down onto the mattress.
She sighed softly, fingers curling around her stuffed wolf before her lashes fluttered shut once more.
Bucky brushed a tender kiss against her temple, then pulled the light blanket over her legs. One of her small hands reached instinctively across the space between her bed and yours, fingertips just barely grazing your sheets—as if she needed to feel your presence, even in dreams.
He lingered for a moment longer, watching her breathe in that slow, peaceful rhythm, then turned and crossed to your side of the bed.
You shifted, scooting back slightly as he lifted the covers and slid in beside you. His body radiated warmth, and the weight of him settling beside you felt like gravity finding its center again—steady, grounding, exactly where you needed it.
You melted into him the moment his arm curled around you—his vibranium hand cool and firm at your waist, the other sliding beneath your neck to cradle you against his chest.
“I got her,” he whispered, voice low and sure.
You nodded into his collar. “Ava put her out?”
He huffed a small laugh, a sound so soft it barely brushed your skin. “Didn’t even finish her story before she knocked out. Apparently, candy and unicorns are the magic combo.”
A breath of a laugh slipped from your lips. “I’ll add that to our bedtime rotation.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply lay there, folded into one another, the muffled sound of your daughter’s soft breaths filling the room like a lullaby.
Then Bucky exhaled deeply, the sound full of something he’d been holding in all night.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said, voice low and raw. “Seeing her crying like that. Then realizing you were hurt and I… I didn’t even look. My whole body went numb. I was so locked in on her, I didn’t see you.”
“Bucky…” You turned your face just enough to meet his eyes, tired but steady.
“They could’ve said anything,” he whispered. “They could’ve told me you were unconscious—or worse—and I wouldn’t have known. Because I didn’t look. I didn’t check. I hate that, baby. I hate myself for that.”
You reached up, fingers threading through his thick curls where they curled softly against his skin. “I know. I know you didn’t mean to. You were scared. So was I.”
“I saw the look on your face,” he murmured, voice breaking a little. “That flicker of hurt when I passed you. It’s burned into me.”
“You didn’t mean to hurt me,” you whispered. “And you came back. You saw me after. You took care of her, and then… you held me like I was the only thing that mattered.”
“You are,” he said instantly, like the words were a balm that had been waiting on his tongue. “You are the only thing that matters. You and her—you’re everything.”
You let out a breath that trembled on the way out. “It just caught me off guard. That little part of me that still remembers being overlooked, forgotten. Before you. Before all this.”
He tightened his grip on you, just enough to ground you. “You are never invisible to me. Not even for a second. I see you in everything, even when I’m not looking. You’re the reason I breathe easy now.”
You blinked back the sting of tears and pressed a soft kiss to his chest, where your heart beat in time with his. “You’re a sappy bastard, you know that?”
He grinned against your hair. “Only for you.”
You exhaled a breath of laughter and let your body relax fully into his warmth. “I forgive you. Just so you know.”
He didn’t speak for a beat. When he did, his voice was thick with emotion. “I’ll earn it. Every day if I have to.”
“You already do.”
His metal fingers traced slow, soothing strokes along your back.
“I missed you today,” you murmured. “All day, even when you were close.”
“I’m here now,” he said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Across the small gap of beds, your daughter gave a sleepy sigh, turning toward the wall and tugging her blanket up beneath her chin.
You smiled into Bucky’s skin.
“I want waffles in the morning,” you whispered. “Heart-shaped ones.”
“Done. Extra syrup?”
“Obviously.”
He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss just beneath your jaw.
“I love you.”
You smiled, heart full and aching in the best way. “I love you more.”
He chuckled low in his chest, that familiar rumble you’d fallen in love with long ago.
“Impossible.”
You drifted off like that—curled into him, the soft breaths of your daughter like waves against the shore, the unspoken promise between you stitched into every inch of warmth.
──
“Mommy… mommy!”
Tiny fingers patted at your cheek, and the sweet lilt of your daughter’s voice — always a little sing-song in the morning, words still soft and not quite crisp — broke through the layers of sleep like sunbeams spilling through curtains.
“Mommy, wake up!”
You blinked your eyes open slowly, lashes sticky and fluttering as the soft morning light settled into view. There she was — leaning over your side of the bed, a tousled halo of sleep-flattened waves and crooked pucca buns framing her round, pink-cheeked face. Her grin stretched proud and bright, lighting the room like a little star.
Behind her, the warm scent of something sweet and rich filled the air — thick syrup, toasted batter, and a whisper of cinnamon that pulled at your senses like a gentle morning hug.
You pushed yourself up carefully on your good side, wincing just a little as your ankle protested. “Good morning, baby…”
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek — always the same, full of noisy little “Mwah!”s and whispered “I love you, Mommy.”
Before your heart could completely melt, another kiss landed beside hers — warm, familiar, slow and steady — pressed to the curve of your jaw.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, his voice still thick with sleep but sweeter than syrup.
You sighed into his touch, eyes closing briefly to savor it, then smiled softly and returned the kisses — one to your daughter’s soft curls, one to Bucky’s cheek as he lingered close.
Then your gaze drifted downward… and your breath caught in your chest.
There he was — shirtless, chest and arms glowing softly in the gentle morning light, muscles relaxed but clearly defined beneath skin that carried a faint sheen of sleep-sweat. His steel-blue eyes crinkled with quiet pride, but what stole your attention was the absurdly charming bright hot pink apron tied snugly around his waist — the ends of the frilly bow fluttered with every small movement.
The breakfast tray rested on your lap like a little piece of heaven: heart-shaped waffles still steaming, golden and crisp around the edges, stacked just right with a melting pat of butter pooling at the center. Your favorite maple syrup was drizzled delicately in swirling lines — never too much, never too little. Just exactly how you liked it, down to the last drop.
Nestled alongside were a few halved strawberries, sliced and arranged like tiny roses — Bucky’s handiwork, you knew instantly. The uneven edges of the fruit betrayed his earnest effort, and that made your chest ache with warmth that overflowed beyond words.
“I helped,” your daughter whispered proudly, bouncing on her knees with excitement. “Daddy let me pour the syrup but only a little!”
“She’s got the touch,” Bucky smirked, brushing her hair back with fingers roughened by mission scars but gentle as a whisper. “Chef’s kiss.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head as a sudden tear slipped free from the corner of your eye. “You guys are ridiculous. I love you so much it’s stupid.”
Your daughter giggled, eyes wide and sparkling. “Mommy said ‘stupid’!”
“Mm, only because she’s overwhelmed with how much she loves us,” Bucky said, stealing a kiss at the edge of your smile before settling down beside you.
The three of you shared the tray — Bucky had already eaten while letting you sleep in, but every time you looked away, he’d stealthily steal a corner of your waffle, pretending innocence. Your daughter giggled like a tiny traitor and pointed him out gleefully.
The room hummed warm with morning light and the scent of waffles and honey. No chaos. No missions. No stress. Just soft pajamas, tousled bed head, and lazy limbs tangled under blankets.
You glanced down at your wrist — the swelling was way down, and the angry blue flush on your ankle had softened to a deep violet bruise. Still sore, still tender, but healing.
You looked back up at the two faces you loved most in the world.
This was it. This was everything.
“Hey,” Bucky said suddenly, catching your gaze like he always did — like he felt the shift in your emotions before you even spoke.
“Yeah?” you murmured.
His eyes softened, all steel-blue and full of light. “Let’s stay like this forever.”
Your daughter, distracted with smearing syrup on her fingers, piped up without looking. “Forever and ever and ever.”
You smiled so wide it almost hurt. “Forever sounds perfect.”
cw: typical tlou violence, intense emotions about being alive/death, love, something to live for. post-part i jackson au
a/n: just a little jackson au one-shot. this is a christmas present for darling @macfrog. thank you for existing, i love you. hope this is alright.
--
It's been a long time since someone died in front of you.
You don't even know her. Honestly, you should be glad the runner grabbed her, considering she just finished shooting at you. Your patrol partner, a kid called Joey who usually works the stables, shouts your name as you watch it sink its teeth into her neck over and over again.
She doesn't even scream.
"More are coming," he cries. "We have to go."
He's right. The woman's gunshot echoed in the valley and it's not yet cold enough for the herds to be slow, so you have a few minutes at most to get out of here. Probably less.
Groans on the wind. Definitely less.
You shake yourself out of the twisted thrall you've fallen into and look away. Heart in your throat, blood pounding in your ears, you quickly tie your bags to your horse and scan the street.
"Do you have your pack?" you ask Joey.
If she was screaming you'd shoot her. Put an end to it. But it might be a waste of a shot and then the runner would be on you in ten big steps. Fuck.
"Got it!"
You both mount skittish rides and take off down the cracked pavement. The patrol had an added ask of raiding some neighborhoods for linens that can be turned into bandages. You each have a big bag of old clothes, curtains, blankets, and the like strapped to the back of your saddles. The woman had appeared out of the tree line just as you finished the last house, demanding your stuff. There was protocol for this -- Joey would distract her while you went for the gun strapped to the back of your jeans.
But she was skittish, this woman. She fired at the pavement in front of you as soon as your hand twitched.
And then, well.
After a few miles of steady galloping you signal for Joey to slow. The forest is quiet as you turn onto the path down the hill that will lead you back to Jackson.
"I can't believe she shot at us," the kid says. "Stupid."
You sigh. "She was desperate," you say, remembering how wild her eyes looked. "And alone. If she had people with her she wouldn't have."
"You think?"
It's been some time but you did your days alone in this world. It's bloody, it's terrifying, it's punishing. You stop trusting anyone and eventually you stop trusting yourself. Wondering why you keep trying. Without community you lose sight of what matters. You lose sight of how you can not just survive this hell on earth, but live in it.
If she had wanted to do that, instead, maybe you could have told her it was possible.
"Yeah," you say. The walls of Jackson come into view and you think about what awaits you. A warm house, an even warmer embrace. Safety, security, home. "Having people makes all the difference."
Joey waves the green flag and the gates open for you. After returning your horse and checking to make sure the kid isn't too traumatized -- frankly, he seems totally unbothered -- you walk back to the house. The sun is starting to set, painting everything golden, but you can see the clouds rolling in. Might be that snow that everyone keeps anticipating. Most mornings you hear chatter about it. Small talk about the weather persists after the end of the world.
A few folks wave hello, ask after Ellie's new dog, say they hope you've got your firewood ready. Jackson is a thing out of dreams. Solid walls, even steadier people. Good rules, smart leaders. You feel lucky every day that they let you stay here. That you've made a home here.
That home is in sight when you turn on Rancher and what you spy on the porch makes you pick up your pace.
Joel.
He's rocking in the one chair out front, guitar slung across his lap like an afterthought as he strums with his eyes closed. It'll be too cold to sit out, soon, so he spends most evenings playing while he can still stand it.
A heaviness you didn't realize you were carrying lessens a little at the sight of him.
"Hey, stranger," you call as you walk up the steps.
His gaze falls on you, the hazel in his irises more evident in the fading light of the late afternoon. God, he looks beautiful. Like everything you've ever wanted.
"Howdy," he says. The guitar goes up against the house and he stands, meeting you at the top step. "How was patrol?"
You falter, smile frozen on your face. You should tell him, but you don't know what you'd say. A stranger died in front of you and it's put your stomach in knots? It's not that he'll laugh at you, or anything like that. You just need to chew on it a little longer. And right now you're steps away from the warm inside of your home and inches away from the man you love, so you decide to push it aside.
"The usual," you muse. Joel furrows his brow just a little and searches your gaze, but whatever he finds in your eyes causes him to let it go.
"Okay," he says, softly. He taps your chin with his knuckle and turns toward the front door, snagging his guitar on the way. "You hungry? Ellie brought by some soup."
"Did she make it?"
Your layers go on the hooks by the door, your boots next to his in the hall. He heads for the kitchen.
"Hell no," Joel says, deep voice echoing through your house. "Dina did."
"So it's edible?"
You pad on socked feet over creaking hardwood and find him over a pot on the stove, bowl in hand.
"Tried a bit and it didn't kill me," he says. "Waited for you to get home to eat, though."
"And Tommy says you were raised in a barn," you tease, kissing his cheek before he ladles the soup for you.
Joel grunts and you laugh. "Hot bowl," he says. "Careful."
For some reason, his gentle caution makes your chest hurt. You think about the woman from today, how she had no one telling her to be careful. How she made a mistake, or maybe a reckless choice. How she didn't even scream.
There are many very difficult days in this life and you dealt with them on your own for a long time. It's taken practice and mounds of patience from Joel and the other people in this town who love you, but you've learned that you can let other people help you through those days. But that doesn't mean it isn't hard.
You sit at the table across from Joel and try not to let your mood take over.
"You alright?" Joel asks, frown firmly in place. "Maybe Ellie did make the soup--"
"It's good, Joel," you say, smiling a little. If he asks you how you are one more time, you'll crack. And you're not ready yet. "Will you tell me about your day?"
He sighs, no doubt seeing through your second deflection, but allows it.
"Let's see," he starts, leaning back in his chair. "Tommy had me handlin' that bullshit with the kids who went huntin'."
