Note: I haven't got a proper title for this collection of oneshots but I have 39 of them scheduled so it needs a masterlist.
The Shape of a Beginning - A sunny park bench, a sticky-fingered toddler, and the soft gravity of something real forming around you.
The Long Way Round - A trip to the zoo becomes an exercise in pacing, presence, and the quiet kind of love that meets you where you are.
Soup and Other Lifelines - Lottie's sick, your body's wrecked, and Aaron shows up with soup and soft steadiness anyway.
Negotiation Tactics (Toddler Edition) - Lottie refuses to wear her shoes, your hip is screaming, and Aaron offers help for the first time.
The Call That Gave Him Away - The case is over, the drinks are half-finished, and Aaron finally lets the team in on the people he's been carrying close to his chest for months.
Just Like This - A quiet evening, a familiar song, and the slow realisation that love doesn't need grand gestures—it just needs presence.
Soft Around the Edges - You and Lottie join Aaron and Jack at a BAU barbecue, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you belong.
The Weight of Small Hands - A quiet visit turns into something warmer, as your daughter reaches for Aaron and a future starts to take root.
Where the Path Levels Out - You're moving slow today, but Aaron never makes you feel like you have to rush to deserve space.
Settling In - The first night you and your daughter stay over at Aaron's, everything aches—your hips, your knees, your heart—but the house is full of warmth, and no one asks you to earn your place in it.
All the Ways We Fit - Morning comes gently in a house not quite yours—but the love already feels like home.
Okay so author reader, single mother reader, time skip of some sort, reader has a four year old daughter.
Next chapter>>
✦ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ✦
The Saturday Jack Hotchner comes home, you are on the porch with your coffee going cold.
This has become a habit you don’t examine too closely. This afternoon you had the excuse of the porch, the coffee, the quiet excuse of fresh air while Circe naps.
You tell yourself it’s because April has finally remembered how to be gentle. The dogwoods are blooming three houses down. The oak at the edge of the yard has begun dropping shadows instead of bare branches across the grass. The morning air still carries a chill, but only just. It smells faintly of damp earth and cut grass and somebody’s laundry drying on a line.
You tell yourself it has nothing to do with the black SUV that has been in the driveway next door for two weeks now.
Or the man who gets up earlier than anyone else on the street and comes home later.
The man who takes his garbage out every Thursday night with military precision, who always locks his front door twice, who stands for a moment afterward with his hand still on the knob, staring into the dark yard as though he’s listening for something.
You have been watching Aaron Hotchner the way you write, careful, at planned, building a person out of details he doesn’t know he’s offering.
You know he drinks his coffee on his own porch some mornings, standing instead of sitting. One hand around the mug, the other tucked into his pocket.
You know he owns exactly one item of clothing that isn’t dark, a dark green t shirt he wore on a Wednesday when the temperature climbed unexpectedly into the seventies.
You know he checks the weather before leaving every morning because he always pauses in the doorway and looks at the sky.
You know he pauses at his mailbox the same way every time, shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly, like he’s bracing for impact.
Whatever he finds inside never seems to be what he’s hoping for.
You don’t know what he’s hoping for.
That is the part that keeps you on the porch.
Because people are easier when they’re fictional.
Characters eventually tell you why they do things, real people keep their secrets.
And Aaron Hotchner, from everything you’ve seen, appears to be built entirely out of them.
Circe is awake before you hear her.
That’s always how it goes.
One moment you’re alone and the next she’s simply there, solid and warm against the screen door in yellow pajamas patterned with tiny moons. Her dark hair sticks out in every possible direction, one side flattened from sleep.
She has her father’s eyes.
The one you don’t let yourself think about very often.
Those eyes move slowly across the yard now, taking inventory of the world the way they always do when she’s waking up. Tree. Bird. Mailbox. Mama.
Safe.
She got that from him too.
“Hi honey,” you say softly. “Good nap?”
She doesn’t answer, which means yes.
Circe crosses the porch and leans against your leg. You rest a hand on top of her messy hair without thinking.
For a moment it’s just the two of you.
The oak tree creaks quietly overhead, a breeze rattles new leaves together.
Somewhere farther down the street a lawn mower starts up.
Your coffee gets colder.
Then a car pulls into the driveway next door. Both of you look.
You can’t help it.
It’s a rental. Something about the plates gives it away immediately.
The young man who steps out is tall in the loose, unfinished way of someone who grew into his height too quickly and hasn’t quite caught up to it. Long limbs. Broad shoulders. He has Aaron Hotchner’s jaw, and his eyes.
Only softer, and less guarded.
He pulls a duffel bag from the back seat and stands there for a second, staring at the house.
Like he’s making sure it’s still real, checking that it wasn’t a dream.
The front door opens before he reaches the porch.
Aaron steps outside, and something in him changes.
Not enough that most people would notice.
But you have spent two weeks watching him.
You see it.
Some careful, load-bearing thing inside him shifts. The tension that lives permanently around his mouth eases.
He doesn’t smile immediately, he just watches.
Watches his son the way you sometimes watch Circe when she isn’t paying attention.The way people look at things they’re afraid to lose.
Like he’s memorizing him.
Just in case.
The thought lands somewhere deep and aching in your heart. Then Aaron steps forward, his son meets him halfway. The hug lasts only a second.
Brief.
Complete.
Enough.
You look away, It feels like something you weren’t meant to witness.
Which is ridiculous.
You’ve been quietly cataloguing this man for two weeks.
But grief has strange etiquette. You recognize the particular tenderness of someone holding on to what they have left. And that isn’t yours.
Circe, however, has never once cared about social etiquette.
You feel her move before you see it.
She wanders to the edge of the porch, bare feet silent against the painted wood.
Then she raises one hand to wave.
Small.
Serious.
The way she does everything.
You hold your breath for a moment.
Jack sees her first, and his entire face brightens.
A grin, immediate and genuine.
He waves back enthusiastically.
“Hey!” he calls.
Circe lowers her hand, satisfied that the exchange has been completed successfully.
Then Aaron looks up. He finds you before you can pretend you weren’t watching. Of course he does.
You don’t know yet that finding things is written into his bones.
You only know the feeling if the specific weight of being seen by someone who is actually looking. His eyes meet yours across the stretch of lawn.Dark, and steady. Unreadable in the way of someone who was like that by design.
He gives a single nod. You lift your coffee cup in response. Not quite a wave. Not quite nothing. For a second, neither of you looks away. Then Jack says something, Aaron’s attention shifts. His hand settles briefly on the back of his son’s neck, a touch so automatic it has clearly existed for years. And together they disappear inside.
The door closes. The house next door comes alive. A light flicks on somewhere that you’ve determined must be the kitchen. A shadow crosses a window, then another. The ordinary evidence of people living together.Circe looks up at you.
“That’s our neighbors.” she announces gravely. A statement, like she figured this out and had to fill you in. You bite back a smile.
“Yes,” you agree. “They are.”
She considers this. Apparently satisfied, she turns and wanders back inside in search of juice or cartoons or whatever four-year-old priority has already replaced the entire encounter. Just like that, the subject is closed for now. You remain on the porch. The oak tree stirs overhead, and the street settles back into silence. Next door, the kitchen light glows warm behind drawn curtains. You find yourself looking at it anyway. The same way you’ve been watching everything about Aaron Hotchner, sure there’s something written there. Some story you’re still trying to learn how to read. Your coffee is cold.
hi!?! could you please write slowburn with hotch.. like working at the bau and being a little oblivious and udhhd until it eventually resolves with smut?? I lack fics without previously established relationship
you're the risk i'm gonna take it
pairing: aaron hotchner x reader, background michael robinavitch x reader
summary: request above
word count: 3.7k
tags: jealous!hotch, possessive!hotch, angst, hotch is lowk toxic but it works out for him, reader is oblivious but also kind of dumb, the pitt mention (helloo hyperfixation) dr robby is down bad, not proofread.
author's note: thank you for this request angel! i hope you like this and ty for being so patient xx
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── ·
The first time you meet Aaron Hotchner, you’re ready to hightail it out of the room. Your transfer to the Behavioural Analysis Unit was something done out of necessity—you’d spent a long time in private practice before deciding to branch out and were lucky enough to score an opening with the FBI.
Hotchner was…a lot. Of what? You weren’t entirely sure. You’d been made aware he had a reputation for being a hardass and somehow also one of the best team leaders in the FBI.
He was calm, confident and at times abrasive, but you wouldn’t have gotten to this point if you were unable to work under pressure. He had been strict and clear in his expectations of your role on the team; you were new and had to fight to prove yourself.
“I look forward to working with you Agent.” He had remarked, barely looking up from his pile of papers as he dismissed you from the meeting. If you were any less professional, you would have scoffed but all you did was offer a tight smile and nod.
“I do too, have a good day further Agent Hotchner.”
And that was that.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
The BAU was a learn as you go workplace and you quickly figured out it was also a seemingly do as I say, not as I do environment. If you had a dollar for every time you witnessed one of your coworkers pull some kind of self-sacrificing bullshit—you’re fairly sure you’d never have to work ever again.
You would be lying if you said it didn’t bring some sort of spark back into your life, despite the dead bodies and sadistic murderers—you had found that missing puzzle peace.
The team sat on the plane back from one of their most recent cases, half-asleep on the red eye whilst you had your laptop out, typing away at your report so you’d be able to sleep as soon as you got back.
“You should sleep.” Hotch’s voice startles you despite being barely above a soft murmur. He’s watching you over a case file whilst sitting across from you.
You snort, “Yeah, no chance.”
Hotch frowns, “You having a hard time sleeping?” His tone is concerned and it brings a stiffness to your shoulders. You shouldn’t have said that. You’re completely capable of doing your job and it’s not like you’re the only one on this plane who has a hard time closing their eyes at night and not picturing every other gruesome thing they’ve encountered.
“No,” you smile tightly, shuffling your laptop closer to you as you squint at the screen. “I’m fine.”
Hotch stares at you for a second, as if he’s deciding whether or not to call you out on the blatant lie but instead heaves a sigh, slumping into his own seat.
“You shouldn’t squint like that—it will hurt your eyes.” He reprimands lightly and this time you can’t help the amused raise of your brow as you meet his dark gaze.
“God, you’re old.” You snort, immediately trying to muffle your laugh when his expression turns perplexed.
“Old?” he mutters in disbelief.
“Sorry,” you giggle, slapping a hand over your mouth as you watch him shake his head in fond amusement.
“You’re trouble for a man’s ego.” He points at you with a wry smile on his face as you flush.
You shrug, “Gotta keep em’ humble.”
Hotch flashes his teeth as he grins softly. Silence grows between the two of you as you continue to work on your own respective tasks.
As you continue to write your report, nibbling on your bottom lip you are seemingly unaware of the soft looks Hotch sends you in between his own reading.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
Your relationship with Hotch is complicated. There are times where you’ll catch him staring at you from his office, small smile on his face or there’s times where he inconspicuously accommodates you more than he would someone else.
He’s just being nice is what you tell yourself, because any other option would be ludicrous to even consider. Though there are moments that make you start to question whether those options might be reality.
You’re on a case in Pittsburgh, somewhere near the hospital you used to work at before transferring to the BAU and it’s just your luck that one of your key witnesses is currently being held in the ED.
You’re more than happy to accompany Hotch to the ED to try and get something useful out of the guy and you really struggle at schooling your face of excitement of seeing any of your past colleagues.
It doesn’t slip passed Hotch’s notice who quirks a curious brow at you from the driver’s seat, “You’re quite eager to be meeting a witness.” He remarks dryly but there’s no hiding the humor in his expression.
You grow shy, nibbling on your bottom lip and drawing his attention to your action. “I used to work in the psychology department at PTMC.” You admit softly, wringing your hands in front of you.
Hotch hums interestedly, it’s not often in their line of work that Agents are transferred into the FBI from outside of the academy. He’s willing to take any chance to know the parts of you he’s been yet to discover and visiting your work is what brings him hope that this might just push you both closer together.
You haven’t been outwardly dismissive of his advancements, but he would be lying if he said it wasn’t killing him inside that you weren’t as forthcoming. Sure, it had been a while since he’d had to whip out his flirting tactics—his first and last relationship being well his late wife.
But you were so enigmatic that he just couldn’t help but want to be near you, he’d been making every effort to impress. Well, at least he thought he had, if your blatant obliviousness to his affection wasn’t sign enough.
Hotch had found himself gritting his teeth one too many times after he’d been blatantly flirting with you only for you to respond in your sweetest smile yet most professional tone.
He knew it wasn’t right, that he had no business crushing on his subordinate but Lord help him if you weren’t the only woman who had made him feel things he didn’t think himself capable of.
When Hotch parks the car, you practically launch yourself out of the vehicle to speedwalk your way into the entrance. You’re fast enough that Hotch has to jog a little to catch up to you with a breathy chuckle before matching your strides.
“So, you can run in those heels,” he teases softly, his arm coming back to rest on the curve of your back to guide you to the entrance.
You lift your hand to swat at his chest half-heartedly with a playful scowl that diminishes the moment you step into the bustling ER, the both of you adopting your composed manner of professionalism despite your simultaneous twitching lips.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You’re met by a blonde nurse whose smile is as wide as can be when she catches sight of you, her southern drawl echoing as she crosses the room, “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes sunshine? Who knew we’d be seeing your face again!” she remarks happily, wrapping her arms around you in a motherly hug.
“Dana, I missed you.” You say softly, hugging her back before throwing a sheepish expression to Hotch who shrugs.
“And who’s this with you?” Dana sizes up Hotch, staring him down something fierce and he feels himself paling a little.
“Uh—” you chuckle nervously. “This is Agent Hotchner, he’s um—he’s my boss.” You say.
Dana turns to you, quirking a brow that makes you roll your eyes fondly. “We’re here on a case, Pittsburgh PD should have called ahead, we’re here to interview a James Harlow? He was in—”
“MVA, Yeah Robby’s got him down in South 12, you remember where that is don’t you? He’s gonna be real excited to see you.” Dana drawls teasingly.
Hotch expects you to laugh and wave off the statement, but he’s surprised to see you fluster, your shoulders hiking up towards your ears as you shove Dana softly.
“Stop,” you chastise her through a whine and Hotch feels like a rock had lodged itself in between his heart and ribcage. Who the hell is this guy?
He has no right to be jealous, the two of you aren’t…anything. You’re both colleagues, he’s your superior but Hotch feels his gut clenching and palms sweating all the same.
He coughs, clearing his throat which draws your attention back to him. You have the decency to look embarrassed but without further mention of it you say a hasty goodbye to an amused Dana who looks like she’s sizing him up and drag the both of you to what he assumes is South 12.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
When the curtain is drawn away, you both are met with the sight of your witness and what Hotch assumes is “Robby” explaining his blood test results to.
“Uh,” your witness mutters awkwardly, gaze switching between yourself and the man behind you. You suppose you must look quite intimidating in your formal wear and FBI badged plastered to your lapels, but you school your expression into something that you hope resembles comfort.
“Sunshine.” Robby remarks surprise as you muster a shy smile and an awkward wave while Hotch behinds you clenches his jaw.
Fuck. Granted, Hotch could’ve rationalised his jealousy if the guy were your age (no he couldn’t have) but Robby must be his age if not older. He’s all crows’ feet and greying hair that Hotch can’t help but measure himself up against.
He hates this. Never once has something so personal jeopardised his ability to maintain professionalism yet you have a way to test all of his boundaries. He hates how Robby is looking at you—like you’re some kind of miracle that he never thought he’d have the chance to see again.
It’s how Hotch looks at you. He knows that look, he wears that look every day with a feeling of pride because up until now—he had no reason to doubt that it was a matter of when not if you returned his affection.
Now? Now he feels the urge to drag you out of this ED and make you promise to never look at another man ever again. But he can’t, so he doesn’t.
“I uh—we’re here to interview Mr. Harlow. We’re with the BAU—we just have a couple of questions about what you saw today,” you murmur reassuringly to the wary man whilst glancing back at Robby.
Hotch’s firm voice startles you slightly when he moves from behind you to stand next to you, effectively acting as a barrier between you and Robby, “We need you to go over anything you can remember from this morning.”
Robby’s gaze turns amused when he notices Hotch’s posturing, snorting to himself as he shuffles out of the room, “I’ll leave you to it.”
You nod meekly, opening your mouth to start the cognitive interview before Robby’s voice interrupts you, “Dinner later Sunshine? Would be good to catch up.” He offers, an easy smile in his place.
Your heart warms, as much as you’ve enjoyed your time at the BAU, the day shift were the first people who made you feel like you were part of a community.
“Yeah,” you offer easily. “I’m working a case right now, but I’d like that. Maybe you could invite the rest—”
“Agent, we’re in the middle of something.” Hotch spits out, his eyes ablaze as he stares you down.
You shrink into yourself, not noticing Robby’s frown at your demeanour though he leaves after you give him a reassuring smile. You give your full attention back to your witness and proceed with the interview.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You somehow feel like you’ve done something wrong despite the interview being a complete success. You walk out of the room with the feeling that Hotch is…mad at you? Frustrated?
You’re not entirely sure, only that he speaks to you in one word responses if he’s not supplied a grunt of some kind. It gets worse when you confirm your plans with Robby as you walk out, offering for Hotch to go on without you when you notice other Pittsburgh PD officers also in the ED.
“It’ll give me some time to ask him a couple more questions and you can go over what we already know with the rest of the team, I’m sure the officers won’t mind.” You reassure him.