Last week, three teenagers snuck out with the grand idea that they'd bag an elk or something just as big and bring it back for fame and glory or whatever kids think is worth life and death these days. It hadn't gone as badly as it could have, but it was pretty bad. They'd stolen a rifle from the patrol cache and only made it a few miles before one of them slipped down a bank and broke his ankle. Joel had been the one to lead the search party when someone realized they were missing.
He's got a soft spot for teenagers.
"It's good for them to learn," you remind him. He sucks on his teeth and rubs at his jaw. You slurp on some more soup and a thought at odds with your sour mood dances through your memory -- how good his beard felt on your skin last night. Jesus. He does something to you, this man.
"Should know better," he says, oblivious to the echo of your desire. "Havin' them clean all the guns is one thing but once that kid heals up I'm tellin' Tommy we oughta start a trainin' class or somethin'. Let them get outside the walls and hunt if they want. With supervision."
"Keep talking like that and Maria will make you join the council," you muse.
He snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure as shit not doin' that."
"You'd be good at it, Joel. People listen to you."
"I have a hard enough time gettin' my own kid to listen to me," he reminds you. "Hell, you, too."
It's less of a jab and more of an attempt to get you to cheer up, and it works. You laugh at him, delighted to vex him so. As if he does anything but melt for Ellie. And for you -- both of you know just how wrapped around you he is. He'll do anything for his family. You've seen proof of it.
"If only the council had a uniform," you sigh, exaggerating your disappointment. "You'd look so handsome in one."
"Watch it," he says, eyes sparkling.
You tap his foot under the table with yours. "Just being truthful," you tease, though it rings a little hollow given the fact that you're swerving talking about your own day.
Joel hums and leans back in his chair. "You gonna tell me what happened today?"
"What do you mean?"
Even as you chew on how to swerve him once again, you find yourself going back to the patrol. The way your senses sharpened when she stepped out of the trees, how you saw all the ways it could go wrong. Her twitchy hand, her wide eyes. The crack in her voice when she demanded your packs. The echo of the gunshot and your own heartbeat loud in your ears wondering if today was the day you wouldn't make it home. When the runner leapt out of nowhere and latched onto her. How easily your life could have ended that way, too.
"Hey, I'm talkin' to you," Joel says, not unkindly. "Where are you?"
You chew on your lower lip. This would be a lot easier if the words would just come to you, if you knew how to explain yourself.
"Joel--"
"Alright, that's it," he says. Joel gets up with a groan, stretching his arms high in the air, and heads for the front door.
"What?" you ask, confused, but you follow him into the hall. "Joel, where are you going?"
"We're goin' for a walk." He shrugs on his jacket and waves you over. "C'mon."
"But the dishes--"
"Will be here when we get back," he finishes. "Now, get your coat on. Hat, too. Reckon the snow is gonna start tonight."
You could fight him about it, say you're cold and tired and just want to sit on the couch. Tell him to stop badgering you, to let sleeping dogs lie.
But that's the thing about Joel -- you trust him. Outside the walls, inside your home. With your life and with your heart. You're safe in his hands. And you've been here before plenty of times. After nightmares from both of you, after hard days in town, after his fights with Ellie or Tommy or whatever it is. You walk and you talk it out. Fresh air helps, Joel often says. It's the father in him, the caretaker, the man who knows when to listen and when to push. He's taught you a lot about that.
So you shove your feet back into your boots and Joel tugs a knit hat over your ears. The sun finished setting while you were eating, Jackson now illuminated by the gas lamps and string lights hanging between the posts.
Normally you'd be content to just walk with Joel side by side, as is your usual routine. He's not a particularly public man when it comes to affection, though you never doubt that he's thinking of you. His eyes find yours in every room and he easily finds you in every crowd. By now, you've got your own language.
But, given that he's brought you out here to no doubt get you to be honest about your complicated feelings, he offers you his arm for support. You take it with a dry look that he matches.
Never one to let you off easily, this man. Not when he knows he can help, at least.
"You know what I'm gonna say," he grumbles.
It helps to talk.
It's basically a mantra in your house. Ellie says he didn't used to be like this. The total opposite, in fact. You know that it's her that brought him back to this version of himself -- he did it because she asked. And maybe you coming along helped, too. He might seem gruff and guarded to those who don't know him but it's all so he can protect who and what he loves.
And this is one of his ways -- not letting things go unsaid.
"I don't know where to start," you say. "I don't know how to explain it."
Joel rubs a hand over his jaw. "Try the beginning," he suggests. "It was patrol, right? Somethin' happened?"
You nod.
"We saw a woman," you start. You close your eyes and picture her, letting Joel lead you down the street. "She came out of the woods just as we finished the last house."
"Hostile?"
You look at Joel. His jaw is tense, as if you're not standing in front of him safe and sound. Always trying to fix hurts he had nothing to do with.
"She had a gun, yeah," you continue. "Demanded our stuff. We were ready to do the protocol but then she shot at us."
Joel stops in his tracks, pulling you with him. "She did what?"
"And missed, obviously," you remind him. "But it was a stupid mistake, since we weren't far from that town with the herd. She had to have seen traces of them and known they were there."
"Christ," he mutters. You tug on his arm and he starts walking again.
"And before we could do anything a runner tackled her to the ground."
Joel curses under his breath. "Unlucky."
It starts to snow. You look up at the white flakes falling from the dark sky as you figure out how to say what happened next.
"Go on," Joel says, softly. "This is the part that bothered you, I reckon."
"She didn't even scream, Joel," you whisper just loud enough for him to hear. "She just went down."
"Ah."
All of it comes to a boil and the words pour out of you.
"I mean, why did she shoot in the first place? She was jumpy, sure, but she was alone, too. She looked so tired, so desperate, and the way it lunged for her I know it didn't kill her on the first bite. No screaming, she just took it. She took it and gave up. I don't -- she must have had nothing, to give up like that. It's just so fucked up --"
Your voice breaks. Joel pulls you to a stop and unwinds your arms so he can put his hands on your shoulders.
"Ain't nothin' you can do about someone else's lot," he says. "She made her mistakes."
"I know," you retort, "but that could have been me."
"It ain't you."
"But it could have been, Joel!" You're not angry with him, but you're frustrated. "If things had worked out differently for me, it could have been. If I never found Jackson, if I was still out there. It could have been me."
He exhales sharply, reigning in his own desire to remind you that you're safe. That you're here, that you're with him. That he won't let anything bad happen to you.
"Lots of things could be different," he says, slowly. "Could spend days thinkin' 'bout that stuff. Years."
"I guess I'm just sad for her." The snow has gathered in Joel's hair and you reach for him to brush it away. He allows it, keeping his eyes on yours. "I think she wanted to die."
"It's a hard life on the road."
You sigh. "I know, Joel," you say. "I just -- it's been a long time since things have been that bad for me. And it was hard to be reminded, you know?"
His hands move from your shoulders to cup your face, thumbs your skin. "I know, sweetheart," he replies. "We've all been there. Hard not to think about givin' up at least once in this shit hole."
It gets a dry laugh out of you.
"But you ain't givin' up. You fight tooth and nail every single time 'cause you've got so much to get back to. And it'll get you home."
You lean into one of his palms, your lips brushing along the heel of his hand. "I know, Joel."
He's not done. "For a long time I was like that. Not carin' much how things went, so long as I got to get my hands dirty. But Ellie --" he swallows, the love he has for his girl getting in the way of his words " -- and you tie me to this damn place. Make me get up every day, make me remember how things can be good. And someday it'll be my turn --"
"Joel--"
"No, listen. Someday it'll be my turn, and I'll go knowin' I was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to get what I got. Time."
You can't take it anymore. You pitch forward into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist. Now that he's said it, you realize why the whole thing bothered you so much. You don't want to die. You don't want to lose the life you have now. The home you have with this man, the way he loves you. The way you love him. It makes you feel human, it makes you feel alive.
And you feel damn bad for anyone who doesn't have something to live for.
Joel's hand presses into your spine. Maybe in a different life you'd be worried that he'd think you're silly for being so bothered about this, but he always takes you seriously. You both know how quickly you can lose something, how much it matters to make the time you have count.
"Thank you," you say into his jacket. He scoffs.
"C'mon, now." He gently pulls away from your embrace to look at you. He brushes snow from your shoulders and hat with careful fingers. "Let's go home."
Home. For so long you never thought you'd have one.
Joel must see the vulnerability in your eyes because he leans in to press his lips to yours gently. An anchoring touch, a reminder of how he feels.
"Getting frisky, Mr. Miller," you mutter when he pulls away. He snickers and you sneak another kiss as he pinches your hip through your coat.
Summary: When your estranged father shows up unannounced in Birmingham, slipping into your home like he still has a right to be there, you do what you’ve always done, stay quiet, keep the peace, and pretend the past can’t hurt you. But Tommy Shelby isn’t a man who misses the signs, and when he discovers the bruises you tried to hide, he makes one thing clear: no one lays a hand on what’s his and walks away unscathed.
Word count: 5.2k
Warnings: domestic abuse, physical violence, and trauma, including past and present abuse by a parental figure, choking, panic attacks, and PTSD. Mentions of war trauma, blood, minor injuries, and threats of violence
A/N: welp, I’ve fallen back down the peaky blinders rabbit hole.
The day started like any other.
The warmth of the fireplace crackled softly in the background as you sat curled on the couch, a book in your lap. Tommy was at his desk, going through paperwork, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air. It was a rare quiet evening, one of those moments where the weight of the world seemed just a little lighter.
Then, there was a knock at the door.
Your brow furrowed slightly. It was late– far too late for visitors. Unless it was Arthur staggering by, drunk again. You glanced at Tommy, who sighed, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray before standing. He made his way toward the door, his steps slow and deliberate.
“If Arthur's pissed on the doorstep again, I swear to God…”
Tommy pulled the door open, expecting Arthur’s drunken frame to be swaying on the other side, slurring apologies for waking the house.
But it wasn’t Arthur.
His stance shifted ever so slightly, his sharp blue eyes scanning the man before him.
You barely registered Tommy’s hesitation because the moment you saw him, the breath in your lungs turned to ice.
Because suddenly, there he was.
Standing on your doorstep, smiling like he belonged there.
Your father.
Your hands clenched in your lap.
“Surprise,” he drawled, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not going to invite your old man in?”
Your body remained frozen. “What… what are you doing here?”
Your father let out a chuckle, his eyes scanning the entryway as if he was appraising it. Then, he stepped forward without waiting for permission. “What? A father isn’t allowed to come see his only daughter once and a while?”
You blinked, your stomach twisting. “How did you get the address?”
He waved a hand. “Your brother gave it to me. Had to practically bully it out of him.”
Your jaw tightened.
“What a place,” he mused, looking around before his eyes landed on Tommy. “And you must be the husband, aye?”
Tommy stood there, unreadable, his gaze cool and detached. He stepped forward, offering his hand, because that’s what men like him did– offered respect until given a reason not to.
Your father shook it.
“Thomas Shelby,” Tommy introduced himself, his voice measured.
Your father smirked. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of you alright.”
Tommy merely hummed, but his attention flickered back to you. He saw it then– the way your arms had wrapped around yourself, your fingers gripping your sleeves, your body tensed like a coiled spring.
You barely spoke all evening.
At dinner, Tommy tried to gauge your mood, throwing you small glances, subtle touches, but each time, you withdrew. When his hand brushed yours under the table, you flinched.
Just slightly. But Tommy noticed.
That night, after you’d made up the spare room and your father went to bed, Tommy pulled you into the hallway. His fingers tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing against your jaw.
“Everything alright?” His voice was soft, but there was something in it– something heavy.
You forced a small smile. “Of course. Just tired.”
Tommy studied you for a long moment, his gaze searching. He didn’t look convinced.
You exhaled, glancing toward the closed door of the spare room, then back at him. “I’m sorry he just showed up like that. I– I didn’t know he was coming.”
Tommy shrugged slightly, his thumb still absently stroking your cheek. “It’s alright. Family’s always welcome here. Lord knows mine barges in whenever they damn well please. It's kind of nice having it be yours for a change."
You let out a dry laugh, but it was hallow as your stomach twisted. “Right. Thank you.”
He watched you for a beat longer before sighing. “You sure you’re alright?”
You nodded, almost too quickly. “I’m fine.”
He exhaled through his nose, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face gently. Tommy watched you for another second, his thumb pausing at your cheekbone before he finally nodded.
“Alright, love.” His voice was quiet, but you knew him well enough to hear the doubt behind it. He wasn’t convinced.
You both made your way to the bedroom in silence. Tommy moved around the room, shrugging off his vest, unbuttoning his shirt. You sat at the edge of the bed, staring at your hands, the weight of your father’s presence pressing heavy on your chest.
You should have told Tommy the truth.
You should have said something.
But you couldn’t. You didn’t know if it was the shame that stopped you– not wanting Tommy to know where or what you really came from…
He saw you as strong, capable, resilient.
But if he knew… If he knew that you used to be a girl who flinched at raised voices, who held her breath when footsteps neared, who learned how to measure a person’s anger like a storm on the horizon, would he still look at you the same?
The thought made your throat tighten.
You lay beside Tommy, facing away from him, curled in on yourself. A moment later, his arm draped over your waist, pulling you into his warmth.
“You’re tense,” he murmured against the back of your neck.
“Just tired,” you said again.
He studied you for a moment before sighing, obviously unconvinced. But he kissed your shoulder anyway. “Get some rest, then.”
It took a long time before you finally did.
…
The days stretched on.
Your father made himself comfortable in your home, slipping into the space between you and Tommy like he had a right to be there.
He drank Tommy’s whiskey like it was his own, spoke to him like they were equals, like there was no history of violence, no reason for you to avoid looking him in the eye.
And yet, you did what you had always done…
You played the part: the dutiful daughter. The quiet peacemaker. The one who let his sharp words roll off her back like they didn’t cut.
But the part that made you sick to your stomach, was how easily you fell back into it. How, in his presence, you became her again– that pitiful version of yourself… that scared little girl who walked on eggshells, who measured her words carefully, who held herself so still when he passed by, like movement alone might set him off.
You hated it– hated that he still had that power over you. Hated that, despite the years of distance, despite the fact that you had built a new life for yourself, he still made you feel so small.
You tried desperately to keep Tommy from seeing that version of yourself. You smiled when you needed to. Laughed at the right moments. Acted like everything was fine.
But the longer the visit stretched out, the harder it was to hide your discomfort.
Days passed. Then nearly a week. Your father showed no sign of leaving.
One afternoon, while Tommy was away at work, you found your father in the hallway, stretching, rolling his shoulders like he’d spent the day laboring instead of lounging.
You took a deep breath.
“Dad.”
He looked up, raising a brow as if you had interrupted something important.
“How long are you planning to stay for?” you asked, keeping your voice even, cautious.
He shrugged, running a hand through his graying hair. “Dunno. Not sure yet.”
You shifted your weight, forcing yourself to hold your ground. “I just– Tommy has a lot going on, and I don’t want to impose.”
Your father scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. Your husband’s got plenty of room. He’s not hurting, is he?”
You swallowed your frustration and tried again.
“Did you tell Mom you were coming?”
His expression changed.
The lighthearted arrogance drained away, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. His posture stiffened, and his gaze turned sharp.
“That’s none of your business,” he said coldly.
You should’ve stopped there. Should’ve let it go. But something inside you, some small ember of defiance, pushed forward. “It is my business. And this is my house–”
The slap came so fast, you barely saw it coming.
The sharp crack echoed in the hallway, and before you could register what had happened, you were stumbling back, one hand flying to your cheek as heat bloomed across your skin.
Your breath hitched. Your father loomed over you, his face twisted in a sneer. “You don’t get to speak to me like that. Do you understand me? What I say or don’t say to your mother is between me and her. Understood?”
You nodded quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat. “Sorry– I– I was just–” you stopped yourself. “Sorry.”
Your cheek burned and your heart pounded in your ears as you turned on your heel and walked away.
You closed yourself into the bathroom, locking it behind you before turning to the mirror.
The mark was already forming. A bright red outline, the shape of his palm clear against your skin. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles went white.
…
That evening, you made dinner. A nice dinner. A meal you knew Tommy liked– something warm, familiar. A distraction. Maybe even something to please your father.
You set the table carefully, your hands only shaking slightly as you arranged the plates. You kept your face turned slightly away, hoping the dim lighting would mask the worst of it.
When Tommy got home, the door creaked open, and the familiar weight of his presence filled the space.
You were stirring something at the stove when his arms slipped around your waist from behind.
His touch was warm and grounding. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder as he murmured, “Smells good in here.”
You smiled– forced and practiced. “I thought I’d make us something nice.”
His arms tightened briefly. “God, it’s been a long day,” he murmured.
Then, as he leaned in, pressing another kiss just below your ear, he turned his head slightly, just enough for his gaze to catch the side of your face.
You felt him go still. His hands, steady on your waist, tensed.
His lips parted. “What’s this?” he asked, finger ghosting along the edge of your cheek.
Your stomach twisted. You knew what he had seen. The mark. The redness that you couldn’t fully hide.
You turned your head slightly, brushing him off. “Oh, it’s nothing. I–” You exhaled, forcing a lighthearted tone as you stepped away from his embrace. “I walked right into that hallway shelf. Must not have been paying attention. I was stupid.”
Tommy didn’t say anything for a long moment. You could feel his eyes trained on you, sharp and assessing, as you moved around the kitchen. Before he could challenge your excuse, another voice cut in.
“Tommy!”
Your father stepped into the room, grinning, swirling a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand. “Good to see you, son. How’s business today?”
Tommy and your father sat at the table, engaging in light conversation. Your father asked about business. Tommy responded, his voice steady, polite.
But his eyes kept flicking to you.
You barely spoke. You moved carefully, quietly, only nodding when necessary.
Tommy noticed. He saw the way you kept your head slightly down. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly when you reached for a glass.
You forced yourself to sit through dinner, every bite feeling like it might turn to ash in your mouth. Every sip of water was just an excuse to avoid speaking.
You were suffocating. You needed to get out.
So, when the dishes were cleared, and the conversation between Tommy and your father began to stretch into the evening, you pushed your chair back and stood.
“I think I’ll turn in early,” you murmured, keeping your voice light. “Didn’t sleep very well last night.”
Tommy’s gaze snapped to you immediately.
Your father barely glanced up. “Night, sweetheart,” he muttered, already swirling the last of his drink in his glass.
Tommy, though– he studied you. You didn’t meet his eyes.
He opened his mouth like he might say something, might challenge you, might ask you to stay, but after a moment, he simply nodded.
“Alright, love.” His voice was careful. Measured.
You forced a small smile before slipping from the room.
…
It was late when Tommy finally came to bed.
You heard him before you saw him, the slow creak of the bedroom door, the quiet sound of his footsteps across the floor.
He moved carefully, as if not wanting to wake you.
You kept your breathing steady and your eyes closed and pretended to be asleep.
The mattress dipped slightly as he crawled in beside you. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest on your hip. His touch was gentle, hesitant. You didn’t move. Didn’t react.
A deep sigh left his lips, and you felt the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck. His grip on your hip tightened slightly, just for a moment, before he exhaled again and let it relax.
You waited for him to say something– to ask, maybe demand answers.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he did what Tommy Shelby never did. He hesitated.
And it was at that moment you realized, he was waiting for you.
Waiting for you to come to him.
But you weren’t ready. So, you remained still, your heart hammering against your ribs as his thumb trailed lazily along your hip. Then, he stretched his arm carefully around your waist and pulled you close.
…
You kept up the act– kept making dinner. Kept playing hostess. Kept pretending like the walls of your own home weren’t closing in on you.
A few nights later, you found yourself in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, when you heard the front door swing open.
The sound was jarring, clumsy, forceful, followed by the sound of staggering footsteps.
The hair on the back of your neck stood up before you even turned around. Your father stepped into the kitchen, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes glassy, the stench of whiskey thick in the air.
He wasn’t just drunk, he was angry. A cold wave of fear ran down your spine.
You froze, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he loomed in the doorway.
“Look at you,” he slurred, waving a hand at the dinner on the stove. “Little housewife, cooking for your big, important husband.”
“Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, picking up a glass cup from the counter and trying to keep your voice steady. “You should sit down.”
His eyes narrowed. “What? You're giving me orders now?”
Your grip tightened on the glass. He took another step closer.
“You always were a smug little thing, weren’t you?” He muttered, shaking his head. “Always had something to say.”
You held your breath as he took another unsteady step forward, his eyes dark and unfocused, but sharp enough to cut straight through you. “I didn’t mean–”
“Now that you've married a Shelby, you're arrogant, too. Tell me,” he interrupted, the word twisted with venom. “Was it him who kept you from coming home all this time? Or was it you? Think you’re too good for your own family now? With your rich fucking husband at your beck and call?”
Your grip on the glass tightened. “You’re drunk.” You tried to turn away, but your father reached out to clutch your wrist.
“Don’t walk away from me.” His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin like a vice.
Your stomach twisted violently. “Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your efforts to sound firm.
He didn’t. Instead, he yanked you back toward him, forcing you to stumble. The glass in your hand wobbled precariously, liquid sloshing over the rim.
“The king of fucking Birmingham, aye? And you’re what? His housewife? Or his whore?”
“Stop it,” you cut in, trying to wrench your wrist free. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I don't care who you're married to. You don’t get to fucking tell me what to do,” he spat.
Your pulse hammered, panic rising in your chest. “Dad, just stop– you’re drunk.”
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound jagged, cruel. “Drunk?” He sneered. “I’ve been drinking since before you could fucking walk, girl. You think you know better than me? Think that slimey Shelby husband of yours turned you into something special?”
“Tommy,” you swallowed thickly, forcing the words out. “Is a good man. I know that term might be hard for you to comprehend–"
A dark flash crossed his face. And then– the slap. It struck you with enough force to snap your head to the side, the sting burning hot across your cheek. The room blurred for a moment, your ears ringing.
Your father didn’t give you time to react. Before you could move, before you could process, he shoved you hard against the wall.
The glass slipped from your fingers, hitting the floor and shattering, fragments scattering across the kitchen tiles.
Your back collided with the surface, your breath leaving you in a sharp gasp. The pain barely registered before his hands were on you again– this time around your throat, squeezing.
Your hands flew up, clawing at his wrists, your body struggling instinctively. But his grip was tight, unrelenting.
Your chest heaved.
Your lungs burned.
A strangled sound escaped you, but it wasn’t loud enough. Not enough to stop him.
His breath was hot against your face as he leaned in. He was seething. His teeth clenched together as his eyes bore down on you with pure hatred.
Your vision blurred. Your limbs weakened. The edges of your consciousness began to flicker, the darkness creeping in.
In the hazy distance, you vaguely heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by heavy footsteps.
Then, the pressure around your throat disappeared instantly as your father was ripped away from you. You collapsed to the floor in a heap, gasping, your hands flying to your throat as air rushed back into your lungs. Your body shook violently, but you barely noticed.
Because in front of you, Tommy had your father by the collar, slamming him against the kitchen table with enough force to rattle the dishes.
The look on Tommy’s face was lethal.
Your father coughed, groaning, trying to push himself up. But Tommy was on him before he could move.
His fist connected with your father’s jaw– once, then twice. The crack of bone meeting bone echoing through the room.
Blood splattered across the floor. Your father groaned, but Tommy wasn’t done. He grabbed him again, dragging him up by his shirt, slamming him against the wall this time.
Your father choked, spitting blood.
Tommy leaned in, his voice eerily calm now. “You ever touch her again, and I’ll kill you with my barehands. You hear me?”
Your father wheezed, coughing weakly. “Fuck you–”
In an instant, Tommy pulled his gun.
He pressed the barrel beneath your father’s chin, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to meet his gaze. The air in the kitchen was thick, the only sound the ragged breathing of the men in front of you.
Your father’s eyes widened, his drunken haze fading into something closer to fear.
Tommy’s finger flexed on the trigger.
Your stomach twisted violently.
“Tommy,” you pleaded, voice barely above a whisper.
His grip didn’t loosen.
At least not right away. His chest heaved, his knuckles white around the handle of the gun.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tommy exhaled sharply and lowered the gun.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he spat before releasing your father’s collar.
Your father crumpled to the floor, coughing, gasping.
Your father didn’t wait to be told twice.
His hand clutched where Tommy had struck him, his movements shaky as he scrambled to his feet. Blood dripped from his split lip onto the kitchen floor, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. He staggered toward the door, barely able to walk straight, a mix of pain and drunken stupor slowing his steps.
He didn’t even bother to grab his things. Or have the courage to look back at you.
Just stumbled toward the exit, his breath ragged and uneven, one last curse muttered under his breath as he shoved the door open and disappeared into the night.
Tommy followed him to the threshold, his cold gaze never leaving the man’s retreating figure.
Then, click. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoed through the house.
Tommy exhaled sharply, pressing his palm against the door, as if physically barring your father from ever stepping foot in this house again. His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his arms flexing as he gripped the wood tightly.
Your focus shifted to the glass– the shattered pieces lay scattered across the floor, sharp edges gleaming under the dim kitchen light.
Your hands trembled as you scrambled forward, sinking to your knees, desperate to clean it up. You needed to fix this. You needed to make things right.
Tommy was angry. You knew he was.
And if there was one thing you had learned in your life, it was how to keep the peace. How to stay quiet, to smooth over the damage, to do whatever it took to make things okay again.
So you reached for the shards, ignoring the way your fingers shook. One after another, you gathered them in your hands, barely noticing when a sharp edge knicked your skin.
A thin line of red beaded at your skin, but you kept going.
If you could just get it all cleaned up–
Strong hands stopped you, fingers curling around the wrist you had collected pieces in.
“Love.”
The word was soft, but firm.
You hadn’t even realized he had moved, but now he was crouched in front of you, his hands gently prying your fist open so that he could take the glass from you.
You tried to protest, shaking your head. “I– I just need to clean this up, Tommy, I–”
“Leave it,” he said quietly, reaching his arm up and discarding the shards on the countertop.
Your lip trembled. “I– Tommy, I–”
You couldn’t finish the sentence. Because the panic was setting in now, hitting you all at once. Your hands shook violently, the tremors traveling up your arms, your whole body beginning to quake. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your chest rising and falling too fast.
You were unraveling.
“I– I can fix it, Tommy, I have to–” Your words broke apart into a sob as you tried to pull away from him, your limbs weak and frantic all at once. “I can fix it–”
Tommy didn’t let you go. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said gently. "It's alright."