Hotch fights the growl that wants to burst out of his throat. He minds. He minds that Robby’s been waiting not so patiently to get you wrapped around his dirty little fingers, for you to decide that maybe you don’t want Hotch and instead want to trade up to some fucking ER Doctor.
“No, we came together. I’ll drive you back.” His answer is curt and your confusion doubles. What is his problem?
“But I—”
“Sunshine, my truck’s sitting outside if you’d rather drive that. I don’t mind coming and getting’ it from you later before dinner.” Robby offers, interrupting your conversation Hotch thinks bitterly.
Of course he drives a truck, and of course he’d offer for you to take it. Any excuse in the book to get to see you again huh? Well Hotch can deal with that.
“That won’t be necessary, we have everything that we need to form a working profile and time is really of the essence here. We need to go. Now.” He orders, leaving no room for misinterpretation as he grabs your arm despite the gasp you let out, sparks shooting up your arm as your dragged out the parking lot.
“What? Hotch—” you squeak out, trying to tug your arm from his hold as he pulls you into the car, lifting you by your hips and plopping you into the passenger seat. You squawk in protest squirming as he adjusts your legs slightly and closes the door, jogging to the driver’s seat and getting in with a scowl still planted on his face.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You’ve been silent and matching Hotch’s scowl the entire drive back to the precinct, “This is kidnapping you know.” You remark sarcastically, folding your arms over your chest..
Hotch blows out a frustrated breath, “We had to leave, we didn’t have time for you be chummy with your friends.” He growls out, hands tightening on the wheel until he’s white knuckling it.
“Yeah sure, blame me when you’re the one with a stick up your ass.” He hears you mutter to yourself, forcing his resolve to break.
“That’s it.” He snarls, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road. There are barely any cars on this stretch of road, but it still brings a gasp to your lips at the jerky movement.
“What is wrong with you!” you hiss out, clutching at your seatbelt and the handle of the door as your eyes grow wide in panic.
“You’re being a brat.” Hotch growls out, his gaze dark and heavy as his chest heaves up and down in frustration. Your gaze drops to his chest, your mouth growing parched as you shake yourself out of your stupor.
“I’m a brat?” You say incredulously, “I’m a brat when you’re the one who nearly got us into an accident because you were too busy having a temper tantrum over what the fuck ever?”
Hotch’s jaw clicks from how hard he’s clenching it, his glare focused on you, “Well I wouldn’t have been so on edge if you weren’t distracted while on the job.”
If it’s even possible, your scowl deepens, as you unbuckle your seatbelt thrusting your pointer finger into Hotch’s chest with vehemence, “Don’t you dare insinuate that I can’t do my job, I told you I could’ve gotten a ride with a different officer. Hell, even Robby offered—”
“Don’t fucking say him name.” Hotch threatens.
You falter, expression turning into bewilderment, “You’ve got a problem with Robby? You just met him how—”
“Because he was hitting on you!” Hotch bursts out, running his hand over his jaw as he blows out a frustrated breath as he chuckles without humor.
“Huh? Robby? He wouldn’t—”
“Oh, trust me,” Hotch taunts, “He would and he did. I had a front row seat to that entire segment.”
You frown looking as puzzled as ever, “That’s why you were angry? Why does it matter what Robby thinks, it doesn’t impact the case—”
“Fuck, you’re irritating.” Hotch grounds out, launching himself over the counsel and swallowing your annoyed sound with his lips. He kisses you fiercely, his chapped lips borderline bruising your own as he prods at your lips with his tongue, seeking entrance.
He muffles your whimpers with his drawn out groan as he licks into your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your face, angling you to deepen the kiss as he threads his fingers through your hair.
Your hands come up shakily to clench around his t-shirt as you whine into his mouth, lazily licking into his mouth like you’re trying to play catch up with him.
When he draws himself away, you follow his lips unconsciously—your own puckered with a whine as he takes in your dazed expression. He licks his lips watching you, already half hard in his pants from the taste of you.
“I was jealous.” He admits, his voice low. He’s still looking at you, watching for any change in your expression.
Your eyes widen, “Why?” you mumble aloud.
Hotch scoffs a laugh, “Because I like you? Because I wished that I had worked up the nerve to ask you out before that hotshot doctor did? Because I was too much of a wuss because I was scared you’d say no? you take your pick.” He says, smiling without humour.
You frown, your hand hesitantly lifting to cup Hotch’s cheek. You nibble on your bottom lip, drawing a groan from Hotch’s chest.
“I—I like you too.” You admit shyly, your expression growing abashed as you avoid eye contact with him.
“Look at me.” He demands firmly, his hand cupping your chin to force you to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry I lashed out at you, that was unfair of me.” He says softly. You shrug, rubbing your thumb up and down his cheek.
“S’okay, I know you didn’t mean it.” You mumble.
Hotch shakes his head, “No.” he states firmly, “I didn’t mean it but that doesn’t make it right, you don’t deserve to be treated like that. I’m sorry.” He insists.
You smile softly, “Forgiven, you can be so emotional sometimes.” You tease softly.
Hotch can’t help but roll his eyes, “You mean it though? you—you like me?” he asks hoarsely.
You grow shy, nodding softly. “Say it again.” He demands petulantly.
You snort, “What will I get if I do?” you taunt.
Hotch’s expression grows devilish, “Anything you want.” He mutters darkly, gazing at you with heat in his eyes. His dick twitches inside of his pants as he has to fight the urge to thrust up into empty space.
Your pupils dilate, “I like you.” You say breathily and Aaron’s smirk grows wider.
“That right?” He taunts softly, his hand dropping to your thigh and slowly moving upwards.
You shudder softly, your thighs slipping open as you gaze grows heavier. “Is this okay?” Aaron checks in with you.
You nod softly, your own hand coming to rest of his shoulder as you feel him run his index finger over the inseam of your tailored pants.
A sharp gasp escapes you, “Fuck.” Aaron mutters as he watches you squirm.
“Take off your pants.” He orders and you scramble to pull your pants and underwear off in quick succession.
Aaron’s breathing grows heavier as he catches sight of your wet cunt, glistening from its moisture as you spread your legs shyly.
His groan is loud in the car as he runs his thumb over your sticky entrance, pausing to press indecently over your hole softly before running it back up and down through your wetness.
You whimper, grabbing hold of his bicep as you make half-hearted thrusts against his thumb, clenching down emptily on the tip of his thumb each time he teasingly enters your cunt.
“I—oh.” You gasp, feeling Hotch’s thumb start to rub circles on your clit mixed with your wetness. You feel yourself start to leak between your thighs, grinding your hips up into Hotch’s thumb.
“Does that feel good?” he grunts, using his other hand to circle your entrance with his index finger, slipping it in as he rubs your clit and watching in fascination as your pussy swallows his finger whole, clenching down so tightly on him that he can’t help but imagine how tight you’d be on his dick.
“Hotch, I—" you whine as he thrusts his finger in and out, curling it slowly to brush against that soft spongy area inside of you that turns your legs into jelly.
“Aaron,” he orders you. “You call me Aaron while I make you feel good.”
You nod nonsensically, barely even listening as your focus is on the feeling of Hotch’s fingers in you. “Another—want, oh my god, another.” You beg him, leaking all over his fingers as you thrust harder, seeking more friction.
Hotch adds his middle finger easily enough, drawing out a guttural moan from you as you feel yourself climbing closer to the edge. You can feel every callous and groove on Hotch’s fingers and it makes you even wetter.
God you want his fingers inside of you forever, stretching you out and making you cum. “I can’t, close—” you mumble softly, throwing your head back as you clench your hand down on Aaron’s shoulder—you expression scrunching in pleasure.
“Yeah?” Aaron coos, “Cum on my fingers baby—that’s a good girl, cum for me.” He growls, fucking his fingers into your harder as you hurtle towards the finish line.
Your cunt clenching down harshly as you walls spasm around his fingers, your vision whiting out from pure pleasure as Hotch milks you for your orgasm until you’re left twitching and spent on the seat.
“Good girl.” He mumbles softly, laying a soft kiss on your forehead before taking his fingers out of you, bringing them to his own mouth, and sucking as his own eyes roll back into his head.
You’re about to offer to suck him off when you’ve recovered when you notice the wet patch that blooms over his crotch.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
summary: you’re a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that you’re both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.
pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader
word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit
content contains: 18+ content— smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention 😛, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff
authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state… imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.
you've never really liked highways.
they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.
it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.
it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.
the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.
but you remember. you always remember.
the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.
there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the road— friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, and— like you— on the side of the road.
they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.
"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."
the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."
"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."
the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."
"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."
you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.
"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"
you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.
"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."
"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you. "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."
you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.
the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"
you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"
"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."
the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."
the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"
you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.
"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."
the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."
you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.
and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.
your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.
"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.
you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.
the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"
you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."
the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"
the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."
and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.
you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.
gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the car— low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.
you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.
you turn back, glancing at the people in the car— at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how long— and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.
your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motel—"
"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."
the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"
"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.
you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.
the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.
somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out here— stretched wide and empty— and you feel so very small inside of it.
you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomes— a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.
the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.
the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.
the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presence— the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be there— and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.
"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"
"hi—" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"
trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowly— your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might run— and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.
"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."
you dont like the way he says it.
"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"
"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"
you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."
his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.
"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."
he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.
click. click. click. then—
blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.
it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.
there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.
but a grating voice brings you out of your head.
"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."
"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.
"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place is— and always will be— a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, i—"
"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.
he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."
trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.
you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.
the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.
"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."
your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"
"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"
"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."
you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.
trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"
"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.
trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.
"y'know—" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can do—"
"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."
the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.
"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."
the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.
the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked in— a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.
with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.
the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.
the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."
you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothing— a brush of denim against your sleeve— but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.
as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.
the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.
the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.
a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.
the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.
you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.
you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.
sleep comes fast— or at least you think it does.
some time later— you're not sure how long— a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.
you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.
you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.
eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.
the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a sound— a dull, metallic bang.
your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.
you blink and the sound comes again— metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lot— and your brain catches up to your body.
you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.
it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leeway— you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.
your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.
the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.
the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feet— wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptions— and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.
he looks different in the daylight— still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.
the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.
its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.
you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.
there isn't much to look at.
the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.
it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.
the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a pool— or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.
you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.
"thing hasn't been used in years."
you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.
"i figured." you mutter.
you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.
"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."
you nod even though you don't really care.
trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.
you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."
"at the pool?"
"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."
you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.
"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."
"okay."
"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."
"i'll manage."
"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and then— almost like he has a death wish— he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."
your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.
"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."
trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.
"alright, alright—" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."
you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.
trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.
"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt on— it doesn't do much for your figure!"
you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but then—
"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.
you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.
the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.
"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."
the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."
the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.
trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anyway— in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.
"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"
but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.
through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.
you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and then— just slightly— he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.
until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.
you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.
you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.
although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoing— the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.
and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.
the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust and— trevor was right— there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.
the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks on— surprisingly— with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.
you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.
most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulness— dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.
the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.
you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.
but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.
it's the trucker.
he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.
neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliar— unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.
and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the table— the only table in the room— and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.
so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.
but he doesn't.
the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.
he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.
eventually, you turn— just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.
he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.
his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composure— the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heard— and then he moves.
he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.
"i don't bite." he simply says.
you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn't— all of the ways this could end horribly for you— before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.
you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.
every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.
you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it all— of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.
you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.
eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at you— not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.
"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.
there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.
"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."
he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.
"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."
he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.
your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning to— to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.
you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did.
"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."
there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible line— asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.
"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."
you blink. "where are you headed?"
he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.
"california. america's very own golden state."
his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.
california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.
three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.
you hesitate.
you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into trouble— they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.
you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.
so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.
the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.
"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"
"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."
"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.
he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.
"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."
you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.
"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.
the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.
"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."
the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.
you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrong— show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your years— and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.
it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.
his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's did— not with hunger or entitlement— but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.
he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"
and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.
for a moment, you consider dodging his question— lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourself— a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.
you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.
"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."
hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.
you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"
"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."
you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."
he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."
you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tired— really tired.
you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.
"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.
bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."
you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."
he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."
you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.
you've never been a great judge of character— you have the scars and the pain to prove it— but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.
and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.
the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.
the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.
it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.
you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.
you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.
the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.
unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.
and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.
his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.
sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.
his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heat— or maybe something else entirely.
god, he looks good.
after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.
you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.
he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.
"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman.
"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.
you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him.
you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.
you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits you— blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.
trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.
"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."
"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."
trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"
you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckys—
oh my god. stop thinking about that man.
trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."
"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"
his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."
something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."
"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."
your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.
"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."
the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout out—
"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"
the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.
heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.
metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.
you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.
"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.
you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.
you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keeps—" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i just—"
you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.
you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."
he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.
"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.
you quickly shake your head, "you don't have to—"
"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."
your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."
the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fraction— not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."
you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.
"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.
he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."
your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering you— it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.
you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twist— but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.
"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."
you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.
the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soap— the grit hidden underneath the clean— and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.
there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.
the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.
you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabrics— a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socks— but then something out of place catches your eye.
paper.
it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glance— that's all.
the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.
two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as bucky— younger, happier, and clean shaven— a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.
your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.
there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.
your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.
you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had said— white, clean, and untouched— and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.
you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.
"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.
you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."
your fingers brush when he takes it— just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft ones— and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.
you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step when—
"hey." bucky calls.
you pause and turn back around.
"you busy tonight?" he asks,
"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"
he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."
for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.
comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.
"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."
"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."
you blink. "we met last night."
then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."
oh. he noticed that?
you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.
the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.
"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."
bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."
and he does.
the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.
you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.
"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."
you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.
"yeah—" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."
"i'm not goin' anywhere."
you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.
the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smells— like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.
he looks good. he looks handsome.
"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."
it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way since— never mind.
your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."
bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."
"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.
as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the time— talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhere— meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.
you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.
the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.
bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"
"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.
you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.
its not graceful at all.
you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.
"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."
he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomach— to that area— and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.
you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."
"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."
you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.
he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.
bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.
it feels strange— being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant period— like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.
for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.
you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.
"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."
your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.
theres another small pause before bucky hums.
"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"
a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop it— soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guard— but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.
"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."
bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."
he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."
"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"
bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"
"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"
"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the back— or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."
you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"
and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."
your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the wind— it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.
but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body; guilt.
"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out but—" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."
"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"
"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."
you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.
"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.
"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.
the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.
"garden gnomes."
your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"
he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."
you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"
"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."
you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the sound— small, satisfied, toothy— like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.
"hey— they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."
"the best trucker in america and the most humble."
"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."
you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."
the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.
a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.
"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.
"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."
bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).
"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."
"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able to—"
before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.
you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.
"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.
you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.
he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because
bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.
although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozens— if not hundreds— of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.
a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.
bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.
the first thing you look at— almost instinctively— are the prices.
"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.
"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."
you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."
he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."
before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.
"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"
you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."
the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.
"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"
the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.
"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."
"thank you." you smile.
the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.
"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.
"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.
"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "the— you know... the cheeseburger thing."
you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."
bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"
"once or twice." you grin.
and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.
the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.
he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"
you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."
he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.
the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away from— the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eating— but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.
the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.
you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.
"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"
its subtle— something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answer— and bucky clocks it immediately.
his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.
"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"
your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.
"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i just—" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."
bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.
"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."
"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.
a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.
"alright. i'll tell you about sam—" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."
the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.
but your curiosity— or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you make— overcomes your fear.
"okay." you nod. "fine."
bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.
"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together once— an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."
his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.
"where's sam now?" you ask softly.
bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.
"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"
"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."
he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back there— with him."
its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.
bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.
"that's all i've got. your turn."
you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,
"right. okay, um— where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.
"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."
"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt me— a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."
your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.
its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.
"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."
"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.
"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."
you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.
but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.
a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you display— at being seen like this— but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.
"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."
you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.
"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."
he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.
"i shot him."
the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rot— but it never comes.
if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you either— he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.
"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."
his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.
"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."
you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.
"i don't know. i was just scared, and he was— he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i was— god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of me—"
"i'm not scared of you, princess."
bucky says it immediately— no pause, no hesitation— like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.
"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."
and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.
you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.
"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.
"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."
and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.
in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.
your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.
you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.
you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.
the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.
you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.
and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.
you stare at it for a long time— the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.
it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.
you decide to be rid of it.
one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.
you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.
there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.
the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.
"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is that—"
"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.
bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.
the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.
the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.
you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.
you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.
in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.
"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."
you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.
bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.
"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.
he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."
but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.
"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for me—"
bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.
"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."
you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with you— or maybe for you.
you nod once. "okay."
bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.
you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.
"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.
bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupid— and in retrospect, it probably was.
"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."
"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."
he huffs quietly. "you asked."
you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.
"well—" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."
"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."
"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."
bucky glances at you. "and you will."
bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.
the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.
for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.
bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"
you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.
"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."
bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with you— the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.
but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.
you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.
he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.
the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboard— 4:17am.
and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"
you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."
your thoughts drift, unbidden and unruly— memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left home— but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.
a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.
bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"
"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."
bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."
you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous items— a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?
you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.
"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"
theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shut— but then he smirks.
"like i said—" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."
oh.
you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?
"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. that— that makes sense."
you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.
it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.
god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.
the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.
you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places are— no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.
and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.
"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."
you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.
"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"
bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.
"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"
"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."
"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.
and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.
you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.
minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.
the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky
you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.
you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.
not as good as the real thing.
your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't want— bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative stroke—
oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.