Your eyes flickered back to the rest of the shattered glass, your mind spiraling. “It’s a mess, I made a mess, I– I didn’t mean to, I–”
“Love, stop…” His voice was a tether, grounding you even as you spiraled.
But you couldn’t stop.
Your fingers clawed weakly at his arms, desperate for something, anything, to keep you from sinking completely.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your whole body trembling so badly you could barely keep yourself upright. “I– I didn’t mean to–”
Tommy swore under his breath. Then, without hesitation, he pulled you in. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady.
You let out a broken sound, your fingers gripping his shirt in fists as sobs racked your frame. You were shaking so hard it felt like you might come apart completely.
But Tommy held you together.
His hand cradled the back of your head, anchoring you to him. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite name. “Stop, just stop.”
The words tumbled out anyway. “I– I swear I didn’t mean to make him angry, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to–”
You felt the way his breath hitched, the way his hold on you tightened just slightly.
“Do not apologize,” he said, voice low and steady. “Do not apologize for that man. You hear me?”
You shook your head, barely able to breathe. “But I– I should’ve just–”
“No.” Tommy’s tone left no room for argument.
His hand slid from your back to cup your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were burning now– not with rage, not with violence, but with something unwavering.
“Now you listen to me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “He did this. Not you.”
A sob caught in your throat, but he didn’t let you look away.
Tears blurred your vision, but the panic still gripped you tight, its claws lodged deep in your ribs. You shook your head weakly. “I– I should have done something.”
Tommy’s gaze darkened, his hands firm but gentle as they cradled your face. “Like what?” His voice was unwavering, pushing you to say it.
You swallowed, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “I should’ve just kept quiet. But I pushed him. I should’ve known better.”
The moment the words left your lips, shame burned through you like acid. It felt filthy to say it out loud.
Tommy inhaled sharply, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His thumb skimmed over the fading red mark on your cheek, the bruises forming along your throat, and something behind his eyes fractured.
“He would’ve done it anyway,” Tommy said, his tone quieter now. “No matter what you did. No matter what you said. Because men like that don’t need a reason to hurt people.”
Realization washed over you.
He didn’t blame you.
Tommy didn’t blame you.
You had spent your whole life believing it was your fault. That every slap, every harsh word, every cruel punishment was something you had earned.
But Tommy didn’t see it that way. He saw him as the problem. He saw him as the one at fault.
Not you.
The weight of that realization shattered something inside you, splintering through your chest like glass. You let out a broken sound, your body crumbling under the weight of all of it.
And Tommy caught you. He pulled you into his arms again, crushing you against him, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to anchor you to the world, to him.
And you let him.
You clung to him, your fingers twisting into his shirt, needing to feel the solidness of him, the warmth, the safety.
Tommy pressed his lips to the top of your head, lingering there as his breath shuddered against your skin. And he didn’t let go. Not when your sobs finally quieted, not when your breathing finally steadied, not even when your body had stopped trembling in his arms.
He just held you.
His hands ran slow, soothing strokes down your back, grounding you in the steady rhythm of his touch. His breath was warm against your hair, his chest solid beneath your cheek, rising and falling in time with yours.
For a long time, neither of you spoke.
Then, finally, his voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You stiffened slightly, but his grip didn’t loosen.
“I would’ve thrown him to the wolves the second he walked through the fucking door,” he murmured, his jaw tightening against your forehead. “Christ, I thought you wanted him here.”
You swallowed, gripping the fabric of his shirt in your hands, but you didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.
Because how could you explain that some wounds never really heal? That no matter how far you run, no matter how much time passes, the fear always lingers– deep, insidious, always waiting for an excuse to crawl back up your throat and choke the words before they ever leave your lips?
You felt Tommy sigh against you. His arms tightened, just slightly, like he was bracing himself.
And then, his voice dipped lower. “I should’ve pushed harder,” he murmured. “I knew– I knew something was wrong. And I let you tell me it wasn’t.”
That got your attention.
Your breath hitched, and you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his shirt.
“Tommy, no.” Your voice was hoarse, shaky, but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”
His jaw tensed.
“I just wasn’t ready to talk about it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Tommy studied you for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded, exhaling slowly.
“How long?”
You gazed up at him questioningly.
"How long has he been hurting you for?"
His blue eyes burned into yours, steady, patient, but unrelenting.
You took a breath, one that barely filled your lungs, and whispered,
“I think I was six the first time. I accidentally left the laundry out in the rain. Ruined his favorite suit."
You felt the shift in him. The way his hands, still cradling your face, tightened slightly. The way his breathing turned just a shade too slow, too controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.
"I figured I deserved that one. It was an expensive suit and… well, we didn't come from money."
You swallowed, your throat tight, forcing the words out even as they scraped against something raw inside you.
“But the next time it happened, it was something smaller. I don’t even remember what I did.” You let out a weak, humorless breath. “I think I knocked over a drink. Or maybe I spoke when I wasn’t supposed to.”
You shifted slightly, staring at the spot on the floor where the glass had shattered earlier, as if it might somehow piece itself back together.
“Eventually, the reasons stopped mattering, I guess,” you murmured. “He’d get angry over anything. If you looked at him the wrong way, or even if you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Your fingers twisted into the fabric of Tommy’s shirt, a subconscious need to hold onto something solid.
“When I was nine, he threw me against the table." Your throat felt tight, but the words were coming now, unraveling like thread. “I hit the edge. It cracked a rib, I think. I couldn’t breathe right for weeks.”
Tommy exhaled, sharp and controlled, like he was holding something down, something dangerous.
“The next day, he brought me flowers.” A bitter smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “To say he was sorry.”
Your voice wavered. “I don't know why but kept them in my room until they wilted. Because no matter how badly he hurt me... I think I still wanted to believe he loved me.”
The words felt foreign coming out of your mouth, like admitting them made them more real. More pathetic.
"I don't know what happened," you admitted. "He showed up here and I just... I panicked. It felt like I was that nine year old girl again. Just trying to make him happy, despite how scared he always made me. It felt like... Like I didn’t belong to myself anymore."
Tommy's hand rose to cup your face, his fingers brushing tenderly over your bruised cheek. His thumb traced the fading outline of your father’s fingers, and his gaze darkened, his lips pressing into a firm line.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke. “Fear that deep that never goes away,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, distant. “Not completely.”
You blinked at him, something heavy settling in your chest. He wasn’t just talking about you anymore.
“France?” you whispered.
His jaw tightened slightly. “Aye.”
His thumb brushed absently over your skin, but his gaze had drifted, staring past you now, as if he was seeing something else entirely.
“I used to think I’d come back and it would be over,” he continued, his voice steady, but different. He was using that careful, guarded tone he used when speaking of the war. “That the things I saw, the things I felt... they’d stay behind, buried in the trenches where they belonged.”
A humorless breath left him. “They didn’t.”
A silence stretched between you. You wondered if he had ever admitted that the war hadn’t ended when he stepped back onto English soil.
Just like your past hadn’t ended when you left home.
Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, your breath uneven. “How do you live with it?”
Tommy’s eyes refocused on you.
“I haven’t quite figured that one out yet,” he admitted.
His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your collarbone. “But it helps to find things that keep you here.” His voice dropped lower, his eyes locked onto yours. “Things worth staying for.”
Tommy exhaled, his fingers pressing lightly against your skin. “And maybe one day, you wake up, and you realize that even though it's still there, that fear doesn’t own you anymore.”
You swallowed thickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what keeps you here, Tommy?”
His hand on your chest tightened slightly, his fingers curling over your heart. His breath brushed against your skin. Then, softly, almost so softly you didn’t hear it, he sighed. “I thought that was obvious.”
His hand slid up, fingers trailing along your jaw before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
“I’ll always protect you,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. Certain. “I mean it,” he said. “You never have to be afraid in this house again. Not while I’m breathing.”
The way he said it– it wasn’t just a promise.
It was a fact.
A truth carved into the very foundation of who he was.
You swallowed thickly, pressing your forehead against his chest, letting his warmth, his presence, his words wrap around you like armor.
Tommy’s arms came around you again, strong and steady, holding you like he never planned on letting go.
Characters: Dick Grayson x Female Reader, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson bonding
Words: 4,5k
Plot: When a casual night turns into a nightmare, you fight to stay alive, but all you can think about is the one you can't bear to lose.
CW: established relationship, angst, mention of blood, violence, injury, near-death experience, hurt/comfort
It happens so fast.
One moment, you're walking to your car, lost in your own head, thinking about nothing important. What you're gonna make for dinner, whether Dick's already home, if you should stop for coffee on the way. Just the usual thoughts that fill the quiet in between moments, the kind that don't really matter but keep your mind occupied.
And then? Then everything changes.
The sound of footsteps echoes behind you, too close, too deliberate. At first, you don't think much of it, just another person walking to their car, heading home for the night. But then the steps don't slow, don't waver, and something shifts.
A bad feeling creeps up your spine, settling in your gut, a prickle of unease spreading over your skin. It happens so fast you barely have time to process it, barely have time to react before—
Impact.
Something slams into your side, hard, shoving you forward with brutal force. The air is knocked from your lungs in an instant, your body lurching forward as your balance tilts dangerously.
You stumble, hands flailing for something, anything to catch yourself on. Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps as your mind scrambles to catch up, to understand what's happening, to see who—what—where—
Pain.
Searing, hot, and sudden. It rips through your side with an intensity that steals the ground from beneath you, burrowing deep, tearing through muscle, sharp and wrong. Your nerves scream, your body jolting from the shock of it, and for a split second, it doesn't even feel real. It's too fast, too brutal, a kind of pain that doesn't belong in the quiet of a normal evening.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
Your brain stalls, takes a second too long to catch up, a second that stretches endlessly, feels like forever. It isn't until you feel the warmth spreading across your skin, wet and slick, that the reality of it finally sinks in. By the time your gaze drops, by the time you see the blade—gleaming, stained red, still buried in your side—it's already too late.
You're already falling.
Your knees hit the pavement first, jarring against the rough concrete, sending another sharp jolt of pain through you. Your hands follow, weak and trembling, barely catching you before your body fully collapses. Your palms scrape against the ground, but you hardly feel it over the white-hot agony radiating from your side.
It's spreading too fast, a sickening pulse of heat that won't stop, that won't let you breathe. Beneath your fingers, something warm pools, thick and sticky, soaking into your skin.
Blood. Your blood.
The guy, whoever he is, mutters something under his breath, but the words are lost to you. Your ears are ringing too loud, drowning out everything else.
You can't move, can't react, can barely think, and for a terrifying moment, you can't even breathe. Your chest tightens, your lungs refusing to expand properly, and it's not just the pain now. It's fear.
You're bleeding. Fuck, you're bleeding.
And then? Then he's gone.
Vanished into the night like he was never even there. No hesitation, no second glance, just a shadow slipping away, leaving you behind, crumpled and gasping on the cold pavement.
And you? You're alone. Alone, bleeding out, the night stretching wide and empty around you, swallowing your shuddering breaths. The cold creeps in faster than it should, seeping through your clothes, through your skin, making everything feel distant, unreal.
No. No, you can't.
Your phone. You need your phone. Your fingers fumble weakly at your pocket, shaking too hard to get a proper grip. Everything feels sluggish, your body fighting you, but you force yourself to move, to breathe, to focus.
You can't stop, not now, not when the weight pressing against your ribs feels heavier by the second, when your vision is already starting to blur at the edges. You need to—
You need to call—
Dick.
It takes everything in you just to press the button. Your hand barely cooperates, slippery with blood, but you manage. You barely have the strength to hold the phone to your ear. And when he picks up? The second you hear his voice, warm and familiar, filled with that easy confidence that's always made you feel safe—
That's when you realize. You're not gonna make it home. Not without him. His phone buzzes once. Twice. And then he picks up immediately.
"Hey, pretty girl," he says, voice warm and easy, like he's been waiting for you to call, like he's already smiling, ready to tease you for taking your time. There's a lightness to his tone, the kind that makes it sound like nothing in the world could be wrong, like this is just another night, another conversation. "You heading home?"
And then—
Then he hears it.
The way your breath hitches, sharp and unsteady. The way the silence stretches just a second too long before a shaky inhale rattles through the receiver. The way you suck in a gasp—pained, uneven—before forcing out something so small, so fragile, it makes his stomach drop.
"Dick—"
And just like that? His heart stops.
"Baby?"
His voice is different now. The warmth is gone, replaced by something sharper, something tense. His whole body goes still, instincts kicking in, every nerve suddenly alert, his muscles locking as if bracing for impact.
A pause. A tiny, pained inhale. "I—"
Then a whimper. Soft, broken, like it barely made it out at all. And then, barely above a whisper—
"I need you."
And just—
Fuck. That's all it takes. His body moves before his brain can catch up, muscle memory kicking in, pure instinct driving him forward. He's already grabbing his keys, already shoving his comm into his ear, barely registering the click as it connects.
His pulse slams against his ribs, loud and insistent, drowning out everything but the sound of your breathing—too shallow, too unsteady—on the other end of the line. He throws open the door to the garage, doesn't bother with the lights, just moves, grabbing his helmet, swinging his leg over his bike in one fluid motion.
"Where are you?" His voice is tight, controlled, the edge of panic barely restrained.