"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.
this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.
your hand— almost like it senses your desperation— trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.
you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.
"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.
you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.
then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.
"faster— god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.
you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.
you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.
the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowly— not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.
your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.
you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clock— 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.
then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky's— because who else would pull over into this fuckass motel— but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.
you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.
the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.
bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.
but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.
"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.
bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.
"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you once— almost habitual— before finally settling on your face. "you look happy."
you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"
bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.
he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.
his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.
he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.
"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.
bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.
"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.
you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."
"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."
so that's exactly what you do— after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.
you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.
"great." you murmur.
after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread it— trevor.
you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.
you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"
trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."
"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."
both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.
he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."
you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."
trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks on— a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.
you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.
he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.
"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.
your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.
"witnesses describe her as..."
your blood runs cold.
the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.
"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."
you turn to the back room door.
you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.
and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.
you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.
"it's hot—" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.
you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.
"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.
the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.
"what were you doin' in th—"
you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.
his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"
"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.
"hey— slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"
your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.
"in the office, they were talking about what happened— what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, my— just everything."
something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.
the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.
you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "
"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.
"no, he was—" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."
bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.
his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.
"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."
your chest tightens. "but bucky—"
"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."
you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.
"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."
the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.
"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."
"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.
"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you just—" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."
you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.
you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinary— almost domestic— and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.
every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.
as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.
"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.
bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."
you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the food— not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.
you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.
bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.
"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.
he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.
you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.
bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.
you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.
night comes gently.
the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.
you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.
you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.
you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.
a locket.
it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.
you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy.
for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.
it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.
then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.
bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.
"hey." he says.
you blink. "hey."
the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.
"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"
his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."
something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.
"you can—" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."
"yeah." he nods. "okay."
you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.
bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.
you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."
"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"
you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."
you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.
"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.
you "i'm not even sure if it fits—"
"then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.
you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.
its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.
you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"
"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."
you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."
you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.
and bucky's eyes drop without meaning to— for a long, gruelling second— just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.
it's practically nothing— barely there— but it's enough.
"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.
but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.
"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"
bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.
"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."
you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.
bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.
"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."
you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."
your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurt— you tried not to— but the ache sneaks through anyways.
bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.
"sit." he tells you.
and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.
you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.
bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.
but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.
you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.
bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.
"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."
your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.
"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"
you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking about—"
"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.
"what do you—" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"
bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.
"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."
and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.
you blink. "you... heard that?"
he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.
"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."
the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.
"bucky." you almost whimper.
"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."
you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.
"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."
you shake your head. "i don't want you to stop—"
and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.
his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.
his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.
the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words.
"buck." you manage to whine.
a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.
"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumane— a need to be close, a need to be in you.
his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.
bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.
"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."
his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find friction— any friction— but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.
"no, please—"
he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.
he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.
you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.
"did you wear these for me?" he asks.
he sounds so sweet— so sure— that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.
"no, they were—" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."
he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."
you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.
he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.
and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.
you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.
he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.
you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.
"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."
he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.
his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.
he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.
"fuck—" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonna—"
but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.
and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.
bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.
his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.
"wait, bucky—" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.
"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.
youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about to—"
bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."
your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."
so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.
you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.
his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.
he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.
"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."
"trevor's still— fuck— trevor's still here."
a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."
then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.
"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."
and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.
all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your being— everything is so perfect.
the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.
you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.
"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.
bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.
a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymore— no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.
the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.
but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?
"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.
"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.
"can i ask you something?"
"of course, sweetheart."
"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, but—"
"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."
you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."
there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.
"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.
your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."
"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."
morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.
"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.
trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.
"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."
"tempting." bucky replies dryly.
"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."
the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk away— it's the responsible thing to do— but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?
you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.
the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay for—" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.
bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"
"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."
"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.
you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."
bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."
you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."
he hums, "touché."
the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.
Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.
Word Count: 92.2k
Warnings: enemies to lovers; slow burn; Bucky is harsh on reader for a while; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood; loss of parents; violence; injuries; fever; sexism; prejudices; knife throwing; theft; crying; classism; manhandling; self-loathing; talk of betrayal; talk of arranged marriage; suggestive themes; kissing; protective!Bucky
Author’s Note: This is the story that received the highest number of votes in last month's WIP poll. I inquired through another poll if you all preferred this to be a series or a one-shot, and well, here we are. I don’t know how long this will end up being, but I guess about 6-7 chapters. Hope you'll enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
Requests for bonus chapters are closed
♡ This series is complete ♡
~ Chapters ~
• part one
• part two
• part three
• part four
• part five
• part six
• part seven
• part eight
• part nine
• part ten
• epilogue
“And just as the Phoenix rose from the ashes, she too will rise. Returning from the flames, clothed in nothing but her strength, more beautiful than ever before.”
(n.) a state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically characterised by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings
last updated: 18 apr, 2026 [complete]
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SERIES SUMMARY. you’re friends, you and bucky, that’s it. your relationship revolving around a mutual connection: he’s the best friend, to your best friend’s husband. after a bad evening, he invites you back to his and you realise the mistake you made — seeing how different your life could’ve been if you weren’t a coward.
DISCLAIMERS. reader is in a shitty relationship. he’s described as abusive and controlling, though he never makes an appearance, nor are there explicit details described about his behaviour (its all implied, other than texts & mentions of him not liking the reader being out) it’s set between fatws & brave new world?? (he's not in congress yet) was originally gonna make readers besties husband sam, but I wrote something that slightly resembled steve so I went with it. it’s fanfic, we don’t care about canon so steve is alive. no use of y/n. the reader is a blank, faceless, nameless character. no physical attributes of her are described (other than her being able bodied)
NOTES. abandoned the original plans for the limerence series, but made this and im far far happier with the outcome. am open to writing additional parts, assuming people like it and are interested in more. but for now just these two🖤
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PART ONE: TORPE
summary — your friends don’t take well to your new relationship, their thoughts of your new man coming out during bar night. like an intervention, they pile on you all at once about how terrible he is and how you should leave him. your best friend avery, her husband steve and his best friend bucky all sharing their concerns about your relationship. secrets spill and falling outs ensue and you soon find yourself in an apartment that’s not yours — your place occupied with a man you had no interest in returning to 4.6k words
PART TWO: USTULATION 18+
summary — it was unplanned, for bucky to sleep beside you last night. but when he wakes from a nightmare, he finds himself relieved; almost thankful to not have to go through the aftermath of a night terror alone. and over the course of your comforting, something follows that was even less planned. #poundtown 7k words
warnings - 18+ readers only! minimal plot, literally all porn, comfort (bucky has a nightmare) so much want that it's actually crazy, morning breath doesn't exist here, tonnes of kissing, loads of eye contact (what freaks) emotional vulnerability, hands hands hands, pussy play (kinda) finger licking, protected pinv, missionary (my love) to cradling to cradling plus, then back to missionary, general filth. MDNI
PART THREE: POLTROON
summary — you've been a coward. and rather than facing your fears —feelings— you run. scampering away to your friend's for refuge. only she wants no part, she can't stand to see you make mistake after mistake. it seems she knows more about what you want than you do
PART FOUR: ACCISMUS
summary — even with the help of your friends, neither of you can seem to get it right. this part is in bucky's pov - sharing the dual events from the part before
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › grief leads you from wakanda to new york, where meeting steve rogers reveals that the soulbond you lost with bucky was never truly broken—just waiting for the moment all three of you could find your way back to each other.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x reader x steve
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 【18+ MDNI】 soulmate au, heartbead soulbond, friends to lovers, alternate universe - canon divergence, everybody lives nobody dies, semi follows the plot of the avengers universe but also doesnt, angst, canon typical violence, war trauma & ptsd, emotional slow burn?, brief fluff, hurt/comfort, light smut, fingering, threeway makeout, angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, speedrunning the MCU timeline, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 7.8k literally why did tumblr make me break this up
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › remember when this was supposed to be one whole story and tumblr said NAH SUFFER INSTEAD..... yeah.... anyways heres pt two i hate the whole story now 🤩 hopefully some of you enjoy
The days after the battle blur together in Wakanda.
No one knows how to grieve properly when the world ends quietly.
There are no bodies to bury. No final rites. Just ash swept from stone floors, scorched earth where fields once stood, and a hollowed-out silence where half the population used to be. Wakanda mourns in motion, rebuilding shields, repairing homes, tending to the wounded who remain.
You don’t stop moving.
If you keep your hands busy, you don’t have to feel the weight in your chest. If you focus on logistics, food distribution, temporary housing, medical rotations, then you don’t have to think about the empty hut. The bed that still smells like him. The dog tags you keep wrapped around your wrist like a promise you refuse to examine too closely.
People tell you you’re strong.
They don’t see the nights you sit awake, fingers pressed over your heart, waiting for something that never comes.
The bond stays silent.
That’s the cruelest part. Not pain. Not even loss. Just nothing. As if a part of you has been cauterized clean away. You throw yourself into rebuilding Wakanda because the alternative is admitting that the place where you were happiest now feels like a grave.
Years pass that way.
Three of them.
The world beyond Wakanda changes, fractures, adapts, limps forward but you stay until one morning you realize you’re holding your breath every time you walk past the training fields. Every time you hear laughter that sounds too much like his. You love Wakanda, but loving it without him feels like betrayal.
So you leave.
New York is louder. Messier. It doesn’t care about what you’ve lost, which is almost a relief. You find work helping organize community support programs, therapy groups for those who survived the Snap. People who wake up reaching for someone who isn’t there. People who don’t know how to build a future when the past ended mid-sentence.
You don’t talk much in the meetings at first. You listen. You nod. You make space.
It’s enough.
Until one evening, someone new walks in.
He’s older than most of the group. Broad-shouldered. Familiar in a way that makes your breath hitch for reasons you can’t immediately name. He looks just as lost as everyone else, but there’s a quiet steadiness to him, like he’s been holding himself together with sheer willpower.
Steve Rogers sits across from you.
When your eyes meet, something stirs.
It’s faint. Almost imperceptible. A warmth under your ribs, so soft you think you imagined it. But then it happens again a gentle pull, like the echo of a heartbeat that isn’t yours.
Your fingers curl into your sleeve.
The bond doesn’t bloom the way it did with Bucky. It doesn’t crash into you like fate. It flutters. Tentative. Careful. As if it’s asking permission this time.
Steve smiles at you, small, kind and a little sad.
And for the first time in three years, the silence inside you isn’t empty.
It’s waiting.
The circle is quiet when he finally speaks.
Steve sits forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped like he’s afraid of gripping too tight. His voice isn’t loud, but it carries anyway, steady and practiced, the kind that’s held people together before.
“That’s… that’s good,” he says gently, nodding toward the person who just shared. “Because you already did the hardest part. You took the jump. You didn’t know where you were gonna land, if you were gonna land, but you did it anyway.”
His eyes flick around the room, meeting faces one by one.
“And that’s it. That’s how it starts. Those little steps. Small. Brave. Sometimes ugly. But they’re how we try to become whole again. How we try to find purpose when everything feels… broken.”
Your chest tightens.
Steve exhales, like the next part costs him something.
“I went into the ice in 1945,” he continues quietly. “Right after I lost the love of my life. I woke up seventy years later to a world that had moved on without me.”
A few people shift. Someone sniffles.
“You can’t stay frozen in the moment you lost,” he says. “You’ve gotta keep going. You’ve gotta move forward. Because the world is still here, and it’s in our hands now. What happens next is up to us.”
His jaw firms, resolve settling in.
“And if we don’t try to live again,” he finishes, voice roughening just a little, “then all this loss meant nothing. And I don’t believe that. Not for a second.”
Silence follows.
It presses into you until your eyes burn.
You stand before anyone can look too closely, murmuring an apology that no one needs, and slip out of the room. The hallway is cooler, emptier. You brace your hands against the wall and breathe through the ache swelling in your chest, grief, hope and fear, all tangled together.
You don’t notice him at first.
“Hey—um. Wait.”
Steve’s voice is softer now, unsure in a way he wasn’t inside. When you turn, he offers a small, apologetic smile, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I just wanted to check on you,” he says. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”
Something flutters, gentle, familiar and terrifying.
He hesitates, then adds, almost to himself, “This might sound strange, but… it feels like we’ve met before. Or like I know you. Somehow.”
The bond stirs again, quiet but unmistakable. You blink at him, heart still unsteady, trying to place the feeling curling low in your chest.
“I—I don’t think so,” you say honestly. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember.”
Steve lets out a soft breath, half a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.” He gestures awkwardly down the hall. “Uh. Can I—can I get you a coffee? Or tea. Or… whatever people drink when they leave meetings like that.”
You almost say no. Almost. Instead, you nod.
The coffee shop down the block is quiet, all low light and murmured conversations. You sit across from him with a warm cup between your hands, grounding yourself in the heat. Steve talks easily—about the group, about New York, about how strange it still feels to plan for a future instead of just surviving the present.
You tell him a little, too. That you work in medicine. That you moved here not long ago. You leave Wakanda out of it. You leave him out of it.
There’s something kind about Steve’s presence. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache instead of hurt.
Then the world tilts and it hits you all at once.
Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your fingers tighten around the cup.
“Oh,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.
He notices immediately. “Oh… that’s not a good ‘oh,’ is it?”
“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No, it’s just—sorry. I didn’t put it together.”
He studies you now, closer, something thoughtful behind his eyes. “Yeah. Me neither. Not at first.”
Silence stretches. Then his brow furrows.
“Can I ask you something?” he says carefully. “Did you… did you ever spend time in Wakanda?”
Your breath catches.
“Yes.”
Steve swallows. His gaze drops to the table, then back to you, eyes suddenly brighter—sharper—with memory.
“When Bucky went under,” he says quietly. “Back into cryo. I was there.” His voice roughens. “And for just a second, I felt something. Like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. Like… like I wasn’t alone in the room.”
Your chest flutters, slow and unmistakable, aching at the sound of Bucky's name.
“I thought I imagined it,” he continues. “Figured it was just the stress. Or losing him again.”
He looks at you then, really looks.
“But I didn’t,” he says softly. “Did I?”
The bond stirs between you, gentle as a held breath. And suddenly, heartbreak makes sense. And distance. And why losing Bucky felt like losing something you never even got to name.
Steve exhales, hand curling lightly over his own chest.
“It was you,” he realizes.
Your eyes burn before you can stop them.
“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, swiping at your cheeks even as more tears spill. “I didn’t mean to— it’s just… Bucky.”
The name breaks something open in you.
Steve’s face softens instantly, like he understands that grief in a way that doesn’t need explaining. He doesn’t interrupt. He lets you breathe through it, lets the silence hold.
“I loved him,” you whisper. “And I lost him. And now I don’t understand how I could feel… you. Both of you.” You shake your head, confused, almost frustrated. “Soulbonds aren’t supposed to work like that. It doesn’t make sense.”
Steve leans back slightly, thoughtful, eyes distant.
“After Thanos,” he says slowly, “nothing worked the way it was supposed to.” He gives a small, sad smile. “Half the universe disappeared. Time broke. People came back wrong, or not at all. I don’t think something as old and cosmic as a soulbond comes out of that untouched.”
You sniff, trying to steady yourself.
“Maybe the universe got… scrambled,” he continues gently. “Threads crossed that weren’t meant to. Or maybe they were, and we just didn’t know how to read them yet.”
You let that sit, heart aching but a little less frantic.
Steve hesitates. “What was he like?” he asks. “In Wakanda.”
The question is careful. Reverent.
You smile despite yourself, tears still clinging to your lashes. “Quiet. At first. He didn’t trust the world—or himself. But he’d sit by this pond with me. Same place, almost every day.” Your voice softens. “He liked the water. Said it helped him remember how to breathe.”
Steve’s lips curve faintly. “That sounds like him.”
“He laughed there,” you add. “Not much, but when he did it felt… earned. He used to watch the kids from the village and pretend he wasn’t smiling.” You huff out a shaky breath. “He thought he didn’t deserve peace. I spent a lot of time telling him he did.”
Steve looks down, eyes glassy.
“In the forties,” he says quietly, “he was the same way, just louder about it. Always acting like he had to prove something.” He chuckles, soft and fond. “We fought together in the Howling Commandos. He had my back in every scrap. Didn’t matter how bad it got.”
He pauses, jaw tightening.
“I felt the bond back then,” he admits. “Didn’t know what it was. Just knew that when Bucky was near, I felt… stronger. Grounded.” He shakes his head. “If I’d understood it, if I’d recognized it for what it was, I would’ve held onto him harder. Told him what he meant to me before everything fell apart.”
Your chest aches at the shared shape of your grief.
“He loved you,” you say softly. “I know that.”
Steve meets your eyes, something raw and grateful there.
“And he loved you,” he replies. “I can hear it in the way you talk about him.”
For a moment, the bond between you settles not loudly, not demanding. Just present.
Like the universe, bruised and out of order, is still trying to make room for the people it refused to let go. You start slow.
Neither of you tries to name it right away, whatever this thing is between you. The bond feels like a fragile thread, still warming after years in the cold, and you’re both careful not to pull too hard.
You meet for coffee that turns into walks. Walks that turn into hours on park benches, shoulders almost touching, the city humming around you while something quieter learns how to exist between two people who’ve already lost too much.
Steve talks first, eventually.
He tells you what it was like waking up from the ice, how the world felt wrong in his bones, how everything was louder and faster and lonelier than it should’ve been. He talks about fighting Loki, about standing in New York with aliens falling out of the sky and thinking, so this is what I missed. He talks about the Accords, about feeling like the world wanted him useful but obedient, heroic but small.
And then his voice changes when he talks about Bucky.
About seeing him again and not knowing whether to hope or grieve. About losing him once on the train and then again to HYDRA, to the Winter Soldier, to time itself. About choosing him, every time, even when it cost him everything else.
You listen. You always listen.
When it’s your turn, you tell him about Wakanda.
About the quiet, real quiet, not the kind cities pretend to have. About the outer villages, the children who followed you everywhere, the soil under your nails and the way healing there felt ancient and sacred. You tell him about the pond.
And then, softly, you tell him about the night Bucky was freed.
How he shook. How he cried like his body had been holding that pain hostage for decades. How he clung to you like the world was finally solid again. You don’t spare the truth, but you don’t sensationalize it either, you talk about it the way you talk about medicine, about trauma, about survival.
Steve closes his eyes when you tell him that part.
“I always hoped,” he says quietly, “that someone was there with him.”
“I was,” you answer. “He wasn’t alone.”
Something in Steve’s chest loosens at that. You feel it through the bond, a soft exhale, like a knot finally untying.
As the days pass, you start noticing patterns.
The bond reacts when you’re honest. It steadies when one of you falters. Sometimes it hums low and warm, familiar in a way that feels older than either of you. Sometimes it aches, missing a third rhythm that should be there.
You talk about that too.
About how the bond doesn’t feel new, just altered. Like it remembers a shape it hasn’t held in a long time. Steve admits that sometimes, when he’s half asleep, he swears he can still feel Bucky there. You admit the same.
No one says the obvious thing out loud.
Not yet.
Instead, you learn each other in the quiet spaces. Steve learns that you use your hands when you talk, that you catalog the world like a healer, always noticing who’s hurting, who’s holding themselves together by will alone. You learn that Steve still feels like a man out of time some days, that he carries leadership like a responsibility he never asked for but will never abandon.
And slowly, gently, the bond stops feeling like a mystery and starts feeling like a conversation.
The next year and a half settles into something that feels like building.
Not fixing, neither of you believes the world works that way anymore, but repairing where you can, stitching what still bleeds, holding space for the rest.
Steve helps you get your footing in New York’s medical world. He pulls strings he never brags about, writes quiet recommendations that carry impossible weight, walks you into interviews like he’s just there for moral support when you both know it’s more than that. You end up working in trauma care and community clinics, places where people are still learning how to live after loss. It feels right. It hurts, but it’s right.
You help Steve too.
You sit in on meetings when he runs them, not as a symbol or a speaker, just as a steady presence in the circle. When he stumbles over words about grief, you catch the silence before it gets heavy. When someone breaks down, you ground the room the way only someone who’s seen war and healing can. Steve watches you sometimes like he’s learning how to breathe again.
Together, you do your best to help the world heal, one conversation, one wound, one honest moment at a time.
The bond stays… careful.
It’s warm. Present. Never demanding. Always aware of the space where Bucky should be. And still life keeps happening.
The “date” almost doesn’t happen.
Steve stands in your doorway holding a small bundle of flowers like they might bite him, cheeks pink in a way that makes you smile before you can stop yourself. He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck.
“I thought maybe we could… go out,” he says. “If you want. No pressure. Just Coney Island. The boardwalk. Maybe watch the sunset.”
You say yes before your brain can overthink it.
Coney Island smells like salt and sugar and nostalgia. You walk the boardwalk shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing but not quite holding, watching the sky melt into pinks and golds as the sun sinks low. The ocean hums beside you, steady and endless.
Steve buys you food you barely touch. He laughs more than you’ve ever heard him laugh, soft, surprised, like it still catches him off guard that joy can sneak up on him.
When the sun finally dips below the horizon, everything goes quiet between you.
Not awkward. Just full.
Steve stops walking. Turns to face you. His eyes flick to your mouth and then away, like he’s afraid of his own instinct. You feel the bond tighten, not painfully, just aware. Acknowledging the ghost that walks with both of you.
“I want to,” he says quietly. “I really do.”
You nod. Your throat feels thick. “I know.”
“But I don’t want to hurt him,” Steve adds. “Even now. Even—” He trails off, jaw tight.
You step closer anyway. Close enough that you can feel his warmth, his heartbeat steady and strong, familiar in a way that feels earned.
“I don’t think love works like betrayal,” you say softly. “Not this kind.”
He searches your face, like he’s checking for cracks, for hesitation. When he doesn’t find any, his shoulders sag with relief.
Still, he doesn’t kiss you.
Instead, he rests his forehead against yours. Breath to breath. Heart to heart. The bond hums, not fractured, not confused just… patient.
The world cracks open again the day Scott Lang comes back.
Steve tells you about it late that night, sitting at your small kitchen table with a mug he’s forgotten to drink from. His voice is careful, like he’s afraid the idea itself might shatter if he presses too hard.
Natasha had been there. Talking. Planning. Trying to keep the lights on in a world that’s been running on fumes. And then Scott showed up, confused, frantic, and alive talking about the Quantum Realm like it’s a doorway instead of a dead end. Five hours for him. Five years for everyone else.
Time travel.
The words feel too big for the room when Steve says them out loud.
“They think,” he says slowly, “that if we can go back… we could get the Stones before Thanos did. Undo it. All of it.”
You already know what he’s not saying.
Bucky.
Steve doesn’t look at you when he says his name. He doesn’t have to. You feel it anyway, the bond stirring, cautious but hopeful, like it’s afraid to believe.
“It could bring him back,” Steve admits. “Bring everyone back.”
Your chest tightens. Hope hurts more than grief ever did. Hope asks you to imagine a future again, and that feels dangerous. You think of Wakanda. Of the pond. Of the way Bucky’s heartbeat used to settle into yours at night. Of the way it faded, slow and unbearable, until there was nothing left but silence.
“What if it goes wrong?” you ask quietly. “What if it costs you?”
Steve finally looks up then. His eyes are steady, but there’s fear underneath honest and human.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But I know I can’t not try.”
You stand, walk over to him, and take his hands. His palms are warm. Familiar. Alive.
“I’m scared,” you tell him. “But I trust you.”
That seems to undo him more than anything else you could’ve said. His grip tightens around yours like he needs the anchor.
“If this works,” he says, voice rough, “you get him back.”
You shake your head gently. “We get him back.”
Steve exhales, something like relief crossing his face.
“Whatever happens,” you continue, “I’m with you. No matter what timeline we end up in. No matter how it breaks or bends. You don’t do this alone.”
The bond hums, quiet but sure. Not choosing. Not dividing.
The battle for everything, the day the world holds its breath, you feel it before anyone tells you.
You’re in the medical tent, hands steady out of habit even as your chest starts to thrum, one beat, then another, then two that are not yours. Steve’s heartbeat is calm in the way only terror sharpened into purpose can be. Bucky’s is there too, startled, alive in a way that steals the air from your lungs.
You have to sit down.
It’s overwhelming, the way they overlap inside you. Steve’s rhythm is a steady drum, grounding, familiar. Bucky’s comes rushing in like he’s breaking the surface of water, disoriented and fierce and there. For a moment they clash, out of sync, then slowly begin to align.
You press a hand to your chest, breathing through it like you learned in Wakanda.
They’re back. The sky splits open not long after.
Portals bloom like impossible wounds in the air, and through them pour the lost: Wakanda’s warriors, sorcerers, soldiers, friends. People you watched turn to ash now standing solid and furious and alive. You see familiar faces rush past the tent, and somewhere beyond the chaos, you feel Steve step forward, shield raised.
You feel Bucky too.
He’s confused at first, heartbeat stumbling like he’s dropped into the middle of a nightmare, but then his pulse sharpens. Focuses. There’s resolve there, braided with something softer that aches toward you.
Toward Steve.
Thanos arrives the way he always does: certain, cruelly patient, convinced the universe belongs to him.
But this time, the universe answers back. You don’t see everything, but you feel it.
You feel Steve when he charges, shield ringing with every blow, heartbeat steady even when the ground trembles. You feel Bucky when he fights beside him—not behind, not protected, but with. Their rhythms sync in a way that makes your eyes burn. They’ve always been strongest like this, even before they understood what it meant.
When Thanos turns the tide, when his power surges and the air feels like it might collapse, you feel both heartbeats spike at once.
Fear.
Not for themselves.
For you.
It steadies you instead of breaking you.
You’re moving before you realize it, directing medics, shouting orders, catching the wounded as they’re pulled back from the front. You work on instinct, guided by the bond, knowing when Steve’s hurt before anyone calls it in, knowing when Bucky’s close enough that the air around you feels charged.
The final push doesn’t come from one hero.
It comes from all of them.
From strategy and sacrifice and people refusing to let the universe decide who gets to exist. The Stones are wrested away without the fatal cost this time—clever hands, coordinated effort, everyone covering everyone else. Thanos realizes too late that inevitability only works if no one fights it together.
When he falls, it isn’t glorious.
It’s final. The silence afterward is strange. Heavy. Then—
Relief.
Steve’s heartbeat slows first, exhaustion flooding in. Bucky’s follows, shakier but bright, like laughter just under the surface. And threaded through both of them is something new: peace.
They’re alive.
All of them are alive.
When Steve finally finds you, his helmet’s off, face streaked with dirt and disbelief, you don’t say anything. You don’t have to. He pulls you into his arms like he’s anchoring himself to the world, and for a moment the bond hums so loudly it’s almost painful.
Bucky stands a few steps back, frozen.
Then he meets your eyes.
And the last missing piece clicks into place.
You feel it settle not divided, not torn, but shared. Three heartbeats, distinct but connected, steadying each other the way they always should have.
Bucky crosses the distance slowly, like he’s afraid this might disappear if he moves too fast. When he reaches you, Steve doesn’t let go.
Neither do you.
Bucky’s voice is rough when he finally speaks. “I thought… I thought I lost you both.”
You smile through tears. “Not this time.”
For the first time since the war, since HYDRA, since the Snap, since the ice— the bond is whole. And the world, finally, is too.
The world exhales.
Not all at once—peace never comes that clean—but enough that the constant edge dulls, enough that sirens quiet and skies stay empty and people start rebuilding instead of bracing. For a brief, fragile stretch of time, no one is asking the three of you to save anything.
So you don’t.
You go home.
Your apartment in New York is small and lived-in, windows catching afternoon light that smells like rain and concrete. It isn’t grand or symbolic. It’s just… yours. And somehow, that makes it sacred.
You experiment.
Carefully at first, like everything else that’s ever mattered.
The first night you all sleep in the same room, no one mentions it out loud. Steve takes the couch without argument until you tug his sleeve and tell him not to be stupid. Bucky hovers in the doorway like he’s afraid the floor might give out beneath him.
Eventually, you all fit on the bed.
Not touching at first. Just close enough to feel the bond hum, cautious but present. Three heartbeats testing the air between them.
Holding hands comes next. It seems silly in hindsight but every touch feels like a thousand volts of electricity running through you, it takes time adjusting to it.
You try different combinations—your hand in Steve’s, then Bucky’s. Steve and Bucky’s fingers brushing like they’re relearning something they once knew instinctively. Each configuration changes the bond slightly by volume, warmth and clarity.
Distance matters.
When Steve steps into the kitchen, the bond stretches but doesn’t strain. When Bucky lingers by the window, it softens instead of snapping. When you move between rooms, the rhythm adjusts, learning, accommodating.
It’s patient.
Over time, the pulse becomes less sharp.
Less urgent.
War leaves the body slowly, like a tide pulling back inch by inch. The bond follows suit, losing its edge, trading adrenaline for something warmer. Safer.
Home.
Steve starts to recognize the differences.
He learns that your heartbeat is the constant—steady, centering, the quiet middle everything settles around. Bucky’s has a softer lilt now, still uneven sometimes but unmistakably his. Steve’s own rhythm surprises him, how much calmer it is when he knows exactly where you both are.
Bucky sleeps.
Really sleeps.
The first time it happens, it’s accidental, his head tipped against your shoulder, breath deep and unguarded. No shouting. No gasping awake. Just the bond humming low and sure, wrapping around him like reassurance made real.
You don’t move.
Steve watches, something tender and achingly familiar in his chest. He adjusts the blanket instead, careful not to break the spell.
You stay centered between them.
Not as a bridge holding two broken pieces together, but as the place where everything meets naturally. Where hands find each other without thought. Where the bond doesn’t demand explanation or justification.
Just presence.
Outside, the world keeps turning slowly, cautiously, learning how to exist again.
Inside your apartment, three heartbeats keep time.
Soft.
Warm.
Home.
Six months later, life has learned your rhythms.
The apartment breathes with you now.
Bucky has claimed the corner by the bookshelf, the one with the battered armchair and the lamp that hums softly when it’s on. He spends hours there, knees tucked up, metal fingers careful with the pages like they’re something alive. It’s his place. No one else sits there without asking.
Steve sketches on the couch by the window, charcoal smudged on his fingers, sunlight catching in his hair as he frowns at a line that won’t behave. He’s been drawing hands lately. Shoulders. The curve of a jaw. He pretends it’s anatomy practice. No one calls him on it.
You make tea.
Three mugs. Same order every time. Muscle memory. The kettle whistles and the bond hums in response, low and content, like it knows this part of the day means quiet.
Bucky’s head tips forward at some point. The book slips just enough that you notice but you don’t say anything. His breathing evens out, deep and unguarded. No tension in his shoulders. No flinch. Just sleep.
Then the bond changes.
Not sharply. Not painfully.
Just… warmth.
A sudden swell that isn’t fear or memory or grief but something heavier, slower, threaded with want and desire in a way that makes your breath hitch before you can stop it.
Steve looks up at the same moment you do.
You feel it through him too the way his heartbeat stumbles, then deepens, awareness flaring like a match struck in low light. He doesn’t need to ask. The bond is unmistakable.
Bucky dreams.
Not nightmares.
Something softer. Something charged. Emotion-rich, body-deep, the kind of dream that’s all sensation and closeness without clear edges. Heat without fire. Hands and presence and connection blurred together in feeling instead of images.
It spills outward.
Into you.
Into Steve.
Your chest tightens but not unpleasantly. Awareness blooms low within you, slowly, unfamiliar and intimate. The bond carries it without shame, without urgency. Just truth. Just feeling.
Steve swallows.
You can feel the exact moment he realizes what it is and the moment after, when he doesn’t pull away.
Neither do you. The room feels warmer. Quieter. Like the world has narrowed to breath and heartbeat and the soft rise and fall of Bucky’s chest as he sleeps through it all, unaware of the way his emotions ripple outward.
Steve’s pencil slips from his fingers and rolls onto the rug.
Your hand tightens around the mug.
No one moves closer. No one leaves.
You sit in it together, acknowledging without naming, allowing without acting. The bond settles slowly, easing back into its gentle hum as Bucky’s dream drifts, the intensity fading into something softer, more diffuse. When he stirs and blinks awake a few minutes later, confused and sheepish, neither of you say a word.
The quiet afterward stretches.
Not awkward just tender, like everyone’s waiting to see which way the moment will tip.
Bucky sits back in his chair, book closed in his lap, cheeks pink in a way that has nothing to do with heat. He won’t quite meet either of your eyes.
Steve breaks first, gentle as always. “Hey. Uh… Buck?”
Bucky’s shoulders tense. “Yeah?”
“You don’t have to,” Steve says carefully, “but… was your dream okay?”
That earns a huff of breath that might be a laugh if Bucky weren’t so clearly mortified. He rubs a hand over his face, metal fingers cool against his skin.
“It was—” He stops. Tries again. “It wasn’t bad. Just… a lot.”
You step closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. Just there.
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He finally looks at you then, eyes searching. “You felt it.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“And you’re not—” He gestures vaguely. “Mad? Or weirded out?”
Steve shakes his head immediately. “No.”
You echo it just as firmly. “Not at all.”
Bucky swallows. The bond flickers, nervous and uncertain but doesn’t retreat.
You hesitate, then add quietly, “I’ve… thought about it too. Back in Wakanda. About…being with you.” You offer a small, rueful smile. “I just knew the timing wasn’t right. Everything was still too raw.”
Bucky’s brows knit together. “You have?”
You nod and Steve clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the far wall. His heartbeat gives him away anyway, warm, flustered. Bucky looks between the two of you, something dawning slowly. “Wait.” He frowns. “Have you two—?”
“No,” Steve says quickly.
You laugh, a little breathless. “Not even close.”
Steve rubs the back of his neck. “We haven’t even kissed.”
That finally gets Bucky to laugh, a real one soft and disbelieving. “You’re kidding.”
You and Steve exchange a look. Both of you blush. Bucky’s smile fades into something gentler. More serious. He studies the two of you like he’s piecing together a puzzle that suddenly makes sense.
“…Do you want to?” he asks.
It’s not teasing. Not pushing, just honest.
The bond warms instantly, three pulses aligning in quiet anticipation. Your heart stutters. Steve’s breath catches. You glance at Steve and he looks at you.
Neither of you answers right away, but neither of you says no. Bucky nods once, like that’s enough for now. “Okay,” he says softly. “Then we’ll go slow.”
The moment doesn’t rush you.
It unfolds the way everything important between the three of you always has slowly, careful and chosen.
Steve is the one who moves first, though he hesitates right up until the last second. His hand comes to your waist like he’s asking permission even now. You nod, barely perceptible, but he feels it anyway through the bond, through the way your heartbeat lifts toward his.