A sharp inhale. A weak, wobbly breath.
"I—fuck, I don't—" A choked noise, a shudder. And then, so fucking small, so fragile it makes his throat close up, "I think I got stabbed."
And everything inside him freezes. No. No, no, no—
His grip tightens on the handlebars, fingers pressing into the leather so hard they ache. He swallows back the immediate rush of panic threatening to claw its way up his throat, forces himself to move, to breathe, to act. His free hand fumbles for his comm, shoving it deeper into his ear before his fingers flick over his GPS, pulling up your location—
Thank fuck for the tracker on your keys. There. There you are. His blood runs cold when he sees how far.
"Stay on the line," he breathes, voice barely holding together, his other hand turning the key, the engine roaring to life beneath him. He doesn't even think, just goes, peeling out of the garage so fast his tires screech against the pavement. "I'm coming, baby. Just—just stay with me, okay?"
And then? Then he drives. Fast. Too fast.
Because Gotham is too fucking big. Because you're too far away. Because every second that passes is a second too long, a second where you're bleeding, where you're hurting, where you're alone, and he can't let that happen. His body is running on pure adrenaline now, hands gripping the handlebars so tight his knuckles go white, jaw clenched so hard it aches. He doesn't care.
All that matters is you. By the time he gets there, you're barely conscious. Sprawled on the pavement, one hand pressed weakly to your side, blood pooling beneath you, your phone discarded just inches away—
And for one, horrible second, he can't move. Because this... this is his worst fucking nightmare. But then—
Then he's off the bike, barely registering the way it skids as he drops it, his feet hitting the ground hard as he runs, closing the distance between you in a breath, a blink, a heartbeat. His knees hit the pavement beside you, hands shaking as he reaches for you, grabs your face, tilts it gently toward him.
"Baby," he breathes, voice wrecked, raw, barely able to force the word out.
His fingers brush over your cheek, warm despite the chill settling into your skin, desperate to find you through the haze of pain, to ground you in him.
Your eyelids flutter. Your lips part. And then, so soft, so fucking weak—
"Dick."
And just—his heart shatters.
"I know, baby, I know," he whispers, voice tight, pained, barely holding on. His hands press firmly against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding, to keep you here, to—
"Fuck," you whimper, body twitching, and just—
His throat closes. "I'm sorry, my love," he breathes, barely above a whisper, pressing his forehead against yours, his grip gentle despite the way his hands shake. "I know it hurts, baby, I know, but you have to stay awake, okay?"
A pause. A weak, trembling inhale. Your fingers curl into his sleeve, barely able to hold on. "So cold," you mumble, voice so quiet it nearly gets lost in the night air.
And just—fuck. His jaw clenches.
"I know," he whispers, voice cracking, slipping his jacket off in one swift motion. He tucks it firmly around you, making sure it covers every part of you, his arms wrapping around you like it'll be enough to keep you warm, to keep you here. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft and lingering, his breath unsteady, his chest aching. "Help's almost here, baby, just—just hold on."
A shaky, tiny breath. A ghost of a smile. "Knew you'd come."
And just like that, he breaks. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, his breath shuddering as he buries his face in your hair, lips pressing against your forehead, against your temple, his grip desperate, aching, pleading.
"Shhh, I got you," he whispers, voice wrecked, breath shaking. "I got you, baby."
You barely nod. Just the faintest tilt of your head against him. And then... then your body slumps. And Dick? Dick falls apart.
He doesn't even realize he's shaking as he stares at your unconscious form, the life draining out of you too fast, too violently, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. His hands are slick with your blood, staining his gloves, seeping into the cracks of his fingers, and for the first time in a long time, he feels helpless. Utterly, terrifyingly helpless.
The entire ride to the hospital is a blur—he remembers shouting, pushing, running, people yelling at him to step back, but he doesn't, he can't, not when you're barely breathing in his arms. It's only when the ER doors swing shut, when you're wheeled away from him, disappearing behind sterile white curtains, that reality slams into him like a freight train.
And then he's left in the waiting room. Pacing. Restless. Agitated.
His boots echo against the linoleum as he stalks back and forth, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Every muscle in his body is coiled, wired with adrenaline and fear and something deeper, something primal that he can't shake. His hands are still stained, and no matter how many times he scrubs them against his suit, he still feels it—your blood, your warmth, fading, slipping, and he can't fucking breathe.
"She's been in surgery for hours," he mutters, voice raw, almost hoarse. He's barely stopped moving, his fingers threading through his hair, gripping at the roots, chest rising and falling too fast. "Why is it taking this long?"
Bruce is there. Silent at first. Watching.
"Dick," his voice is calm, measured, but firm, that same tone that used to keep him steady when he was a kid, when the world felt too big, too cruel. "She's going to be fine."
Dick laughs, but it's humorless, breathless, shaking. "You don't know that," he snaps, and immediately regrets it. He exhales hard, pressing his palms against his face, dragging them down like it'll somehow ground him. "Sorry. I just... she was right there, Bruce. Bleeding out. And I—I couldn't do anything."
Bruce doesn't flinch, doesn't let the words shake him. Instead, he steps forward, places a heavy hand on Dick's shoulder, the weight of it solid, grounding.
"You got her here."
Dick swallows hard, his throat burning. "What if it wasn't enough?"
Bruce squeezes his shoulder. "It was."
Dick shakes his head, jaw tightening. "You don't know that—"
"I do." Bruce's voice is unwavering, steady in a way that makes something inside Dick crack wide open. "She's in the best hospital in Gotham. The best surgeons. The best care. She will make it through this."
Dick wants to argue, to push back, to say but what if? But when he looks at Bruce, really looks at him, he sees it—an unshakable belief, the same certainty that carried them through years of impossible odds, of near-death escapes. Bruce isn't just saying it to calm him down. He means it.
And that? That makes it a little easier to breathe.
Bruce exhales softly, a rare moment of warmth breaking through his usual stoicism. "I know what it's like to sit in these rooms. To feel powerless." His voice drops, quieter now, something heavier laced between the words. "I've done it too many times with you."
Dick's throat tightens, his breath catching.
"I know it's terrifying," Bruce continues. "But she's strong. And she's got you to fight for."
Dick's legs finally give out beneath him, and he drops onto the chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He doesn't even realize he's shaking until Bruce sits beside him, a steady presence, and—God—before he can stop himself, Dick turns into it, leans against him just enough to feel something solid.
Bruce doesn't push him away. Doesn't lecture him. He just rests a firm hand against the back of Dick's head and stays there. Silent. Steady. There.
And when the doctor finally comes out, when they say you're stable, that you're out of surgery, that you're going to be okay—Dick breathes for the first time in hours.
When you wake up, it's to warmth. A steady weight, something solid, something real, wrapped around your hand, grounding you, keeping you from slipping back into the dark. It's the first thing you register, the soft press of fingers against yours, the way they tighten slightly, as if making sure you don't drift away again.
And then—
A voice. Soft. Shaky. A murmur of your name, so quiet, so hoarse, like it's been spoken a hundred times before you even heard it. Your eyelids flutter, heavy, sluggish, but you fight against it, pushing through the lingering haze of unconsciousness. And when your vision clears, the first thing you see is him.
Dick. Sitting beside your hospital bed, his fingers clinging to yours like a lifeline, like if he lets go, you'll slip right through his grasp again. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhaustion painting dark circles beneath them, his face wrecked, jaw tight, like he hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, hasn't even breathed since you collapsed in his arms.
And when you stir, when your fingers twitch the tiniest bit in his grip—
His breath catches. "Baby?"
It's barely a whisper. Barely even a word. Just a breath of hope—raw, desperate, aching. You swallow, throat dry and sore, and part your lips. It takes a second. It takes effort. But then—
A pause. A shaky, slow smile. "Hi."
The way his breath shudders out of him, the way his entire body sags forward, forehead pressing to the back of your hand, his grip tightening like he's trying to memorize the feeling of your skin against his. He exhales hard, like he's been holding it in for hours.
And then, so soft, so fucking wrecked, "You scared me."
And just—fuck. Your heart cracks. Because you've never seen him like this. Never seen him so wrecked, so raw, so utterly drained in a way that has nothing to do with sleepless nights and everything to do with you. With the fear of losing you.
So you squeeze his hand. Just the tiniest bit. Just enough for him to feel it, to know you're still here, that you're real, that you're alive. And when he looks up, his eyes are glassy. Red. Wrecked. So full of love, of relief, of something too heavy to carry alone.
And you whisper, small, so fucking gentle, "But you found me."
And just like that? He melts. A quiet, wrecked laugh escapes him, something wet and breathless, something that sounds like it's carrying the weight of every single fear he's ever had about losing you. His fingers tighten around yours, holding on, grounding himself in the fact that you're still here.
Then he leans forward again, pressing his forehead against your hand, against your knuckles, against anything he can reach. His voice—
His voice breaks. "Of course I did," he breathes, so soft, so full of something you don't even have a name for.
And in that moment, there's only one thing that makes sense to him. "You're my home."
Because you are. Because you're the one thing that always pulls him back. Because without you, he's lost.
Fuck. You don't even get the chance to say anything back, to let him know that he's yours, that he's the one thing you always come back to, because—
There's a soft cough from the corner of the room. And when you blink, when you manage to turn your head, you finally notice.
You're not alone. Bruce is here. Standing near the window, arms crossed, his entire posture so tense, so rigid, like he's holding something back. His eyes are sharp, serious, but gentler than you've ever seen them.
And when you meet his gaze, when he sees the way your breathing steadies, the way your eyes focus, the way your fingers are still wrapped so tightly around Dick's, his shoulders relax. Just a fraction. And then, finally—
"You gave us quite the scare."
His voice is even. Neutral. But there's something underneath it, something warm, something grateful.
Something that tells you he was worried. That maybe, just maybe, he was scared too. And God. That's when it hits you. Bruce wasn't just here for you. He was here for Dick. Because Dick—
Dick is his son. And he almost lost you. And for Bruce? That's almost the same thing. Losing you would've been almost as bad as losing Dick himself.
Because you're not just someone to Dick—you're everything. His home. His safe place. The person who grounds him, who keeps him from feeling lost. And Bruce? He knows that. So when Dick almost lost you? It wasn't just your life on the line. It was his son's heart.
Bruce watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but his silence says more than words ever could. His shoulders are stiff, his stance unyielding, but there's something else beneath it now—something hesitant, something restrained, like he's holding back more than just exhaustion.
And when he finally steps closer, it's not much, just a fraction of a movement, but it's deliberate. Intentional. Close enough that you can feel it, that you know he's here.
His eyes flick down to where your fingers are still tangled with Dick's, to the way his son is gripping you like he's afraid you'll slip through his fingers again. And when he looks back up, there's something tight in his expression, something carved into the set of his jaw, the pull of his brows. He doesn't say anything at first, just watches, and you can't tell if he's searching for something in your face or just making sure you're really awake, really here.
And then—your voice. Quiet. Guilt-ridden. An apology you don't even realize cuts deeper than any wound ever could.
"I'm sorry."
Bruce exhales, slow, measured, but something flickers in his eyes. Something sharp. Something that almost looks like anger—but not at you. No, never at you.
Because why the hell would you even think to say sorry? Why would that be the first thing out of your mouth after nearly dying? After everything?
He hates it. Hates that you feel like you have to carry that weight, hates that it even crossed your mind to apologize for surviving. Because it wasn't your fault.
Because you were the one bleeding out in Dick's arms, and yet here you are, looking at him, at Dick, like you need to make it up to them. Like they wouldn't burn the whole damn world down just to make sure you stayed.
His jaw tightens. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach out, to do something, but Bruce Wayne has never been good at this—at softness, at warmth, at saying what he actually means. So when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, steadier than before, but there's an edge to it. Something firm. Something final.
"There's no need to apologize." A slow exhale through his nose. And then, quieter, like it's the only thing that really matters, like maybe if he says it, you'll believe it, "I'm glad you're back with us."
It's not much. Not flowery, not emotional, not even close to the way Dick is looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky, but for Bruce? It's everything. It's as much as he'll allow himself to say. And somehow, that makes it hit even harder.
Then, just like that, his entire demeanor shifts. The warmth, the hesitation, the careful softness—it's gone, replaced by something sharper, something colder, something that leaves no room for hesitation. His expression hardens, his jaw sets, and when he speaks again, his voice is steady, firm, like he's already made up his mind about what's coming next.
"I just want to know what the guy looks like. If you remember."
Dick stiffens beside you. And you—you do remember. Clear as day. So you swallow. And you tell him. Everything. Every detail. Every scar, every feature, every fucking thing you can recall.
And Bruce? Bruce just nods. Once. Then turns and walks out the door. And just like that? You know. It's over for him. Whoever he is. The room feels quieter when Bruce leaves.
Like the air has settled, like the weight of everything that just happened is finally catching up to you. You breathe in. Slow.
And Dick—Dick doesn't move. Doesn't shift, doesn't loosen his grip, doesn't even blink as he stares at you, like if he looks away for even a second, you'll disappear again.
And then—soft. A press of warmth against your forehead. A kiss. Gentle. Lingering. Just his lips, just his breath, just the quiet weight of it grounding you in a way nothing else could.