When he kisses you, it’s gentle. Soft. Warm. Like he’s relearning something he always wanted but never let himself have.
The bond blooms.
Not sharp or overwhelming—just full. Steve’s heartbeat stutters once, then steadies. Yours rises to meet it. And from where Bucky sits, watching quietly from his chair, he feels it too every pulse, every swell of warmth, like sound carried through water.
He doesn’t look away.
He doesn’t need to.
The room seems to breathe with you.
When Steve pulls back, forehead resting against yours, his eyes are a little dazed. “Okay,” he murmurs, half a laugh in his voice. “Yeah.”
You smile, breathless, then glance toward Bucky.
He’s gone still, not tense, just attentive. Eyes dark with feeling that hasn’t tipped into fear.
“Can I…?” you ask softly.
Bucky nods. So you cross the space between you, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted to. He doesn’t. When you kiss him, it’s different from the first kiss you shared back in Wakanda. Tentative and exploratory, like you’re learning a language together.
The bond reacts instantly and Steve inhales sharply.
His heartbeat trips—not with jealousy, but awareness. Want braided with affection. Surprise laced with something deep and approving. He feels the kiss through you both: the warmth, the closeness, the way Bucky relaxes into it like he’s finally letting himself be held without armor.
Bucky’s eyes flutter shut.
When you pull back, the room is thick with quiet heat, not hunger, not urgency, but intimacy in its purest form. Connection made tangible.
Steve reaches for you again, and this time Bucky doesn’t stay back.
You move together, unhurried hands at waists, fingers in hair, lips brushing and deepening in small, careful increments. Nothing rushed, nothing taken, everything shared between the three of you.
The bond changes. It becomes richer. Closer. Like the emotional equivalent of skin-on-skin, three heartbeats learning how to move in harmony not just through comfort or pain, but through desire and affection too.
Bucky lets out a soft laugh against your shoulder. You lean against him, hand still wrapped around Steve's on the other side of you.
Something bubbles in your chest, right behind the bond.
"I love you," you say softly. "Both of you."
The words come out like a physical thing, like something you clench your teeth and brace for the impact of. Both the boys go still next to you and you feel their hearts racing around yours, like a swirling symphony of drums of awe and disbelief beating in your chest.
You feel it—feel them, through the bond. Say it again.
Bucky leans in first, his lips brushing yours with feather-like gentleness and the bond thrums in your ears.
Say it again.
"I love you." you whisper against his lips and you feel him exhale, the soft breath fanning your bottom lip. You close the gap, your hand dragging both yours and Steve's to his hip, needing more contact.
You kiss him like the sun would fade from the sky if you pulled away. He makes a sound against your lips, feeling the change, the heat, inside and out. The kiss started soft, a promise and a plea all in one, but you nip at the curve of his lip and everything changes.
Steve shifts behind you and pulls you away to lift you by your waist and settle you over Bucky's lap. He stays behind you, chest nearly fully pressed against your back, the width of it encapsulating you and Bucky both in shadow. Close enough that you can feel the shape of his breath between your shoulder blades, his chest pressed to your back — heart to heart to heart, all of you aligned.
Your chest fills with warmth so intense it almost makes you dizzy. You feel Steve’s breath hitch behind you at the exact same second Bucky’s pulse jumps beneath your palm. One reaction, three bodies.
Steve’s hands come to rest at your hips, grounding and worshipful, thumbs brushing small arcs like he’s reminding himself you’re real. When he kisses your shoulder, the bond amplifies it, not the sensation itself, but the meaning. Belonging. Safety. Home.
You tilt your head back without thinking, letting Steve’s mouth find your jaw, your temple, the corner of your smile. Bucky watches you like he can’t quite believe this is happening, like if he blinks, it might disappear until you reach up and cup his face, pulling him back in.
The second kiss is deeper. Not just hungry, but certain.
The bond surges again, rolling through the three of you like warm wind off the ocean, constant, surrounding and impossible to escape. It feels endless, self-feeding. Steve exhales against your neck like the feeling has knocked the air from his lungs. Bucky’s forehead drops briefly to yours, eyes closed, overwhelmed in the quietest way.
It’s not just want anymore. It’s recognition.
You feel flecks of sensation scatter through the bond—laughter, relief, that sharp edge of joy that almost hurts like rain hitting skin after heat. Every heartbeat echoes twice back into you, and yours answers them both.
Steve's hands leave your waist and reach around you, you sigh against Bucky's lips at the loss before you feel what he's doing. Taking Bucky's hands in his and guiding them under your shirt and up your chest. You and Bucky both hiss at the contact, every touch echoes twice before coming back to you, warmer and fuller.
The warmth ripples outward.
Three heartbeats answering one another.
Steve leaves Bucky to his own devices, letting his hand drift down your stomach to the waist band of your shorts, your hips roll in invitation. He keeps moving as Bucky leans in impossibly closer, kissing your collarbone as his thumbs swipe over your nipples making you both shudder—you can feel him feel you, and feel yourself through him. It's a dizzyingly addicting feeling that you never want to end.
Your hips buck when you feel Steve's rough palm slip against your skin, your already soaked cunt fluttering in anticipation as he dips a finger down, circling your clit so gently. Bucky groans as the circuit of pleasure swells from you to him to Steve and back to you, you're not overwhelmed; you're surrounded, encased in love and cosmic destiny.
The pleasure isn’t localized; it spreads and diffuses, becomes almost communal. The tight knot that forms in your lower stomach as Steve rolls his fingers over your clit sparks through Bucky and Steve himself, there's no center anymore, no telling when you stop and they begin. You feel Bucky hard under you and your hand palms his bulge as he shudders against your neck, every echoed feeling begging for more. Steve slips an arm around your waist and holds you tight, doubling down on his efforts as if he were chasing the high for himself.
Your heart hammers against your ribs as you crest over, feeling it thrum and slip between you and both men, every breath syncing up before you even realize it. It's like nothing you've felt before, never on your own or with someone else.
This is something instinctive, something chosen and sacred. The bond hums low and steady, a living thing curled between your ribs as you come down from your high.
Words are pointless between you now, everything is already felt, already known. Steve scoops you up in one arm, taking Bucky's hand in the other and leads you both to the bedroom. He sets you down gently, guiding Bucky over to the other side of the bed, you both shift on instinct towards him. You pull your clothes off and curl into his side, hiking your leg over his and holding him close, peppering kisses along his jaw.
Not long after, Steve’s mouth finds yours again with that slow, grounding kiss, the kind of kiss that deepens rather than burns. When you lean back into him, you feel the way his chest rises with a careful breath, like he’s trying to absorb every second of this.
Next to you, Bucky watches with that same quiet intensity he always carries.
Then you reach for him.
The second your fingers slide into his hair, the bond surges like soft lightning moving through the circuit the three of you have become. Steve exhales against your shoulder at the same moment Bucky’s breath catches in your mouth.
Everything echoes.
Every touch travels.
You kiss Bucky, and Steve feels it like warmth spreading through his chest. Steve’s hands tighten at your waist, and Bucky feels the grounding weight of it.
The bond loops it back, richer each time.
Time blurs.
At some point the lamp goes dark, leaving the room washed in soft shadows and citylight leaking through the curtains. Steve’s laugh vibrates low against your skin when Bucky mutters something half-teasing, half-disbelieving.
“Still can’t believe this is real,” Bucky murmurs once, voice rough with quiet wonder.
You answer by pulling him closer.
The bond flares bright with joy threaded through desire, affection wrapped tight around both of them. Steve presses a kiss into Bucky’s temple like he’s sealing the moment there.
Later, the three of you shift across the room, laughter dissolving into quiet breaths and soft murmurs. Hands learn familiar paths. Shoulders press close. The bond glows brighter each time the three of you align again, heart to heart to heart.
It feels endless.
Not overwhelming.
Just full.
Like standing in warm rain after years of drought, every drop another reminder that you’re alive, that you’re here, that none of you have to hold back anymore.
At one point you find yourself between them again, breathless, their hands steady and certain on either side of you. The bond hums louder than ever, a steady circuit that carries every pulse of warmth back through the three of you.
Steve’s forehead rests against yours. Bucky’s arm wraps around both of you, metal cool and grounding against warm skin.
Three breaths fall into the same rhythm. The night stretches on around you with soft laughter, quiet kisses, whispered reassurances threaded through the bond like light through water.
And when the world finally fades beyond the edges of the room, the bond holds the three of you close, warm and unbroken, as the night carries you gently into the dark.
Morning comes quietly.
Not with alarms or urgency or the sharp edge of duty—but with light slipping through the curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in its path. The city hums outside, distant and alive, but inside the apartment everything feels hushed, reverent, like the world knows better than to interrupt.
You wake first.
You’re warm on both sides—Steve’s arm heavy and protective around your waist, Bucky’s shoulder pressed close, his breathing slow and even. Three heartbeats move through the bond, unguarded now. No spikes. No fractures. Just rhythm.
Home.
The bond feels different after last night. Deeper. Settled. Like something that finally found its shape and decided to stay that way.
Steve stirs next, blinking sleepily, eyes soft when they find you. He presses a kiss to your temple without thinking about it, instinctive as breathing. The bond hums in response, pleased.
Bucky groans faintly and buries his face into the pillow, metal fingers curling at your shirt like he’s anchoring himself. “Too early,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.
You smile.
Life moves forward like this.
Not perfect. Not easy. But shared.
There are still hard days with memories that surface uninvited, news cycles that remind you the world will always need mending. But now, when one of you falters, the other two feel it immediately. Hands find hands. Heartbeats steady heartbeats.
Steve sketches again, this time not just soldiers or symbols, but quiet moments: you reading on the couch, Bucky asleep in his chair, the three of you tangled together in ways that don’t need explaining. Bucky laughs more. Sleeps deeper. You keep practicing medicine, keep helping people heal, even as you learn that you deserve gentleness too.
And the bond, once something sharp and painful and confusing, becomes a guide instead of a wound.
Three people who survived the end of the world and chose, again and again, to stay.
pairings: steve rogers x f!stark reader mans best friend masterlist synopsis: “How am I supposed to not settle steve? When-when…” You groaned loudly in frustration, your hands huffing at your sides. “I’m never going to be able to find someone if you don’t just fucking leave me alone.” warnings: mdni! best friends to lovers, miscommunication, angst, sexual tension, smut (unprotected piv, oral f-receiving, fingering, tummy bulge, dirty talk, possessiveness, dom!steve bc trust the build up, praise, slight dumbification, hair pulling f-m receiving, multiple orgasms, steve begs for a second, size kink, squirting), reader has personal beef with the super soldier serum, mention of reader having dark hair, steve snaps bc reader is playing with his feelings, heavy yearning, an annoying amount of will they won’t they, size difference, age gap (reader is twenty-nine, mentioned once if you do the math), no use of y/n, jealousy, pining, protective!steve, jealous!steve, pettiness, kind toxic toward the end, bucky being a little shit and instigating but also prob the only reason they get together, probably missing some lol. total word count: 10k (not proofread) mia’s love note: gif made by me, please do not reuse! divider credits at the end. this series will follow multiple different readers continuing in each part. example next is tears, steve rogers x f!stark reader, it will be a pt two of this one. same goes for any of the other parts.
You stared blankly at the man in front of you, a fake smile carefully practiced and perfectly placed as you nodded along to words you were absolutely not absorbing. The restaurant was dim and overly intimate, candles flickering between tables like it was trying too hard to manufacture romance. You were sitting across from your fourth Hinge date of the month, posture flawless, dark hair pinned back just enough to look effortless while still screaming intention. Your lips were pursed in that subtle pout that said interested to him and deeply uninterested to anyone who actually knew you.
You lifted your glass of red wine to your glossy lips, letting it linger there as you stared at him through your lashes, mentally anywhere but here.
“Are you listening?” the guy said, his hand tapping the table in front of you.
The sound snapped you back just enough to feel irritation crawl up your spine. The tapping felt condescending, impatient, like you were a dog who had failed to sit on command. Your jaw tightened for half a second before you smoothed it out.
“Sorry,” you said lightly, setting your glass down with care. “What did you say?”
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. Playing dumb was a skill you had mastered long ago.
“I was saying how my car self drives,” he said proudly, puffing his chest just a little. “Have you ever been in a self driving car?” He leaned forward, eyes flicking briefly to your cleavage. “Because I can take you for the ride of your life.”
And there it was.
Your pout flattened instantly, expression hardening as the irritation bloomed into something sharper. You didn’t even bother hiding it.
“No thanks,” you said, already reaching for your purse.
You stood, the chair scraping softly against the floor as you slipped your fur coat over your shoulders, the satin of your deep red dress catching the low light. You scoffed under your breath, turning away from the table without another glance.
The guy spun in his chair, calling after you, his voice rising with embarrassment and wounded pride. You didn’t slow. You simply lifted your hand over your shoulder and flashed him your middle finger without breaking stride.
Avengers Tower wasn’t far from the restaurant, which was one of the reasons you had picked it. The walk did you good. Cool night air kissed your exposed skin, grounding you as the click of your heels echoed against the pavement. By the time you reached the tower and waited for the elevator at the ground floor, your irritation had dulled into dry amusement.
You pulled out your phone and unmatched with the man whose name you had to squint to remember.
Larry.
Horrible name. Horrible date.
Add it to the list.
You laughed quietly to yourself, shaking your head. There was no other reaction left at this point. Your dating life had been a wreck from the very beginning, a series of unfortunate events disguised as romantic opportunities.
There was your college boyfriend who had practically creamed his pants when your dad announced he was Iron Man. You remembered the way his eyes had lit up, the awe turning into something greedy and unsettling. That had given you the ick instantly. So long, Dylan.
Then there was the SHIELD agent who turned out to be a HYDRA mole. A top secret spy who somehow managed to be terrible in bed. Truly impressive in the worst way. Fuck off, John.
The elevator dinged, pulling you from your thoughts as the doors slid open. You stepped inside, sighing as you tucked your phone back into your purse. Your eyes flicked to the keypad automatically.
“Welcome home, Miss Stark,” FRIDAY’s voice chimed overhead.
“Hey, Fri,” you sighed. “Is Steve awake?”
“Mr. Rogers is awake,” the system replied smoothly.
“Bring me to his floor, please,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned against the wall.
Steve was your best friend. Your constant. He was always there when you needed a shoulder to cry on, or one of his terrible jokes that you were pretty sure originated sometime in the nineteen forties. He gave the best pep talks, earnest and grounding in a way that made the world feel manageable again.
It also didn’t help that he was unbelievably good looking.
His good boy charm landed in that special spot just behind your ribs every time he opened his mouth. The place that stole your breath without warning, that made your heart stutter when he smiled at you like you were the only person in the room.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and you stepped into Steve’s quarters like you owned the place.
If you asked Steve, he would say you just about did.
He loved having you here. It was his favorite thing about your friendship, how comfortable you were with him, how easily you filled the space like you belonged.
He just wasn’t sure that was all it was.
Because he was sure, painfully sure, that he was in love with you.
Steve stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing a plate. Shirtless.
You stopped short.
His back was broad, impossibly broad, muscles shifting under skin that caught the warm kitchen light. His shoulders were wide enough that you felt smaller just standing there. He was barefoot, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips, water dripping down his forearms as he worked.
He turned at the sound of your heels.
His eyes widened.
Then, just as quickly, he looked away.
“How was your date?” he asked, voice neutral but a little too tight.
You set your purse on the island and climbed onto one of the stools, your chin resting in your palm. You stared openly at him, at the way his chest rose with each breath, at the faint cut healing just below his collarbone.
“Horrid,” you sighed. “Men suck.”
He let out a small laugh and turned back to the cabinet, reaching up to put the plate away. The movement stretched his torso, muscles flexing without effort.
“That’s a broad categorization,” he said.
You hummed. “It’s true.”
He turned to face you, arms crossing over his chest, which only made everything worse. He towered over you, even with you perched on the stool. Super soldier unfairness.
“You look nice,” he said before he could stop himself.
You smiled. “Jealous?”
“No,” he said immediately.
You leaned forward slightly. “You sure?”
“I just think,” he said carefully, “you deserve better.”
Your heart jumped.
You laughed it off. “Careful, Stevie. You sound like you want to volunteer.”
His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening before he could stop it.
“You offering?” he said back, his tone light but strained, the words leaving his mouth sharper than he meant them to. For one fleeting second, he hoped to stun you. Hoped to see surprise, or hesitation, or something that told him he wasn’t alone in this. Something that proved he wasn’t imagining the weight between you.
Your throat constricted slightly, breath catching before you could smooth it out. You looked down suddenly, eyes dropping to the counter as if it might offer you safety. Your fingers began tracing meaningless shapes against the cool surface, circles and lines that went nowhere, your body betraying the calm you tried to project.
“Do you want me to be?” you said.
Your voice was softer now, quieter than you intended. Heat crept up your neck, your cheeks flushing despite yourself. You hated how easily he could pull that reaction from you. You hated how quickly your defenses fell around him.
Steve saw it all.
He saw the way your shoulders curled inward just a fraction. The way your fingers stilled after you spoke, as if you were bracing for impact. He saw the vulnerability you never let anyone else see, the one you pretended didn’t exist.
And guilt hit him hard.
He knew it wasn’t t fair. Not when he already knew how this ended. He knew you didn’t feel the same way about him, not in the way he felt about you. He knew it was cruel to let things hover in this space when you had spent the last four months desperately trying to find someone. Putting yourself through bad dates and worse men. It wasn’t fair to dangle himself in front of you like the easy option. Like the safe place you could fall into when everything else failed.