And when he pulls back, his thumb traces over your knuckles, slow, careful, like he's memorizing them. Like he needs to. You exhale, try to shift, and fuck—pain lances through your side, sharp, hot, and you flinch, sucking in a breath through your teeth. Dick reacts immediately.
"Hey, hey—"
His hands are on you in a second, firm but careful, steadying you, stopping you from moving too much.
"Baby, don't—just... stay still, okay? You need to rest."
And just, God. The worry in his voice. The way it wavers, the way he looks at you like you might break all over again. It makes your chest ache.
You swallow. Blink up at him, slow, tired, voice small, "I'm a little thirsty."
And Dick, God. The relief on his face, like he's so grateful that the only thing you're asking for is water and not a damn doctor—it's almost heartbreaking.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice lighter, steadier, "I've got you, baby."
But he doesn't let go. Not really. One hand stays wrapped around yours, tight, secure, while the other reaches for the water pitcher on the table beside you. He pours you a glass, careful not to spill a single drop, and then he shifts.
Braces an arm behind you, supporting your back, keeping you steady as he helps you upright, soft, softer, like you're the most fragile thing he's ever held.
You wince in pain, a sharp jolt shooting through your side, and his heart clenches at the sound. The way you flinch, the way your body tenses, it breaks something inside of him. He'd give anything, everything, to take that pain away from you. But all he can do is hold you, steady you, whisper words that feel too small for the weight of the moment.
"Easy, pretty girl," he murmurs, voice soothing, so full of something warm. "I've got you."
And then—he brings the glass to you, cool against your fingers, the coldness of it a small comfort. He's right there. Watching you. Close. So close, his presence a steadying force as he tilts the glass toward your lips. You take a sip, your throat aching slightly as you swallow, but his careful hands keep the glass steady, guiding it just the right way.
When you lower the glass, his eyes are still locked onto you, taking in every little movement, every little shift, still taking in everything, still not letting a single thing slip past him. And you... you can't help it. Your lips twitch.
"You know," you say, voice still hoarse, still exhausted, but teasing all the same, "you can blink, baby. I'm not gonna disappear."
And Dick—his breath hitches. Then, a small, wrecked, quiet laugh.
"Yeah," he breathes, pressing another kiss to your knuckles, voice so fond, so full of relief, "I know."
But you pout, just a little, because even though you're tired, even though you're sore, you just want to curl up against him, feel his warmth, let it chase away the ache in your bones.
"Wanna snuggle with you."
Your voice is small, laced with exhaustion, barely above a whisper, but he hears it. He always hears you. His face crumbles. Just a little. Just enough that you see the way his jaw clenches, the way his throat works around something thick, something painful.
"My love," he murmurs, shifting, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, so soft, so careful, like you're something fragile, something precious. "You need to rest. I don't wanna hurt you."
But then, softer, like a promise—"Soon, okay? As soon as you're a little stronger. I'll hold you all night."
And then, like he can't help himself, like he needs you to believe it, he leans in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your lips. Just a soft, lingering peck, warm and tender, filled with everything he can't say yet. Then another, and another, the barest brush of his lips over yours, like he's trying to soothe something deep inside you.
And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your skin.
"I'm right here," he whispers. "Not going anywhere."
And just like that? You believe him. Because he never has. And he never will.
@ellesthots, your man comforting my man is everything to me ✋🏻
inspired by the TikTok audio of Phil Dunphy saying "if you ever say anything disrespectful about my wife again, I'll kill you. Sorry, I don't know why that sounded like a joke; I will actually kill you."
James Potter x fem!reader who was apparently 'too much' for McLaggen
CW: they're at a party, readers last relationship left her feeling small, but she loves James and is all good now
It took a bit of unlearning when you found yourself in a relationship with James Potter.
He sensed your hangups immediately; as if you were a duffle bag containing paraphernalia and he was a well-trained drug dog.
He noticed the way you seemed to fold in on yourself when you were excited, the way you cut yourself off when you began rambling, and the way you seemed to make yourself smaller as if that was what was required for the people around you to feel comfortable.
“Why do you keep snuffing out your own light, lovie? I miss your spark.” He’d said to you one night.
In all honesty, you hadn’t been aware you were even doing such a thing.
But you certainly knew why.
Though your mother always told you to never look back on life with regrets, you’d spent about a year in what you now consider to be a rather unfortunate relationship with Tiberius McLaggen.
And though you hadn’t noticed he’d been doing it; by the time your relationship ended, you realised you were perhaps a mere shadow of the person you used to be.
He’d ended the relationship after suggesting you were ‘too much’.
The irony of it was you were the smallest you’d ever been at that point; the ‘least’ you that you could possibly be. How could you be ‘too much’ and diminished at the same time?
You spent a lot of time reflecting after that, but it seemed that when you and James started your relationship, those old habits and qualities made their way back into your subconscious and it took James pointing it out for you to even notice.
You were glad he had, though. He was lovely, and he was caring, and he loved you. He loved your energy, he loved your passion, he loved your excitement, and better yet, he loved sharing those qualities with you.
All of the traits that your ex had deemed unseemly or unflattering were the traits you loved most about James, and in turn what he most loved about you.
And why would you deny such a lovely person of anything they wanted?
You just couldn’t.
So the two of you had been dating for nearly five months already, and you felt more comfortable in yourself than you ever had before.
You thought perhaps that this was just the effect James had on people; you found it almost impossible for any of his friends to be anything but their best selves when they were in his presence.
You loved him immensely for it.
You were getting a first hand look at exactly that from your spot on the arm of the sofa as you watched Peter throw his head back in boisterous laughter not usually seen from the typically soft spoken marauder. James didn’t even spend any time being smug about eliciting such a laugh from the cushion below you before he was complimenting Remus on his jumper, knowing very well that Sirius was the who picked it out for him - and also knowing Sirius would absolutely take full responsibility for the compliment - only to coo about how sweet they were together and leaving both boys blushing messes.
You had almost forgotten you were sitting in the middle of a Gryffindor party when someone sidled up beside you.
“Lookin’ good, Y/N.” McLaggen commented as he looked you up and down.
You fought the urge to grimace as you narrowed your eyes at him. “Tiberius.”
“Didn’t think I’d see you here; not really your scene, is it?” He commented with an air of casualty you knew was entirely for show. “I’m here with my new bird; she’s in Gryffindor.” He carried on without waiting for you to respond.
You hummed in acknowledgement as you looked around the room. “It doesn’t look like you’re here with anyone, McLaggen, seeing as you’re standing here talking to me.”
“Come now, can’t old friends catch up?” He said salaciously.
“We’re not friends, Tiberius.” You retorted forcefully.
He held his hands up in mock surrender as he chuckled at you. “Down girl, no need to get all jumpy now. You always were a bit of a handful, weren’t you?”
You didn’t even have a chance to tell McLaggen where to shove it before James was standing up from his place hidden behind you as McLaggen’s face fell.
“Ah, if it isn’t Tiberius McLaggen; kicked off the Ravenclaw quidditch team, failing Astronomy, received a mere acceptable in Herbology last term, and totally shit the bed with the most beautiful girl in Hogwarts. I’ve heard so much about you!” James recounted with faux cheer as he stuck his hand out to McLaggen, forcing the bloke to give him an awkward handshake as James stared at him hard.
James Potter was still flashing his (what should be award winning) smile, but it never met his eyes which were no longer their warm hazel.
“Sounds like you’re the one I have to thank.” James carried on as he dropped McLaggen’s hand, wiped his own hand off on his trousers and threw his other arm protectively, possessively, affectionately over your shoulder. “Turns out if you hadn’t been such an absolute fucking tosser and fumbled the best thing to have ever happened to you, I wouldn’t have my sweet, gorgeous girl here. Congrats on losing the most lovely little thing to have ever looked your way; now sod off before I decide to do something that might just be worth making her frown over.”
You were unsuccessful in hiding your snort of amusement as you hid your face in James’ shoulder and listened to McLaggen scoff and stalk away.
“Merlin’s tits, Prongsie! Did anyone else know James could be mean!?” Sirius cackled as the two of you turned back towards the group.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen James end a conversation without at least wishing someone a good day.” Peter carried on.
“Did you actually threaten the sod?” Marlene continued.
“No, I didn’t threaten him.” James muttered somewhat petulantly. “I promised him pain if he ever spoke to my girl like that again.”
The group cheered as you felt a shy yet pleased heat spread across your face and you shoved your face back into James’ shoulder.
James, for his part, accepted you eagerly and rubbed his hand up and down your arm as he pressed a kiss into your hair.
“I’ll never let anyone make you feel small ever again.” He promised quietly; whether he was promising himself, or you, or McLaggen, you weren’t entirely sure.
What you were entirely sure of was that it was a promise he intended to keep.
Potter!Reader tells her dad she's been asked on a date.
Summary: James finds out Lily's type in men is apparently genetic.
Wc: ~1.7k
CW: Just chaotic fluffy hijinks - a jab about Americans
“Dad.” You trailed James into the kitchen, fighting to keep your voice calm despite the storm brewing ahead.
But James Potter, in all his dramatic glory, had gone entirely deaf. Arms flailing like a prophet warning of doom, he roared, “Family meeting!”
“No! No family meeting!” you yelped, lunging for his arm. You barely stifled a laugh as he flailed harder, like a fish trying to escape the net.
James spun around, courtroom-drama style, and gasped at you with the intensity of someone catching their child red-handed with a cursed artifact. “Fred Weasley? Our Fred Weasley? That Fred Weasley?”
“Yes, that Fred Weasley,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “Merlin’s saggy balls, I regret telling you already.”
James slammed his hand on the counter for emphasis, pivoting toward the sitting room like a man possessed. “Lily!” he thundered, shaking the walls. “Lily, get in here! Your daughter’s lost her mind!”
“Dad, for Merlin’s sake!” You tried to grab him again, but James had started pacing now, looking like a wizard unjustly accused of crimes against decorum.
“Not in my house! Not under my roof!” He spun around, hazel eyes bulging with a level of betrayal that deserved an award. “Fred Weasley doesn’t know the meaning of curfew! Or- Merlin help us- a respectable bedtime! Do you think I’m letting that chaos into my family? After all I’ve sacrificed? For you?”
“James,” came Lily’s voice, calm but laced with amusement. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, her lips twitching. “What are you yelling about this time?”
James turned to her, a man on the brink. “Fred Weasley! He asked her out! Our daughter! On a date! Alone! With no chaperone!”
Lily blinked, then turned to you with a grin brighter than a Patronus. “Oh!” she gasped, her eyes lighting up. “He finally asked?”
James froze mid-tirade, pointing an accusatory finger at his wife. “Finally? What do you mean, finally? Have you been... supporting this? Encouraging it?”
Lily shrugged, her grin widening as she pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the kitchen. “He’s a lovely boy, James. Polite, clever, charming. He reminds me of someone I used to know.”
“Don’t you dare—” James began, his tone low and dangerous.
“You,” Lily finished brightly, jabbing him in the chest. “Fred’s just like you were. All mischief and charm. No wonder she likes him.”
James gawked at her like she’d suggested selling their house to a pack of trolls. “That’s exactly why she can’t date him! I was Fred Weasley, Lily! Do you know what I would’ve done if someone let me date their daughter?”
“You married her,” Lily said sweetly, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek, winking at you as it effectively stunned the red mess that was your father.
James froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, completely derailed by Lily’s well-placed jab and affectionate kiss. He finally managed to sputter, “That’s- That’s completely different!”
“How, exactly?” Lily teased, raising an eyebrow as she crossed her arms again. “Because if I recall correctly, you were a menace, Potter. A charming menace, but a menace nonetheless. Fred’s cut from the same cloth, and you turned out all right.”
James spluttered, gesturing wildly at you. “Because this is my daughter! She’s not supposed to fall for charmers like Fred Weasley! I can’t just let this happen! Where’s the fatherly dignity in that?”
“Oh, James,” Lily sighed, patting his shoulder with exaggerated pity. “I hate to break it to you, but you lost your ‘fatherly dignity’ the day you wore those matching Christmas jumpers with Sirius.”
“That was solidarity!” James barked, his ears reddening as he straightened his posture in a futile attempt at reclaiming authority. “And anyway, this is different. I’m supposed to protect her! Shield her from the heartbreakers and mischief-makers of the world.”
“Fred’s not a heartbreaker, Dad,” you said, exasperated but amused. “He’s actually- dare I say- nice? And maybe even mature? A little bit?”
James looked like he might faint. “Mature?! You’re telling me Fred Weasley- the bloke who turned all the Quidditch goalposts into giant marshmallows- is mature?! What next? He’s taken up knitting?”
“Knitting would be a good look for him,” Lily quipped, clearly enjoying herself. “Very soothing hobby. He could knit you a jumper, James, to match that dignity you’ve misplaced.”
You couldn’t help but snort at the visual, and James threw his hands up, pacing the kitchen again. “I can’t believe this. I’m being outnumbered in my own home.”
“It’s called democracy- like the Americans,” Lily said, smirking as she leaned against the counter. “And right now, you’re the losing party.”
James stopped pacing to glare at her. “Fred acts like a damned American..” He mumbled before he raised his voice. “This is treason. Pure, unadulterated treason.”
“James,” Lily replied patiently, though her lips twitched with amusement. “You’ll survive.”
At that moment, Harry wandered into the kitchen, his face set in curious confusion as he surveyed the scene. He held a plate of leftover treacle tart, chewing leisurely. “What’s with all the shouting, then?” He asked, his tone disinterested but his eyes sparkling with intrigue.
James immediately pounced, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Your sister has decided to go on a date with Fred Weasley, Harry! Fred Weasley! What do you have to say about that?”
Harry blinked at him, clearly trying to piece together the situation. Then his gaze slid to you, and his smirk grew as he swallowed a bite of tart. “Fred, huh?” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Nice. Bold choice. Never a dull moment with a Weasley.”
“Bold-? Harry!” James looked genuinely wounded. “This is a betrayal! Your own sister-"
“Is an adult,” Harry interrupted, shrugging. “And you’re acting like she’s run off to marry Voldemort’s ghost.”
“Don’t give him ideas,” you muttered under your breath, earning a snort from Harry.
“Not helping, Harry!” James barked, looking thoroughly frazzled now. He pointed at you again. “Fine! Go on your date! But I’m watching him. One toe out of line, and-”
“And what?” you challenged, grinning now as Lily watched on, clearly entertained. “You’ll duel him? Turn him into a marshmallow like his Quidditch goalposts?”
James opened his mouth, floundering for a retort, but Lily stepped in, tugging him gently away from the center of the chaos. “Come on, love,” she cooed soothingly. “Why don’t we sit down, have a cuppa, and let the kids handle their own lives for once?”
James sighed, finally deflating. “Fine,” he grumbled, shooting you one last suspicious look. “But mark my words- an eye for an eye! Harry, date his younger sister!”
Harry froze, the bite of treacle tart halfway to his mouth as the words sunk in. His eyes darted between you, Lily, and James, clearly trying to figure out if this was his moment to fess up or quietly Disapparate.
“What?” James demanded, noticing Harry’s hesitation. “What’s with that face? Don’t tell me you’ve already thought about it!”
Lily covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. You, on the other hand, burst out laughing immediately, doubling over as the image of James putting two and two together hit you.
“Why are you laughing?” James barked, looking between the two of you like he was missing the punchline to a joke everyone else got. “What’s so funny? Harry, explain yourself!”
Harry, clearly seeing no way out, sighed and placed his plate of treacle tart on the counter. “Dad,” he started, bracing himself, “I’m already dating Ginny.”
James froze. Completely, utterly froze. His jaw hung slack, his hands hovering mid-air like a malfunctioning automaton.
“You’re what?” He whispered, his voice teetering on the edge of shock and betrayal.
You howled with laughter, tears forming in your eyes. “Oh, Merlin, this is priceless!” You gasped. “Dad, your face- your face!"
“James, breathe,” Lily advised through her own laughter, leaning against the counter for support. “You’re going to give yourself a stroke.”
James finally snapped out of his trance, his eyes narrowing into sharp points of indignation. “Ginny?! Ginny Weasley?! First her with Fred, and now you- how long has this been going on?”
Harry scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying to make himself look smaller. “A while.”
“A while?" James repeated, his voice cracking. “Define ‘a while.’ A few days? Weeks?”
Harry hesitated. “Since... fifth year?”
“Fifth year?!" James bellowed, looking like he might explode. “That’s years! Years, Harry! And you didn’t think to tell me?!”
“What was I supposed to say?” Harry shot back, clearly frustrated now. “‘Hey, Dad, by the way, I’m snogging Ron’s little sister’? That would’ve gone over well.”
“Well, it’s certainly better than me finding out like this!” James cried, gesturing wildly at nothing in particular. “My own son! Betraying me! I raised you better than this, Harry!”
Lily wiped her eyes, still chuckling. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, James. They’re clearly happy, and Ginny’s a wonderful girl. You love her.”
“That’s not the point, Lily!” James snapped, his hands flying to his hair. “It’s- this is-!Fred! Ginny! My children and their Weasleys! What’s next? Ron’s going to marry into the family, too?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Well... technically, Hermione-"
“No! They got her too!?" James cut him off, throwing his hands in the air. “Don’t even tell me! I won’t survive it! This is it- this is how I go. Betrayed by my own family and buried in a sea of Weasleys.”
You leaned against the counter, wheezing with laughter. “Dad, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” James turned to you, his face a picture of righteous indignation. “You don’t understand. I fought a war for this family- for this! And now my legacy is going to be a house full of Weasleys!”
“Sounds cozy,” Lily teased, patting his arm. “You’ll come around, James. You always do.”
James groaned, sinking into a chair as if all the fight had been drained out of him. “Fine,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “Fine. Date your Weasleys. Marry them. Name your kids Fred and Ginny Jr. for all I care.”
You patted his shoulder, grinning. “Love you, Dad.”
He shot you a glare but muttered, “Love you, too. But don’t think for one second I’m not watching Fred like a hawk.”
“And Ginny?” Harry asked, daring to push his luck.
James pointed a warning finger at him. “You, young man, are on thin bloody ice."
Lily hushed James as she patted his back, leading him out of the kitchen. He continued to blabber on, muttering something along the lines of;
Potter!Reader tells her dad she's been asked on a date.
Summary: James finds out Lily's type in men is apparently genetic.
Wc: ~1.7k
CW: Just chaotic fluffy hijinks - a jab about Americans
“Dad.” You trailed James into the kitchen, fighting to keep your voice calm despite the storm brewing ahead.
But James Potter, in all his dramatic glory, had gone entirely deaf. Arms flailing like a prophet warning of doom, he roared, “Family meeting!”
“No! No family meeting!” you yelped, lunging for his arm. You barely stifled a laugh as he flailed harder, like a fish trying to escape the net.
James spun around, courtroom-drama style, and gasped at you with the intensity of someone catching their child red-handed with a cursed artifact. “Fred Weasley? Our Fred Weasley? That Fred Weasley?”
“Yes, that Fred Weasley,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “Merlin’s saggy balls, I regret telling you already.”
James slammed his hand on the counter for emphasis, pivoting toward the sitting room like a man possessed. “Lily!” he thundered, shaking the walls. “Lily, get in here! Your daughter’s lost her mind!”
“Dad, for Merlin’s sake!” You tried to grab him again, but James had started pacing now, looking like a wizard unjustly accused of crimes against decorum.
“Not in my house! Not under my roof!” He spun around, hazel eyes bulging with a level of betrayal that deserved an award. “Fred Weasley doesn’t know the meaning of curfew! Or- Merlin help us- a respectable bedtime! Do you think I’m letting that chaos into my family? After all I’ve sacrificed? For you?”
“James,” came Lily’s voice, calm but laced with amusement. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, her lips twitching. “What are you yelling about this time?”
James turned to her, a man on the brink. “Fred Weasley! He asked her out! Our daughter! On a date! Alone! With no chaperone!”
Lily blinked, then turned to you with a grin brighter than a Patronus. “Oh!” she gasped, her eyes lighting up. “He finally asked?”
James froze mid-tirade, pointing an accusatory finger at his wife. “Finally? What do you mean, finally? Have you been... supporting this? Encouraging it?”
Lily shrugged, her grin widening as she pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the kitchen. “He’s a lovely boy, James. Polite, clever, charming. He reminds me of someone I used to know.”
“Don’t you dare—” James began, his tone low and dangerous.
“You,” Lily finished brightly, jabbing him in the chest. “Fred’s just like you were. All mischief and charm. No wonder she likes him.”
James gawked at her like she’d suggested selling their house to a pack of trolls. “That’s exactly why she can’t date him! I was Fred Weasley, Lily! Do you know what I would’ve done if someone let me date their daughter?”
“You married her,” Lily said sweetly, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek, winking at you as it effectively stunned the red mess that was your father.
James froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, completely derailed by Lily’s well-placed jab and affectionate kiss. He finally managed to sputter, “That’s- That’s completely different!”
“How, exactly?” Lily teased, raising an eyebrow as she crossed her arms again. “Because if I recall correctly, you were a menace, Potter. A charming menace, but a menace nonetheless. Fred’s cut from the same cloth, and you turned out all right.”
James spluttered, gesturing wildly at you. “Because this is my daughter! She’s not supposed to fall for charmers like Fred Weasley! I can’t just let this happen! Where’s the fatherly dignity in that?”
“Oh, James,” Lily sighed, patting his shoulder with exaggerated pity. “I hate to break it to you, but you lost your ‘fatherly dignity’ the day you wore those matching Christmas jumpers with Sirius.”
“That was solidarity!” James barked, his ears reddening as he straightened his posture in a futile attempt at reclaiming authority. “And anyway, this is different. I’m supposed to protect her! Shield her from the heartbreakers and mischief-makers of the world.”
“Fred’s not a heartbreaker, Dad,” you said, exasperated but amused. “He’s actually- dare I say- nice? And maybe even mature? A little bit?”
James looked like he might faint. “Mature?! You’re telling me Fred Weasley- the bloke who turned all the Quidditch goalposts into giant marshmallows- is mature?! What next? He’s taken up knitting?”
“Knitting would be a good look for him,” Lily quipped, clearly enjoying herself. “Very soothing hobby. He could knit you a jumper, James, to match that dignity you’ve misplaced.”
You couldn’t help but snort at the visual, and James threw his hands up, pacing the kitchen again. “I can’t believe this. I’m being outnumbered in my own home.”
“It’s called democracy- like the Americans,” Lily said, smirking as she leaned against the counter. “And right now, you’re the losing party.”
James stopped pacing to glare at her. “Fred acts like a damned American..” He mumbled before he raised his voice. “This is treason. Pure, unadulterated treason.”
“James,” Lily replied patiently, though her lips twitched with amusement. “You’ll survive.”
At that moment, Harry wandered into the kitchen, his face set in curious confusion as he surveyed the scene. He held a plate of leftover treacle tart, chewing leisurely. “What’s with all the shouting, then?” He asked, his tone disinterested but his eyes sparkling with intrigue.
James immediately pounced, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Your sister has decided to go on a date with Fred Weasley, Harry! Fred Weasley! What do you have to say about that?”
Harry blinked at him, clearly trying to piece together the situation. Then his gaze slid to you, and his smirk grew as he swallowed a bite of tart. “Fred, huh?” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Nice. Bold choice. Never a dull moment with a Weasley.”
“Bold-? Harry!” James looked genuinely wounded. “This is a betrayal! Your own sister-"
“Is an adult,” Harry interrupted, shrugging. “And you’re acting like she’s run off to marry Voldemort’s ghost.”
“Don’t give him ideas,” you muttered under your breath, earning a snort from Harry.
“Not helping, Harry!” James barked, looking thoroughly frazzled now. He pointed at you again. “Fine! Go on your date! But I’m watching him. One toe out of line, and-”
“And what?” you challenged, grinning now as Lily watched on, clearly entertained. “You’ll duel him? Turn him into a marshmallow like his Quidditch goalposts?”
James opened his mouth, floundering for a retort, but Lily stepped in, tugging him gently away from the center of the chaos. “Come on, love,” she cooed soothingly. “Why don’t we sit down, have a cuppa, and let the kids handle their own lives for once?”
James sighed, finally deflating. “Fine,” he grumbled, shooting you one last suspicious look. “But mark my words- an eye for an eye! Harry, date his younger sister!”
Harry froze, the bite of treacle tart halfway to his mouth as the words sunk in. His eyes darted between you, Lily, and James, clearly trying to figure out if this was his moment to fess up or quietly Disapparate.
“What?” James demanded, noticing Harry’s hesitation. “What’s with that face? Don’t tell me you’ve already thought about it!”
Lily covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. You, on the other hand, burst out laughing immediately, doubling over as the image of James putting two and two together hit you.
“Why are you laughing?” James barked, looking between the two of you like he was missing the punchline to a joke everyone else got. “What’s so funny? Harry, explain yourself!”
Harry, clearly seeing no way out, sighed and placed his plate of treacle tart on the counter. “Dad,” he started, bracing himself, “I’m already dating Ginny.”
James froze. Completely, utterly froze. His jaw hung slack, his hands hovering mid-air like a malfunctioning automaton.
“You’re what?” He whispered, his voice teetering on the edge of shock and betrayal.
You howled with laughter, tears forming in your eyes. “Oh, Merlin, this is priceless!” You gasped. “Dad, your face- your face!"
“James, breathe,” Lily advised through her own laughter, leaning against the counter for support. “You’re going to give yourself a stroke.”
James finally snapped out of his trance, his eyes narrowing into sharp points of indignation. “Ginny?! Ginny Weasley?! First her with Fred, and now you- how long has this been going on?”
Harry scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying to make himself look smaller. “A while.”
“A while?" James repeated, his voice cracking. “Define ‘a while.’ A few days? Weeks?”
Harry hesitated. “Since... fifth year?”
“Fifth year?!" James bellowed, looking like he might explode. “That’s years! Years, Harry! And you didn’t think to tell me?!”
“What was I supposed to say?” Harry shot back, clearly frustrated now. “‘Hey, Dad, by the way, I’m snogging Ron’s little sister’? That would’ve gone over well.”
“Well, it’s certainly better than me finding out like this!” James cried, gesturing wildly at nothing in particular. “My own son! Betraying me! I raised you better than this, Harry!”
Lily wiped her eyes, still chuckling. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, James. They’re clearly happy, and Ginny’s a wonderful girl. You love her.”