And truthfully, he didn’t want that.
He didn’t want you to settle for him because you were tired or lonely or because he happened to be there. He wanted you to choose him freely. Fully. Or not at all.
“I was just teasing you,” he smiled lightly, forcing the expression into place even though it felt wrong on his face.
He turned away quickly, moving to the sink and starting the dishwasher just to give his hands something to do. The sound of the machine filling with water was louder than necessary. He let out a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling as he tried to steady himself.
He didn’t see the way your hopeful expression dropped from your face.
“Oh, nice one,” you cleared your throat.
The words came out almost flat. You were almost annoyed at his teasing, almost embarrassed that you had let yourself lean into it. But you knew you didn’t have the right to be upset. You were the one who teased him constantly. You were the one who enjoyed poking at the super soldier in front of you more than he ever did you.
Still, it hurt.
You stood suddenly, the movement abrupt enough that Steve’s head turned before he could stop himself. His eyes tracked you as you walked closer, every step shrinking the distance between you. You stopped directly in front of him, your back resting against the kitchen island, his back resting against the kitchen sink.
You were close now. Close enough that the air felt heavier. Close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Even standing this near, the height difference was impossible to ignore. He towered over you effortlessly, his presence solid and grounding and overwhelming all at once.
You could feel the heat coming off his body, steady and constant.
“You ever think,” you said lightly, as if it were just another joke, “that you’re the reason all my dates suck?”
He swallowed, letting out a short laugh that did nothing to hide the tension in his throat. “I doubt that.”
What he didn’t say was that he hoped he was. He hoped you thought about him while you sat across from those men. Hoped you compared them to him. Hoped none of them ever came close.
“High standards,” you teased. “You ruined me.”
He shifted his weight, convincing himself his mind was playing tricks on him. Convincing himself that the way you looked at him didn’t mean anything. “That’s not funny.”
You smiled up at him, open and sincere. “It’s true. I mean we’re not dating, but you’re hands down the best guy I’ve ever met.”
You were laying the bait without realizing it. Offering him the simplest opening. Giving him the chance to admit even the slightest hint of what he felt.
Steve’s breath caught in his throat.
“Yeah?” he asked, his stare so intense it made heat bloom across your chest.
“Yeah,” you said, uncrossing your arms and leaning back on them.
Steve watched the way your fur coat fell from your shoulders slightly, exposing more skin. The sight made something twist painfully in his chest. He groaned internally, forcing himself to stay still.
“You text me every day without fail,” you continued, words spilling out faster now. “You genuinely care how I’m doing. You know how to dress, which is very hard to come by these days.”
His jaw tightened.
“You’ve bought me flowers every birthday since I met you at twenty three,” you listed off, a small, self conscious laugh slipping in. “You remembered that I love those bouquets from Lily’s on Fifth Avenue but that I’m actually allergic to the baby’s breath so you always get one without.”
You sounded dumb to yourself. No, worse. You knew you were dumb. It had been right in front of you this whole time. You had just been too scared to ruin the one thing that had always felt safe.
“And you always come to the rescue when I call,” you finished. “Or when I don’t. You just know.”
Your voice softened. “It’s like how am I ever supposed to find someone who sees me like that.”
Steve was at a loss for words.
“I care about you,” he said.
He hated himself for it. That was all he could give you. He couldn’t say it was because he loved you so deeply that he memorized every detail. He couldn’t say he had been in love with you for six years. He couldn’t say that every bad date felt like a punch to the gut.
He couldn’t say any of it.
But you didn’t hear what he meant.
You heard what he didn’t say.
But you don’t love me.
You nodded your head slowly. “You do,” you said almost sadly.
You stepped forward, closing the distance again. Even in your heels, you needed to lean forward to make yourself taller. Your heart broke quietly with the realization that he only cared for you as a friend.
Steve leaned down just enough in response to your movement, instinctive and automatic. Your hand came up to rest on one of his biceps, fingers pressing lightly as if to memorize the feeling. You placed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, gentle and brief but devastating.
“Thanks, Stevie,” you said softly. “This really helped.”
You stepped back before he could speak. Before he could stop you. You turned, grabbed your purse, and walked into the elevator.
“Goodnight,” you said.
The doors slid shut, cutting him off from you, but you still heard Steve’s quiet goodnight as the elevator began its descent.
He stayed where he was long after you were gone, staring at the place you had stood, wondering how two people could feel so much and still miss each other entirely.
Weeks had passed slowly, each day bleeding into the next, yet somehow nothing had changed between you and Steve. Not really. The kiss lingered in your memory like something unfinished, something you replayed in quiet moments when the world was too still. It hadn’t t been dramatic or explosive. It hadn’t rewritten your reality. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Maybe just a tad bit more to the left. Maybe just a little softer than usual. But other than that, it was nothing short of normal.
At least that was what you told yourself.
The two of you had stayed in the same routine you always lived in. He texted you in the morning, short check ins that made your chest ache more than they should. You called him after he was done training, listening to his steady voice ground you when the day felt too heavy. You never spoke about the kiss. Not directly. Not indirectly. It existed in the space between you, unacknowledged but ever present.
Today though, today sucked.
No text from Steve. And no phone call from you.
He was on a mission. Because yes, he was still Captain America. And yes, he still had that self righteous duty to the people. You told yourself that was all it was. Duty. Responsibility. The world before you. You tried not to let the absence gnaw at you, but it did anyway.
You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, fingers fumbling slightly as you placed the backing of your earring on. Your reflection looked composed, put together, calm. It was a lie. Your shoulders were tight. Your jaw was clenched.
“Hey babe?” Larry’s voice called from the kitchen. “Can I open this wine?” he asked her.
You sighed, because that was all you seemed to do when Larry was around. A quiet, constant exhale of patience you did not actually possess. You walked into the kitchen, eyes immediately landing on the bottle of wine in his hand. The label was familiar. Too familiar. Steve had bought you that bottle when you graduated your doctorate program. He had remembered the year. The vineyard. The way you smiled when you talked about it.
“Not that bottle,” you said, rushing over to him and taking the bottle from his hand.
“Relax babe, it’s just wine,” he said, trying to take it back from you.
“There’s a bottle on the counter,” you said, moving out of his grasp.
He sighed, clearly annoyed, and walked over to the bottle on the counter, pouring himself a glass. “Aren’t you like a billionaire or something? Just buy a new bottle.”
The words landed wrong. They always did.
Why were you putting up with Larry from Hinge?You asked yourself that question more often than you liked to admit. The answer was simple and uncomfortable. Because you decided it was time to settle. And he had never really done anything to you. He wasn’t cruel. Not unkind. Just stupid. Utterly useless in the bedroom. Easy.
Larry sighed from above you, a groan leaving his mouth as he let his head fall to your shoulder. His weight pressed against you briefly before he flopped onto his side next to you. He let out a chuckle, satisfied and careless.
“I’m finished, you cum?”
Didn’t even know we started. You thought to yourself.
“Yea,” you said, rolling over onto your side.
An ounce of spite blew through you then. Not at Larry. Never at Larry. At Steve. Because you were certain, absolutely certain, you would bet all of your very very hefty trust fund that he would last way longer in bed than Larry ever could.
The thought burned hot and sharp, and it pissed you off enough that you decided in that moment that you would drink the wine.
“You know what?” you said, turning to look at him. “I could buy a million of these bottles and not dent my account.”
You grabbed a wine opener and popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room. You poured yourself a large glass and downed it in one go, barely tasting it.
“It’s so hot when you talk about money like that,” Larry said, setting his glass down.
You giggled lightly, the wine hitting you all at once, warmth spreading through your chest and limbs. You grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss.
It was heated. Mostly on your part.
He struggled to keep up, his hands unsure, his reactions delayed. He talked a big game but never pulled his weight. You groaned into his mouth as you walked him back toward the couch, frustration bleeding into desperation. Straddling him, you lifted his shirt over his head, because if you didn’t do it, it just wouldn’t get done.
His hands wandered your body greedily, clumsy and insistent. You closed your eyes.
And you pretended.
You envisioned his hands, though smaller, were Steve’s. You imagined strength and certainty instead of fumbling. His sadly unmuscular torso was Steve’s. Broad and solid. Steady. His lips were Steve’s. Warm. Patient. And the low groans that came from his mouth were actually coming out of Steve’s mouth.
The elevator doors slid open quietly behind you.
Steve stepped inside your apartment without thinking, keys still in his hand. He had come straight from the mission. He was tired. Bruised. Still wearing his suit. He had planned to tell you he was back. Planned to apologize for the silence. Planned to stand in your kitchen and pretend everything was normal.
He stopped when he saw you.
“Fuck,” you moaned out, grinding on his lap. “Steve.”
You moaned against his neck, the name slipping from your lips without thought, without awareness, stilling as soon as it left your mouth.
Steve froze.
Larry was too caught up in the moment to realize what you had just done. “C’mon babe, why’d you stop,” he said, tapping you lightly on your ass.
“Huh,” you said, too caught up in your own thoughts. “I’m sorry,” you said, looking at him.
“Why?” he said.
You didn’t answer. You just leaned forward, kissing him again. So lost in pretending it was Steve that you didn’t hear the elevator ding or the sound of Steve himself clearing his throat.
Normally, Steve would turn around and leave. He would give you your space. Your privacy. He always did the right thing.
But he didn’t like the way the man was touching you. He didn’t like the way he didn’t ask you if you were okay when you stopped kissing him. And he certainly didn’t like the way you moaned his name in that man’s ear and then apologized for it like it wasn’t exactly where it belonged.
Steve stayed.
And the silence between all three of you grew heavy enough to break something that none of you were ready to name.
The silence breaks when Steve finally clears his throat.
It’s not loud. It’s not aggressive. It’s deliberate.
A sound meant to be heard.
You don’t hear it.
Your attention is still locked on Larry. On the warmth of his mouth pressed against the curve of your jaw. On the way his lips linger like he thinks he has all the time in the world. On the way you are forcing yourself to stay present even though your thoughts are drifting somewhere dangerous and familiar and unwanted.
You kiss him again.
Slow. Distracted.
Your hands rest on his shoulders, light, almost hesitant, like they belong to someone else entirely. Like you’re playing a role you rehearsed but never quite learned to inhabit.
Steve takes one step forward.
His boots hit the floor with a solid, unmistakable sound.
The vibration of it travels through the apartment. Through the couch. Through you.
You freeze.
Your body reacts before your mind does. Your muscles lock. Your breath catches halfway in your chest.
“Holy shit,” Larry breathes, pulling back just enough to look past you. His hands slide from your waist as his eyes go wide, excitement flashing across his face as recognition hits him. “No way. Babe, is that…”
Steve doesn’t look at you yet.
He looks at Larry.
Still in his Captain America uniform. The star on his chest catches the light. The shield is strapped to his back, worn and scuffed like it has been used exactly the way it was meant to be. His hair is still damp from sweat and rain and effort. He smells like the aftermath of a fight. Like ozone and steel and something burned.
He looks impossibly large standing there, filling the space without trying.
He looks like authority.
Like something immovable.
“Yes,” Steve says calmly. “It is.”
Larry laughs nervously, scrambling to sit up straighter like posture alone might make him impressive. “Captain America, man. This is crazy. I mean, I knew she said her dad was Tony Stark but I didn’t realize you guys were like this close.”
Steve’s eyes flick briefly to where Larry’s hands are still resting on your hips.
His jaw tightens.
You feel it happen like a shift in gravity.
“Stand up,” Steve says.
The tone is low. Even. It isn’t a request.
It shoots straight to your lower belly before you can stop it. Heat curls there, sharp and unwelcome and painfully familiar.
Larry blinks. “Uh, sure. Yeah. Totally.”
He gets to his feet quickly, tossing you to the side in his haste, wiping his hands on his jeans like a teenager meeting a celebrity instead of a man who was kissing you seconds ago. “Huge fan, by the way. Like massive. I mean I grew up reading about you, you know, saving the world and all that.”
Steve doesn’t respond.
He steps closer instead.
The distance closes until Larry has to tilt his head back just to look at him. Steve doesn’t crowd him. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t touch him.
He simply looks at him.
“You’re going to leave,” Steve says.
Larry laughs again, uncertain this time. “Oh. Yeah. I mean. Of course. If you guys need to talk or whatever.”
Steve’s eyes flick to you then.
Finally.
You are still frozen where you sit, heart pounding so loudly you are sure they can both hear it. Your cheeks burn. Your stomach twists. Shame and confusion and something dangerously close to relief crash into each other until you can’t tell them apart.
For half a second, Steve’s gaze softens when it finds you.
Just for half a second.
Then it hardens again.
“Now,” Steve adds, eyes back on Larry.
Something in his voice sends heat straight to your core before you can stop it. It isn’t anger. It’s possession. It’s certainty. It’s control worn like a second skin.
Larry swallows.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, okay. I get it.”
He grabs his jacket, still grinning like this is already a story he cannot wait to tell someone. “This was wild though. Seriously. Nice meeting you, Captain America.”
Steve doesn’t respond.
Larry hesitates, then glances at you. “Text me?”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Steve watches your silence carefully.
Larry takes the hint and moves toward the door, fumbling slightly with the elevator pad before letting himself out. The doors click shut behind him.
The apartment feels smaller immediately.
Too quiet. Too intimate.
You finally look up at Steve.
Up close, he looks exhausted. There is a bruise blooming along his jaw. A cut near his brow that has already started to heal. His uniform is scuffed, dirty, marked with evidence of a mission he never told you about. You fight the urge to rush over to him, to touch him, to ask if he’s okay.
The look on his face makes you stay planted right where you are.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says quietly.
You open your mouth, then close it.
“I came to check on you,” he continues. “I didn’t plan on interrupting.”
“I didn’t see your texts.” you say.
“I can see why,” he replies.
There is a pause.
His eyes drop, just for a second, to your lips. Then to the flush of your skin. Then to the bottle of open wine he bought you, still sitting on the counter like an accusation.
“You said my name,” he adds.
Heat rushes through you instantly. “No I didn’t,” you say quickly.
Steve’s mouth twitches, just barely. his jaw clenching in nearly untamed restraint “You did.” He wished you knew how much effort it was taking him to hold himself back.
You cross your arms, suddenly self conscious. “That wasn’t…”
He steps closer.
You scoot back once more.
“You were pretending,” He says, not unkindly. A little annoyed that you thought you could lie to him. His senses were heighten just enough that he could hear your heart skip a beat when you lied.
He knew if you were aware of that fact you’d have another thing to add to the list of things you hated so much about that damn super solider serum.
You swallow.
“I should go,” you say, even though you’re already home.
Steve doesn’t move.
“You moaned my name,” he says again, quieter now. “Into someone else’s ear.”
Your breath stutters. The look on his face is unlike anything you have ever seen before. Gone is the golden boy from the forties. In his place stands a man who looks like he is being torn apart in ways far worse than anything he has ever survived.
“I didn’t - it was a mistake,” you repeat.
He took in a sharp breath “don’t say that” he said effectively making you close your mouth.
His gaze is intense, searching, like he is trying to decide how much truth he can allow himself to hear.
“what are you doing?” he asks you seriously stepping forward for every scootch back you take on the couch until your in the corner. he drops his shield on the floor lazily the vibranium clanging as he came to stand infront of you. he bent down slightly. you could smell everything, his usually ceder and oak scent mixed with sweat and maybe gunpowder from whoever he was fighting. it drove you insane as you clenched your thighs. “You joke. You tease. You laugh it off.”
You look away embarrassed.
“And then you do that,” he continues. “am i supposed to keep pretending it doesn’t mean anything?”
Silence stretches between you.
Heavy. Charged.
He’s waiting for you to say something. Anything that will snap the last bit of resolve he has left.
“I’m drunk,” you say weakly.
Steve lets out a slow breathy laugh knowing that a glass of wine wasn’t enough to get you drunk, enough to give you liquid courage, but you must have forgotten all the times he’d stayed by your side at parties and watched you down numerous drinks mumbling something about having your fathers tolerance to alcohol. “You’re sober enough to moan my name while feeling up another guy.”
That does something to you.
Something dangerous.
Your chest tightens. Your pulse stutters. The air feels too thick to breathe.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” you say.
“No,” he agrees. “You never do.”
The words hurt more than they should.
He reaches up, unclips his helmet that was hanging from the back of his suit, sets it down on the coffee table with careful precision. The sound is soft but final.
“You deserve better than him,” Steve says.
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You’ve already told me that.”
“And yet,” he replies, eyes never leaving yours, “here we are.”
You move closer despite yourself, stopping just inches from him. “You do not get to be jealous,” you say quietly. “we’re just friends.”
Steve’s jaw clenches. “just friends” he says
Another silence. Heavy. Loaded.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops back to his side before he stands up to his full height.
“You shouldn’t settle,” he says.
Anger courses through you. He keeps saying that. Over and over. Like a warning and a promise he refuses to fulfill.
“Then maybe you should stop showing up halfway through my mistakes,” You counter pushing him back, he barely moved from your force but ever the gentleman he is he took a step back on his own accord. “This is your fault you know? You-you come in and save me everytime I might need you or - or when I don’t even know I need you, you remember everything about me, you care about me…” The word care came out of you mouth with a vicious poison “How am I supposed to not settle steve? When-when…” You groaned loudly in frustration, your hands huffing at your sides. “I’m never going to be able to find someone if you don’t just fucking leave me alone.”