“That’s not the point, Lily!” James snapped, his hands flying to his hair. “It’s- this is-!Fred! Ginny! My children and their Weasleys! What’s next? Ron’s going to marry into the family, too?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Well... technically, Hermione-"
“No! They got her too!?" James cut him off, throwing his hands in the air. “Don’t even tell me! I won’t survive it! This is it- this is how I go. Betrayed by my own family and buried in a sea of Weasleys.”
You leaned against the counter, wheezing with laughter. “Dad, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” James turned to you, his face a picture of righteous indignation. “You don’t understand. I fought a war for this family- for this! And now my legacy is going to be a house full of Weasleys!”
“Sounds cozy,” Lily teased, patting his arm. “You’ll come around, James. You always do.”
James groaned, sinking into a chair as if all the fight had been drained out of him. “Fine,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “Fine. Date your Weasleys. Marry them. Name your kids Fred and Ginny Jr. for all I care.”
You patted his shoulder, grinning. “Love you, Dad.”
He shot you a glare but muttered, “Love you, too. But don’t think for one second I’m not watching Fred like a hawk.”
“And Ginny?” Harry asked, daring to push his luck.
James pointed a warning finger at him. “You, young man, are on thin bloody ice."
Lily hushed James as she patted his back, leading him out of the kitchen. He continued to blabber on, muttering something along the lines of;
Younger writers. Please, just know that you could not skip to different songs on a cassette tape, that’s CDs. With tapes you pressed fast forward or rewind and prayed.
Also, VHS tapes did not have menu screens. Your only options were play, fast forward, rewind, pause, stop, or eject.
Y’all are making me feel like the crypt keeper here, I’m begging you 😭
a / n : rafe cameron thoughts. btw this was actually an anonymous ask i sent to a writer, i don’t know if she’ll write it but im sure if she does, it’ll turn out amazing. @rafeysbunny i’m 🧋 anon, hehe.
fun fact, i cannot swim.
synopsis : in which, rafe overhears that you can’t swim and during a party out on the docks, some of the kooks push you into the ocean to loosen you up.
warnings : reader can’t swim. kelce being an ass, peer pressure, etc.
“are you serious, [Name]?”
The raised tone of her voice causes you to shush her as you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and purse your lips faintly. “Not so loud, sare..” You let out a small breath and frown, leaning back against the headboard of her bed.
Sarah nods in understanding, lowering her tone as she sighs softly and crosses her legs on the bed in front of you. “That’s crazy- i mean, everyone here in Outer Banks are either surfers or decent swimmers.”
“Except me..” You trail off, shutting your eyes as you bring your hands up to your face. “It’s pretty humiliating, you know.. Seeing everyone in their swimsuits and able to swim in the ocean or go surfing, without the fear of drowning.”
“Wow, no wonder you wouldn’t ever go into the pool or go swimming with us during the boat parties on the dock..”
Unbeknownst to you two, Sarah’s door was open and a passing Rafe Cameron was on his way downstairs when he overhears your conversation.
“It’s not like I haven’t tried, but each time, I feel my body sinking and it terrifies me. Plus, y’know, with the whole nearly drowning as a kid trauma and shit.” you force a laugh while Sarah shares a bittersweet smile.
“It’s alright, stay by me tonight and I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Thanks, Sarah, I appreciate it.. and you can’t tell anyone either, okay, especially not Rafe.” You warn pleadingly and she chuckles and nods. “wait, why specifically him?”
You feel your cheeks warm at her question as you turn away. “Your brother just seems like the type to make fun of me for it, and besides, it’s just embarrassing to have a guy i think is hot, to know that about me.”
Sarah scrunches her nose and shudders. “I think your crush on my brother is more embarrassing than you being unable to swim.” she teases and you playfully push her away from you as she breaks into a laugh.
Rafe peeks into the room and thinks for a moment as his eyes examine and take in your form. He has already known long ago of your developed crush on him, and to say he has a mutual infatuation with you may be an understatement.
Every time you come over, Rafe finds every excuse to be in the house, sometimes even in the same room, just to get a look at you.
The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you feel shy, the way your eyes light up when you laugh, everything entices him, intrigues him. You were just so perfect.
Rafe quickly pulls away when he hears movement and leans against the wall beside the doorframe for a moment.
Despite being a little surprised at the newfound information, it brought a little smile to his face. You can’t swim? How cute.
“Come on, we should get ready for Topper’s party tonight.” Sarah says and you sigh softly, but get up anyways with her as she heads over to her closet. “It’ll be fun, come on.”
Rafe lingers for a second longer as he imagines what you’ll be wearing before taking his leave downstairs.
It’s around ten at night when the two of you arrive at the docks, the night sky surrounding the area with only the lights of Topper’s large boat illuminating the place.
“I don’t know, maybe i shouldn’t be here..” You go to turn around but Sarah stops you, pulling you to her side. “Come on, it’ll be okay, i promise. Besides, you look super cute, so flaunt it, okay?” She winks and you huff a breath before following after her.
The closer you get, the louder the partygoers become and the music blasting is enough to stimulate the senses.
Once you get on board, Sarah is engulfed by her friends, while you remain on the sideline with a weak smile and awkwardly hugging your arms. Despite being a kook, you weren’t among the popular ones but that wasn’t enough to get you on their bad side at least.
You rub your arms, the thin fabric of your cardigan doing nothing but add to Sarah’s fashion sense of your outfit tonight. In her baby blue, cropped cardigan, a matching spaghetti strapped solid colored tank and dark washed, high waisted denim shorts.
You help yourself to the bar, grabbing a red solo cup and letting the bartender fill the plastic cup with some beer before bringing it to your lips, hoping it would do some good to alleviate some anxiety, while you keep an eye on Sarah from nearby, who’s talking with her friends.
The scene brings a smile to your lips when you recall her saying she would keep an eye on you earlier in the day but you were happy to see her enjoy herself.
However, you didn’t get to enjoy much time alone as Topper and his friends make his way over to you.
“Hey, [Name]. All alone again?” Kelce smirks and you merely offer a small smile in return. “Not much of a party kinda girl.. but it’s nice.” you mention the last part to Topper who dismisses you, understanding you meant no offense.
“Where’s Sarah?” Topper asks, looking around the area and you gesture over a little ways nearby.
“She’s talking with some friends.” You reply, tapping my fingers against my cup as you shift your footing, feeling the anxiety come back, causing you to take another sip of your drink.
You let your eyes wander around the group, briefly catching Rafe’s, who let his eyes trail up and down your form for a moment, taking in your appearance. The way the baby blue color popped against your skin, the way your hair was styled for tonight’s party. Even the way you shyly held your cup to your chest, fingers still tapping against the sides.
Feeling your cheeks warm from Rafe’s intense gaze, you turn away and look back to Kelce.
Kelce and some of the other guys step closer and you give a small smile to them. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Come on, [Name]. We notice you always come to these parties but you don’t do anything,” Kelce mentions and you force a chuckle. “I’m an observer.” but some of the other guys don’t take that answer. “All we’re saying is, you should loosen up a little. Come on, some of the girls are taking dives off the tail, you should join.”
Your eyes widen slightly and you wave off the idea. “No, i think im good tonight, im actually pretty tired..” You say and Kelce scoffs lightly as his hand goes down to grab your wrist. “Don’t be a buzzkill, [Name], the water will wake you right up.”
“Kelce, i’m not really in the mood to-“ Rafe places a hand on Kelce’s shoulder, stopping him. “Let go, dude, let’s just leave her alone.” But Kelce doesn’t listen as he drags you along to where the other girls are, and the commotion causes all the partygoers to look over, Sarah looking your way.
Your eyes meet Rafe’s and he notices a look of fear and anxiety in them as Kelce brings you over and you try to pull away, the other guys surrounding you all, cheering Kelce and You.
“Yeah!”
“Come on, loosen up, girly.”
“Kelce, I really don’t—“ Despite your futile attempts, Kelce just takes the cup from your hands while Sarah pushes her way through the crowd. “Hey, Kelce, leave her alone!”
Rafe purses his lips and pulls Kelce away. “Hey, seriously, that’s enough.” He warns, pushing Kelce back, who just furrows his brows and scoffs. “What the hell? Why are you getting in the way, man?”
Sarah manages to get to your side, standing over you protectively. But the other girls now get in the way.
“Come on, Sarah, let [Name] do it.”
“it’s not scary.”
You shake your head again, as the girls pull Sarah away, leaving you alone with the kook surrounding you.
Rafe is pushing Kelce away, who’s confused and pushing Rafe back in retaliation. Meanwhile this leaves the other Kooks to act freely and the guys seem to share the same idea and go over to your body.
“Hey, hold on—“
But it’s too late, as the guys pick you up with ease and toss you overboard, a wave of laughter and cheers erupting from them.
“[Name]!” Sarah shouts from the girls hold and Rafe widens his eyes as he whirls around at the sound of your scream and a splash from the impact.
“Shit-“ Rafe curses as he roughly shoves Kelce into Topper as he rips off his shirt before taking a leap off the deck and into the water with you.
You flail, panic surging into you as you begin to hyperventilate. “S-Sa-Sarah—!”
“What the hell?!” Kelce scoffs with furrowed brows while Sarah feels tears brimming her eyes. “[Name] can’t swim!” she cries out as she rips away from the girls and shoves two of the guys out of her way before leaning over the railing. “[Name]!”
Topper’s, Kelce’s and the other kooks’ eyes widen in shock at the revelation. “What?”
They all rush over the rail to peer into the ocean as Rafe is diving under to find you.
Rafe manages to find your sinking body, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you up to the surface, your body already unconscious due to the lack of air and your panic flailing.
“[Name], [Name], are you okay?” He gasps as he reaches the surface and uses a hand to caress your cheek while the other props you up under your back. “No, no, come on, [Name], wake up.”
Sarah rushes around down the boat and on the boardwalk and leans down. “Rafe, Rafe! Come on, bring her over here!”
Rafe clenches his jaw when you still don’t respond and swims his way over towards Sarah as quickly as he can, panting before lifting your body up, Sarah doing her best to help you onto the wooden docks, laying you flat on your back.
“[Name], please! please wake up!” Sarah cries as she jostles you, Rafe climbing onto the dock next to her and looking down at you. She begins doing chest compressions, tears streaming down her cheeks faster. By this time, everyone on the boat is out on the boardwalk surrounding you body on the ground.
Rafe stands up straight, his clothes soaking and dripping but he doesn’t pay it any mind as he tries to catch his breath, staring down at his sister trying to wake you.
He contemplated for just a minuscule of a second, about beating the shit out of Kelce, but he prioritized your wellbeing first.
“Rafe- she’s not waking up.”
Sarah inhales sharply, trying not to think the worst and her older brother kneels down, pinching your nose closed before bringing his lips down to yours.
The kooks are whispering amongst each other, surprised by Rafe’s sudden leadership actions.
Rafe pulls away, continuing Sarah’s chest compressions before going back to pressing his lips against yours, providing CPR.
Please, not like this. wake up, wake up for me, [Name].
Suddenly a choked noise erupts from your lips as you turn to your side and spew out bits of water. Your throat becomes sore as you cough roughly.
Sarah immediately breaks into a smile, a gasp of relief coming from her and Rafe pulls back, a sigh coming from him. “H-Hey, take it easy, you’re alright..”
You look around, feeling dizzy and nauseous as you spit up the last of the water you nearly drowned in, as Sarah pulls you to her chest, engulfing you in a tight hug. “[Name], i’m so glad you’re okay!”
Meanwhile, Rafe stands upright, looking up at the sky, trying to relax his rapidly beating heart, as he takes slow steps to turn around.
“H-Hey, look, I didn’t know-“
Kelce, already knowing what was coming, raises his hands in defense as he backs up.
However, Rafe doesn’t hesitate his fist swinging into Kelce’s cheek, succeeding in knocking him down. “You son of a bitch!”
Rafe clenches his jaw tight as he looks to the other kooks. “Party is fucking over, get the fuck away!”
Topper tries to talk some sense into Rafe but Rafe shoves him. “You hear me? I said get away! go fucking home, now!”
Everyone is stunned into silence as they share looks, before quickly scrambling away and off the dock, not wanting to argue with the Kook King.
Sarah sniffles as she pulls away and looks up at Rafe, who kneels down and tucks an arm under your legs and the other under your back, before lifting you up carefully, bridal style.
“R-Rafe?…” Your hoarse voice calls out, hands pressed to his firm chest but Rafe hushes you. “Shh.. it’s alright, just get some rest.. you’ll be fine.”
Sarah watches her brother carry you towards his truck, wiping her tears as she follows after them, exhaling gently.
Tears brim your eyes as your chest swells with warmth, despite your freezing body.
You stare up at Rafe weakly, feeling your chest grow weak as your eyes flutter close and you press your head into his chest more. “Thank you.. Rafe.. You saved me..”
Rafe’s hold on you tightens, securing you in his arms.
“..I’m so glad you’re okay… i’m so sorry..”
a/n: welp, this could’ve been sooo much better but i rushed this at work hehe. outerbanks is playing on the tv at work so i thought id get a little smth out :3 this is sooo bad though 😭
not proofread or edited. i’ll go back and edit some other time.
synvil™️.
'he is half of my soul, as the poets say.' @angellissy - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