The words land like a punch to his face. His eyes darken. “I won’t apologize for wanting you safe,” he says.
“I was safe,” you say.
Steve’s gaze flicks to the door Larry just left through. “No,” he says. “You were distracted.”
“Oh so now this is my fault!” You yell at him.
You’re certain the rest of the team can hear you screaming from downstairs. It’s probably only a matter of time before Sam or Natasha comes running up the stairs to make sure everything is okay.
You step away from him to the other end of the living room.
“YES!” He says following your every movement. “You let these men in here like you don’t care what could happen.”
“NOTHING WAS HAPPENING” you say so incredibly frustrated. “You know what?” you say with a scoff “if Larry can’t come here maybe i’ll just go fuck him at his place. See how safe I am then.”
You walk past Steve, your shoulder hitting his side as you pass him.
His hand reaches out grabbing your upper arm tightly. Not tight enough to hurt. But tight enough to make you stay.
He lets out a shaky breath. “Go to bed”
“What are you my grandpa?” You say roughly pulling your arm out of his grasp “I’m so done with this.”
You don’t even bother to wait for the elevator.
You grab your purse.
Your fingers shake as you click on Larry’s contact. You wait just long enough for Steve to hear you say, “Yea baby? It’s me, can I come over?”
Over the next few weeks, you hadn’t spoken a word to Steve.
Not really.
You existed in the same space, breathed the same recycled air, passed him in hallways and common rooms and kitchens, but you didn’t give him anything. Not your voice. Not your attention. Not even the courtesy of eye contact most days.
You barely glanced his way when you passed him in the main living quarters. You didn’t ask how his missions went. You didn’t comment when he came back bruised or bleeding or exhausted, uniform torn, knuckles split, jaw tight with things he never said. You didn’t sit next to him on the couch during movie nights or linger in the kitchen when he poured his coffee in the mornings, even though he still poured an extra mug out of habit before catching himself.
No, you were way too stubborn and way too fucking petty for your own good.
Because the moment Bucky Barnes walked back into the compound one random afternoon, you clung to the man like a lifeline and didn’t let go.
You supposed it was the equivalent of sliding into your ex’s best friend’s DMs.
Trying to bang your super soldier best friend’s scarier and bigger super soldier best friend.
You gave yourself a headache just thinking that thought.
But one thing had become painfully clear to you that night.
Steve fucking Rogers did, in fact, have some kind of feelings for you.
Whether he was into you or just wanted to fuck you, you weren’t sure.
You didn’t care.
You were pissed.
Pissed because the night you went to Larry’s house, you found yourself in a rather unpleasant situation with him and one of his roommates, and Steve wasn’t there to save you. You had to figure it out yourself. You had to leave. You had to make yourself safe with your own hands shaking and your heart pounding in your ears, keys clenched between your fingers like weapons.
Pissed because Steve had been right.
And you hated being wrong.
So yeah, you leaned into Bucky a little bit more than usual.
Not enough to make him uncomfortable.
But enough for him to raise an eyebrow in amusement.
It happens in the common room.
Bucky drops his bag by the couch, freshly back from a mission, the dull thud echoing in the open space. His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, brushing the collar of his jacket, falling into his eyes when he moves. His beard is starting to grow in too, rough and dark and doing something unfair to his already dangerous face. Things you usually loved on Steve. When his hair grew longer on the sides and his beard grew in after a rough couple of days, when he stopped trying so hard to look like a symbol and just looked like a man.
“Well damn,” you say lightly, stepping into Bucky’s space without hesitation. “You disappear for a few weeks and come back looking like that.”
Bucky smirks, slow and knowing. “Like what?”
You reach up without thinking, fingers hovering just shy of his hair, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth. “Like you finally stopped letting Sam bully you into haircuts.”
His laugh is low and surprised. “I hate my hair long.”
You grin, unapologetic. “I love it.”
Bucky’s eyes flick over your face, curious now. Amused. “That so?”
“Yeah,” you say, leaning back against the couch cushions, angling your body toward him in a way that is very intentional. “Makes you look less like an assassin and more like someone I’d absolutely love to make bad decisions with.”
Across the room, Steve freezes.
He’s pretending to listen to Sam. Pretending to look at something on his phone. Pretending not to notice the way you’ve angled yourself into Bucky’s space like you belong there.
But he notices.
Of course he does.
“Guess I can’t help it. Something about a man who doesn’t try so hard,” you flirt, voice easy, casual. You let your gaze flick pointedly past Bucky, just long enough to make sure Steve sees it.
Then you look back at Bucky and smile.
“And the beard,” you add, voice softer now, more deliberate. “That’s new too, right?”
“Still growing it out,” Bucky says. “Think I’ll keep it.”
“You should,” you say immediately. “I love when it gets like this.”
His eyebrow lifts. “You love it, huh?”
“Yeah,” you say, fingers grazing his jaw this time, a light touch that lingers just a second too long. “Makes you look older. Rougher. Hotter.”
Bucky catches the shift immediately. His gaze slides to Steve and back to you. “You’re poking the bear.”
You tilt your head innocently. “What bear?”
“The one pretending he doesn’t care.”
You laugh quietly. “Oh. That one.”
You reach out and tug lightly at the collar of Bucky’s jacket. “You grew it out more on the sides too,” you add. “Looks good on you.”
“Careful,” Bucky says, voice dropping, playing along now. “You keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you mean it.”
You shrug. “Maybe I do.”
Steve clears his throat from across the room.
Hard.
Bucky’s smile widens just a little. “See,” he murmurs. “Bear.”
Steve finally looks at you.
You don’t look away.
Instead, you smile.
It’s sweet. Sharp. Weaponized.
Later, it only gets worse, your fault entirely.
You sit beside Bucky at a team dinner, knees brushing, shoulder pressed into his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You steal food off his plate without asking. You laugh at his jokes, loud and unrestrained. You lean in when he talks like his voice is something you want to catch in your mouth and keep there.
“You always this charming,” you tease, nudging his metal arm. “Or is this just for me?”
“Only for you,” Bucky says easily.
Steve’s fork bends in his hand.
“when was the last time you danced?” you ask Bucky suddenly.
Bucky blinks. “What?”
You stand, offering him your hand. “Come on. Your buddy over there has been saving a dance for a woman who’s definitely long dead,” Steve gives you a heated look but you smile, unbothered. “I know you used to dance back in your day. besides I need to burn off some energy.”
“Since when do you dance?”
“Since I’m trying not to commit murder.”
That earns a laugh.
Bucky takes your hand.
Steve stands at the same time. “We need Barnes for debrief.”
Bucky doesn’t let go of you. “It can wait.”
You squeeze his hand. “Yeah, Stevie. It can wait.”
The nickname lands like a slap.
Later, when you finally cross paths alone in the hallway, the tension snaps tight enough to hurt.
Steve blocks your path.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he says.
You fold your arms. “Doing what?”
“You know exactly what.”
You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Being friendly?”
“You’re flirting with him.”
You smile. “Jealous?”
“I don’t get jealous.”
“Liar.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re playing with fire.”
You step closer. “Funny. You didn’t seem to mind this much when I was playing with someone else.”
His breath stutters. “That was different.”
“How?”
He doesn’t answer.
You lean in just enough for him to smell your perfume. “That’s what I thought.”
The silence between you is thick.
Heavy.
Angry.
Unfinished.
And neither of you backs down.
You don’t stop.
That’s the problem.
If anything, once you realize Steve is watching, really watching, you lean harder into it.
Steve’s hand tightens around his coffee mug the next morning.
Natasha watches the whole thing with open amusement.
Bucky glances at Steve again, then back to you. He lowers his voice just enough to make it intimate. “You’re really laying it on thick today.”
You shrug. “Maybe I’m just honest.”
“Uh huh.”
“You don’t mind,” you say lightly.
Bucky chuckles. “Not at all.”
Steve sets his mug down a little too hard.
“You’re hovering,” he says flatly.
You don’t even look at him. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
Bucky turns slightly, putting his body just enough between you and Steve to make the message clear. “We’re just talking.”
Steve’s jaw flexes. “You’re touching.”
You smile sweetly. “You never complained before.”
That does it.
Steve steps closer, presence heavy and undeniable. “You’re doing this on purpose.” he says again.
You finally turn to face him. “Doing what?” you reply in a mock voice.
“Complimenting him,” Steve says. “Like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, blinking innocently.
“You know exactly what,” he snaps.
Bucky clears his throat. “To be fair, she’s not wrong.”
You grin. “See?”
Steve’s eyes cut to Bucky. “Stay out of it.”
Bucky lifts his hands. “Hey. I’m just standing here looking handsome.”
You laugh, leaning into Bucky’s side. “You really are.”
Steve’s voice drops. “That’s enough.”
“No,” you say calmly. “It’s really not.”
“You don’t get to parade him around just to get a rise out of me.”
You step closer to Steve now, close enough that he can see the challenge in your eyes. “I’m not parading anyone. I’m just appreciating.”
“Bullshit.”
You tilt your head. “Is it?”
His voice tightens. “You’re listing off every single thing I know you like about me.”
You pause.
Just for a second.
Then you smile.
“Funny,” you say. “You noticed that.”
Bucky lets out a quiet breath behind you. “Oh boy.”
“You grew your hair out,” you continue, eyes locked on Steve now even though your hand stays resting on Bucky’s arm. “You let your beard grow in. You stopped wearing white shirts and started wearing darker colors. Youre doing all the things you know i like.”
Steve’s chest rises sharply.
“And now you’re mad,” you add softly, “because someone else is doing it better.”
Bucky shifts, clearly enjoying this far too much. “I wouldn’t say better.”
You glance back at him. “Don’t be modest.”
Steve’s control frays.
“You think this is funny,” he says.
“No,” you reply honestly. “I think it’s exhausting.”
He steps closer. “Then stop.”
“Why?” you ask. “Because it makes you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The word lands sharp.
Bucky straightens. “Okay,” he says, gentle but firm. “Maybe we all take a breath.”
Steve doesn’t look at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
Bucky shrugs. “A little.”
“Why?”
Bucky meets his gaze steadily. “Because you’re both idiots.”
You snort.
Steve finally looks at Bucky. “You think this is helping?”
Bucky nods. “Yeah. Actually.”
Steve frowns. “How?”
“Because,” Bucky says simply, “you’ve been circling each other for years. And she’s poking you because she’s mad she likes you and that you won’t just say it.”
You scoff. “I am not.”
Bucky gives you a look. “You absolutely are.”
Steve’s voice drops. “Say what.”
Silence stretches.
Your heart pounds.
Bucky sighs. “See. This is the part where I exit before one of you throws something.”
You grab his sleeve. “Don’t you dare.”
He smiles at you softly. “You don’t need me to piss him off. You already have him right where you want him.”
Steve exhales slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “What do you want.”
You swallow.
Then you straighten your shoulders. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t feel anything.”
His jaw clenches. “And I want you to stop using Buck as a pawn in your childish games.”
You glance at Bucky. “Sorry.”
Bucky grins. “Worth it.”
Steve takes another step closer. “You keep flirting with him because it’s safer than admitting you want me, admitting i’ve been right this whole time.”
You bristle. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
“Then stop doing this,” he says quietly.
You hesitate.
Then you lift your chin. “Make me.”
The room goes dead silent.
Bucky mutters, “Finally,” and slips away, leaving the two of you standing there, angry and charged and seconds away from something neither of you can outrun anymore.
Both of your chests heave heavily with each heated breath you share. Steve steps forward, his hand reaching out to grab the back of your head, bringing you in for a heated kiss. He has to bend down slightly and angle your head upwards in order to make it comfortable for you. You let out a shocked gasp at the movement; Steve takes the opportunity to run his tongue along your bottom lip.
The two of you are the only people left in the common room, but still, as the kiss grows heated and his hands roam across your skin, touching wherever his hands can explore, seemingly memorizing your skin.
You let your hands hurriedly explore every crevice of Steve’s muscular body, a moan slipping out of your mouth when he wraps his hands on the bottoms of your thighs and lifts you up effortlessly.
You break the kiss, your chest heaving. “What are you doing?” you ask.
Steve walks you toward the elevator, pressing the button and stepping in when the doors open. “I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman right now and take you up to my room,” he says roughly, not looking down at you, but his hands tighten.
You shudder at the thought of his composure breaking. An idea pops into your head as you lean forward, your tongue running up his veiny neck and your teeth biting down on his ear lobe. “I never asked you to be a gentleman,” you say lowly into his ear.
He lets out a laugh, stepping out of the elevator. “I’m not doing it for you,” he says. “You don’t deserve nice me right now.”
“No?” you say as he all but throws you back onto his bed. He stands at the end of it.
“No,” he says.
Steve's eyes darken with hunger as he towers over you, his broad frame casting a shadow across the bed. He yanks his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the chiseled planes of his chest and abs, every muscle honed from years of fighting. Your gaze drops to the massive bulge straining against his pants, and heat pools between your thighs at the sheer size of him. He notices, a smirk curling his lips. “Like what you see, baby? This cock's all yours tonight, if you can handle it.”
Before you can respond, he grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed, flipping you onto your stomach with ease. His large hands grip your hips, pulling your ass up as he strips off your clothes roughly, shirt torn open, pants shoved down your legs until you're bare and exposed. You arch back instinctively, but he slaps your ass hard, the sting making you yelp. “Stay still, sweetheart. You're mine to play with now.”
He drops to his knees behind you, his breath hot against your skin as he spreads your thighs wide. Without warning, his fingers part your folds, two thick digits plunging into your soaked pussy. There was nothing gentleman like in the way he was acting right now. but fuck if you didn’t love it, it almost felt poetic, Steve Rogers was America’s golden boy, you knew your father often teased him for probably still being a virgin even a hundred years later. Turns out, Steve fucking Rogers is most definitely not a virgin and fucks nothing like you imagined the Captain America would. You cry out, clenching around the intrusion as he curls them deep, stroking that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “Fuck, you're dripping for me already,” he growls, his voice laced with possession. “This tight little cunt was made for my fingers, wasn't it? Just mine, no one else. So greedy, sucking me in like you can't get enough.”
You nod frantically, pushing back against his hand in an attempt for more, but he tangles his fingers in your hair and yanks your head back, forcing you to arch further. The pull sends a jolt straight to your core, and you whimper as he pumps his fingers faster, his thumb circling your clit with rough precision. “That's it, take it like a good girl. My good little slut, getting all wet and dumb for me.” The praise mixes with the dirty words, making your mind fuzzy, thoughts scattering as pleasure builds. “Let me ask you something,” he groaned into your ear, his back pressed against your arched back. His fingers slowed inside of you, hoping to stop your orgasm before it could crash over you. “All those manchilds you went out with, could they make you feel like this?” He asked you.
“Uh,” you said trying to think “no - no Stevie.” You said trying to roll your hips back but his pelvis held your lower abdomen against the edge of the bed.
He laughed. He actually laughed in your face, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.” he said his fingers speeding up inside of you “They make you cum?” He asked you.
You shook your head hoping your honesty would work in your favor. He hummed “Admit you moaned my name and i’ll let you cum.” He said.
Your eyes rolled back into your head when he hit that perfect spot with his fingers. Just as fast as he found it he stopped suddenly, you yelled out. “I did, I did! M’sorry Stevie, couldn’t stop thinking- oh fuckkkk, couldn’t stop ‘maging it was you I was kissing fuckkk.” You said his fingers started their ministrations again.
“Suddenly such a good girl huh,” He said leaning down and biting your shoulder, “cum for me” He said.
Your first orgasm crashes over you suddenly, walls fluttering around his fingers as you soak his hand. “Steve, oh god…” you gasp, but he doesn't stop, scissoring his fingers wider to stretch you, prepping you for what's next. “One down, baby. You're gonna come so many times for me tonight, until you can't even think straight. pay back for all those asshole you brought around me.”
He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, and you whine at the loss, but then his mouth is on you. Steve's tongue dives into your pussy, lapping at your release like a man starved. He sucks your clit between his lips, flicking it relentlessly while his hands knead your ass, spreading you open. You buck against his face, grinding down as he eats you out with filthy enthusiasm, his stubble scraping your inner thighs. “Taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs against your folds, the vibration making you tremble. “All mine. No one else gets this pussy.”
The possessiveness in his tone pushes you toward the edge again. You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling hard, urging him deeper. He groans into you, the sound rumbling through your core, and rewards you by thrusting his tongue inside, fucking you with it while his nose bumps your clit. Your second climax hits harder, legs shaking as you scream his name, juices flooding his mouth. He drinks you down, not letting up until you're a quivering mess.
Finally, he rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You hear the rustle of his belt, then his zipper, and when you glance back, your eyes widen at the sight of his cock springing free, thick, long, veined, the head flushed and leaking. It's huge, bigger than anything you've taken, and the size of it ignites something in you, a thrill of fear and want twisting in your gut. “Steve, it's... too big,” you breathe, but your pussy clenches emptily, betraying your words.
He chuckles darkly, stroking himself as he climbs onto the bed, positioning you on your back. “Oh, you can take it, baby. I'll make it fit - stretch this pretty hole until it's molded to my shape.” He grabs your hair again, tilting your head back for a bruising kiss, his tongue claiming your mouth just like he claimed your pussy. You taste yourself on him, moaning as he lines up his cock at your entrance.
With one hand fisting your hair and the other pinning your hip, Steve thrusts in, unprotected, raw, the thick head breaching you inch by inch. You gasp into his mouth, the stretch burning so good, your walls yielding to his girth. “Fuck, so tight,” he grits out, eyes locked on yours. “Look at you, taking my big cock like a champ. That's my girl, nice and full for me.” The praise soothes the edge of pain, and you relax, letting him sink deeper until he's buried to the hilt, his balls pressed against your ass.
He stills for a moment, both of you panting, but then he pulls your hair harder, making you arch as he starts to move, slow at first, letting you feel every ridge and vein dragging along your insides. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he whispers hotly against your ear. “This pussy's mine now. Say it.”
“Yours,” you whimper, lost in the sensation, your mind going blissfully blank as he picks up speed. Each thrust bottoms out, his cock so deep you swear you can feel it in your stomach. Steve presses his hand down on your lower stomach, “Fuck baby, gotta see this.” He says changing the hand on your heads position so he was lifting your head forcing you look down at where your bodies met, specifically the space above it. And there it is, the faint bulge in your tummy with every plunge, visible under your skin as he rearranges your guts. “Stevie fuck” you manage, voice slurred with pleasure.
His eyes drop back to it, and he groans, pressing a hand back over the swell. “See that? That's me, owning you from the inside out. My huge dick making you all swollen and dumb.” His words hit you as he says it, your thoughts dissolving into nothing but the feel of him pounding you, the wet slaps of skin on skin filling the room.
You come again around him, third orgasm ripping through you, milking his cock with spasms. He doesn't slow, fucking you through it, his grip on your hair tightening until tears prick your eyes. “Good girl, coming on my cock. So pretty when you're falling apart.” But then you tug his hair in retaliation, pulling him down for a messy kiss, and he growls, hips snapping harder. The dual pull, your hands in his hair, his in yours, drives him wild, his thrusts turning brutal.
Your fourth climax builds fast, body oversensitive, and you babble incoherently, “Ste- ah- v...” barely able to form his name as he rails you into the mattress. “That's right, get all fucked out for me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow. “Can't even say my name? Just a dumb little hole for my cum now.” The dirty talk pushes you over, and you shatter, vision whiting out as you squirt around him, soaking the sheets.
Steve follows with a roar, burying deep and flooding your pussy with hot spurts, claiming you completely. He collapses half on top of you, both heaving, his cock still twitching inside.
You couldn’t form a coherent thought but you knew in the morning you’d pat yourself on the back for being right about that super soldier stamina.
Steve's massive frame still hovers over you for a lingering moment, his cock twitching one last time inside your overfilled pussy before he pulls out with a slow, deliberate slide. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper softly, your body clenching around nothing as a warm gush of his cum spills from your stretched folds, trickling down your thighs and soaking the sheets beneath you. Your mind is a hazy fog, every nerve ending buzzing with the aftershocks of those relentless orgasms, leaving you limp and boneless, eyelids heavy as sleep tugs at the edges of your consciousness.
He shifts immediately, the dominant fire in his eyes softening into something warm and protective. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble now stripped of its earlier growl, replaced by gentle concern. He brushes a strand of sweat-dampened hair from your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with feather-light tenderness. You're too spent to respond coherently, just a soft hum escaping your lips as you nuzzle into his palm, seeking the comfort of his touch.
Scooting back, Steve stands up and walks to the bathroom grabbing a towel from the cupboard. He wets it quickly in the bathroom sink, the sound of running water a distant lullaby in your fuzzy state. Returning, he kneels between your parted legs, his broad hands careful as he lifts one thigh to clean the sticky mess between them. The cool dampness of the cloth against your sensitive skin makes you shiver, a faint gasp slipping out, but he soothes you with a kiss to your inner knee. “I've got you, sweetheart. Just relax, let me take care of my girl.”
He works methodically, wiping away the evidence of your passion, the slick remnants of your releases, the faint redness from his earlier grips, the cum still leaking from your puffy entrance. His movements are unhurried, reverent almost, as if he's worshiping the body he just claimed so fiercely. Every swipe is gentle, avoiding any pressure on your swollen clit or tender walls, and he murmurs praises under his breath - “So beautiful like this, all soft and spent for me” - his words wrapping around you like a blanket.
Once you're clean, he discards the towel and pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in his world. Your head lolls against his shoulder, cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart, and he rocks you slowly, one arm banded securely around your waist while the other strokes your back in long, calming sweeps. “You were incredible, you know that?” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “Took everything I gave and more. I'm so proud of you.”
The exhaustion crashes over you fully now, your limbs heavy, thoughts drifting like clouds, but his warmth keeps you anchored. He reaches for a bottle of water on the nightstand, unscrewing the cap with one hand before tipping it to your lips. “Small sips, doll. Gotta keep you hydrated after all that.” You manage a few swallows, the cool liquid easing the dryness in your throat, and he smiles down at you, eyes crinkling with affection.
As he sets the bottle aside and tucks the covers around you both, pulling you flush against him under the sheets, his hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, then lifts his gaze to meet your half-lidded one. “I love you,” he says simply, the words raw and sincere, carrying the weight of everything unspoken during the heat of the moment. “More than anything. You're everything to me.”
Your heart swells despite the sleepiness weighing you down, a sleepy smile curving your lips as you squeeze his hand weakly. “Love you too, Stevie,” you mumble, voice thick and slurred, but the truth shines through. “So much.”
He exhales a contented sigh, drawing you closer until there's no space between you, his chin resting atop your head. “Sleep now, baby. I'm right here always.” His fingers resume their lazy patterns on your skin, lulling you deeper into rest, the world fading to the rhythm of his breathing and the safe harbor of his arms.
warnings/contents: in love with each other and everyone can see it (even them). friends to lovers. reader is implied to be younger than hotch. insecure reader. reader swears like a sailor. derek and emily being the goats. a bit of violence - reader is a badass and she kicks ass. mentions of death, guns, shots, injuries. hotch has a love confession that is bridgerton coded. humour. they make -out. sexual happenings but no smut. let me know what y'all think!
song inspo earrings - malcolm todd
word count: 6.0k+
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hotch masterlist
There was an unspoken thing between you and Hotch. One that everyone that could pick up on, regardless of whether you’ve worked with them before or not. Even if everyone knew about it, it was just between the two of you. Your relationship was built in the rare quietness that working in the BAU allowed.
The late nights in his office, talking about nothing and everything while you helped him with paperwork. The late nights in the hotel room where one of you ended up in each other’s room.
You never placed a word for what was between you. Never defined it, and never needed to. The moments between the two of you, the unspoken gestures, the brief glances and touches were enough.
And you were happy with that. Until now. Until her.
She was new. Doing rotations around the different departments, see which one she fit in. Something that you did when you were a new recruit in the FBI.
Madeleine was like the calm in the storm, you could sense Hotch being at ease in her presence. She was kind, never talked back unlike you now. She followed orders to a T, and whether that was because she was new, or her personality, you didn’t particularly care to find out.
She reminded you of you, in the early days of the BAU. Before you became comfortable in your skin, and knew who you were. The one that Hotch gravitated towards.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” Emily scoffed into her drinks as she watched you throw daggers at Hotch and Madeleine.
“I’m not,” you stubbornly murmured, your eyes still finding the two. She was way too near, way too bold for a shiny-eyed recruit in the face of someone who was her superior, and who had the reputation of a hard-ass.
But here he was. Not being the Hotch that you knew. He was smiling down at her, and he never smiles at anyone. Well, that was false. He smiled at you, and sometimes Rossi, but mostly at you. He never directed it to anyone else.
“Please, Hotch is like a lovesick puppy when he’s with you,” Emily rolled her eyes.
“I mean, maybe she’s good for him, you know?” You started, a frown on your pretty face. “She’s calm, she’s nice, she’s quiet and she doesn’t backtalk to him, or undermine him when he sends out orders,” you gulped. “He deserves something good.”
Derek flicked your head causing you to rub your head in pain. “Derek, what the fuck?”
“Don’t ever sell yourself short like that, kid,” Derek warned, his finger pointed at you. “If anything, Hotch is lucky that you’re looking at him.”
“Hear, hear,” Emily agreed. “You are a bombshell, and he’s,” Emily looked towards Hotch, “just a man.”
“You’re the best thing for him,” Derek said softly. “I’ve never seen him this happy.”
You smiled at the kind words thrown by them, it was nice to have it wash over you until you looked over to the cause of your pain. She was touching his arm now, practically on top of him. He never allowed the team to touch him, minus you.
“I’m gonna head out to lunch before everyone takes the brisket again,” you removed yourself from the group and heading towards the cafeteria.
You were too in your head that you didn’t realise that Spencer called out your name, pouting slightly when you didn’t respond. “Don’t take it personally, kid,” Derek clapped his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “She thinks that Hotch is in love with the new recruit.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Spencer replied, confusion in his tone. “Everyone knows that Hotch is in love with her.”
“Well,” Derek stretched out the word and looked at Hotch and Madeleine. “Can you blame her though?”
“It’s probably not what it looks like,” Spencer frowned. “Maybe she just has daddy issues and Hotch is fulfilling that role.”
Derek barked out a laugh, while Emily grinned in amusement. “Don’t think that helps the scene, kid.”
The conversation naturally died down as Hotch approached the table, Madeleine in tow. Emily couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Sure, Canavan was a nice kid. A bit too nice for Emily’s liking, a bit too fake and green-eyed, but maybe she was biased. She was fond of you afterall.
“She’s gone,” Emily provided, not looking up from her book and before Hotch could ask the question. “To lunch.”
All she received was a frown from Hotch. Taking out his phone, he looked at the screen before humming and excused himself before leaving in the same direction that you did.
“Oh no, kid, don’t even think about it,” Derek stopped Madeleine from following Hotch. “That’s their time. I would not interrupt that. And I would not get in between them.”
“Yeah, one time I did and not that Hotch would ever admit it, but I think he hated me at that moment,” Spencer smiled tightly, looking at Madeleine.
“Are they together?”
“Worse.”
“Worse?” She repeated, not quite getting the obvious inside joke between the team.
“They’re practically in love but too them to say anything,” Emily snarked, looking at the girl in front of her. Narrowing her eyes briefly, she saw the despondent look on the other girl’s face.
“Oh.”
“So, don’t think about it,” Derek warned. “As nice as you are, those two only ever revolve around each other.”
-
“There you are,” Hotch said, a smile appearing on his face as he saw you. “Brisket?” He nodded towards the food in your hand.
Grinning you nodded, “Finally managed to grab some before DT grabbed everything. Got you some,” you tapped the tupperware next to you.
“Thank you, honey,” placing a soft kiss on your head, he sat down next to you. “Are you okay?”
You took a beat to say anything, just chewing your food and thinking. Maybe now was the right time to bring it up, everything that you were feeling. The insecurity and jealousy that’s been brewing inside of you. That for the first time since this started between you and Hotch, you felt that you were on unsteady ground. That you didn’t know where you fit into his life.
However, as you looked around, you realised that bringing this up during work was not something you could do.
And if Hotch said the worst things that your brain could conjure up, there’s no place to run or hide from him. You still had a good six hours until you clocked off. Plus, the embarrassment, there was no way you were getting embarrassed at work due to a man.
“Just tired,” you eventually landed on. Which wasn’t a lie, technically. But you still needed a few days to figure out what you were going to say to him.
Hotch looked at you, and as much as he didn’t want unprofessional feelings in the workplace, he couldn’t help it. You were mesmerising. Everything you did managed to leave him in awe. As if whatever you were doing was the first time he was seeing it.
“Do I have sauce on my face?” You asked, your free hand tapping your face softly.
Hotch shook his head, a small fond smile on his face, “You’re beautiful.”
You softened, your foot tapping his, “I know.”
Chuckling he couldn’t help but lean and kiss your forehead again.
-
You watched, arms crossed as Hotch delegated the tasks, eyes flicking towards you every now and then. You gave him an encouraging nod as he began to shift his attention to the local police department.
You waited for the orders, everyone pairing off. You perked up as you heard your name, and his, along with two others. Clenching your jaw as you saw her bound up to Hotch, too happy in this context, you turned your head to search for the other person in your little team.
“Price,” the man held out his hand which you gladly took. It was rare that the local pd respected any of you, let alone the women. Introducing yourself, you both began to exchange information.
Hotch and Canavan moved to where the two of you were, heads bent together as you discussed the different entrances that the warehouse had. “I’ve got your back, if you have mine,” Price looked to you, and for a moment you were lost in his blue eyes.
If you met him two years ago, maybe you would have taken him out for a drink after the case, maybe you would have exchanged numbers. However, it was now, and a gentle hand on your back brought you out of your reverie, you looked towards the culprit who barely acknowledged his tender touch.
“‘Course, Price,” you gave him a soft smile.
“Officer Price,” Hotch interrupted your conversation, “if you could show Agent Canavan the layout of the warehouse,” he nodded to the woman standing next to him, looking a bit distraught as he sent her off.
“He’s awfully happy to be partnered with you,” Hotch stated as he kept the man in his line of sight, his hand still on the small of your back, absentmindedly rubbing small circles.
“You partnered us, remember?” You quipped back. “Price and I can take the inside of the warehouse, if you and Canavan want to go around the perimeter,” you suggested, already forming a plan in your head. That would be the easiest and most logical.
“I’ll go with Price, stay with Maddy,” Hotch amended. “It would do her well to be with someone like you. I trust you to keep her safe.”
“Maddy,” you mocked quietly, but not quiet enough as Hotch heard you. At his questioning look, “Nicknames, already?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Gonna start calling her honey as well?” You accused, envy embedding itself in every nerve you had. You stepped out of his hold and you watched as his hand stayed in the air for a moment, and then dropping to his side, a small clench of his fist.
It was a standstill for a moment between the two of you, you too in your head that you didn’t notice the way that Hotch was studying you. The concentrated look that he only ever has when he’s trying to piece together a particularly frustrating puzzle.
“As much as I want to listen to this telenovela, we have a case,” Rossi interrupted as he looked between the two of you. “Lives are at stake, remember?”
You nodded, ashamed in your brief outburst. Rossi was right. This was an active case. People were dead and will die if you didn’t stop acting like a jealous, hormonal teenager.
Hotch watched you leave as Rossi studied him, a knowing look on his face. “What, Dave?” Hotch exhaled.
“Do you seriously not see it?”
“See what?”
Rossi made a noise and smiled tightly at him, “You know, for a brilliant profiler, you’re very stupid.” At Hotch’s glare, Rossi held up his hands. “All I’m saying is, how do you not realise why (Y/N) is mad at you.”
--
“Canavan, stay back!” You ordered, shoving your hand in front of her. “Fucking, don’t go charging in there, we know he’s armed and he has accomplices, that may or may not be in there with him. So stay the fuck back.”
“They have the victims in there!” She pointed to the room at the end of the hall.
“We wait for back-up,” you commanded. “We don’t know if they have the victims in there, and again we don’t know if he’s alone.”
“The victims are in there,” she all but growled, finding the strength to kick your leg and push you out of the way.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” you angrily followed her, gun held to your side. “Canavan,” you whispered angrily, trying to keep up with her. “Fuck, Canavan!” You saw her getting yanked inside, screaming as she went.
Without another thought, you ran towards her, from your memory, this was a big room. There were plenty of craters that you could hide behind, but it was far too dark to really see anything. If shots were fired and you didn’t know where it came from, you were screwed. But you had to try.
As best as you could, you hid yourself behind a crater, as vicious as the unsubs were, they were stupid. Ego the gods could envy, they didn’t bother hiding when they were trying to shoot.
Seeing your chance, you quickly straightened, once your eyes were on him, you shot two bullets into his chest. Running quickly, you took his gun and confirmed that he was dead. Suddenly you felt yourself being shoved into the wall, your head banging harshly against the concrete. Fumbling with your knife, you quickly pulled it out and lodged it in his ribs causing the unsub to groan and throw another punch at your face.
Twisting the knife as much as you could, the man screamed in agony as he swayed back away from you, allowing yourself to stand up. Grabbing the metal, you tried to swing down at the man when he came up, grabbing it and directing a punch underneath your rib, causing you to drop to the ground. Taking the pipe from your hand, you saw the man grin as he raised it up, poised to hit you until you heard two gunshots.
“Unsub down,” you could hear Derek tell the walkie talkie. “There were two,” you could vaguely hear Derek describe the scene, the ground in front of you suddenly the most appealing thing to look at.
You could hear voices in your earpiece, vaguely hearing your last name, then your name, each call getting more panicked when you didn’t answer.
“Shit, Hotch,” Derek ran over to you, “she’s down, unsub hit her.”
“Canavan,” you muttered, trying to point to where you saw her last. “Knocked out.”
Derek looked towards the girl, conscious and now slouched over by the corner of the room. Briefly glancing at her and seeing no visible injuries, he turned his attention back to you. “Alright, mama,” helping you up, Derek looked at your wounds.
You saw the rest of the team run in, Hotch at the helm. He partially looked at Canavan, then nodded to Emily and headed straight to you.
“What were you thinking?” Hotch started as he looked at you. The words coming out sharper than he intended as he saw the state of your injuries.
“Hotch, man, back off,” Derek stood between the two of you. “We all heard that it was Canavan that came charging in. If there was anyone at fault,” he looked towards the girl who was now in Emily’s arms, eyes trained on Hotch.
“Shit,” you wiped the blood from your nose and grimaced as you felt more blood gush down. The throbbing in your head escalated as the room became louder. You felt overstimulated as everyone gathered in the room, lights suddenly on and you felt like throwing up.
You slapped his hand away, “I’m fucking fine, Hotch,” you groaned as you stood up. “Derek,” you handed off the unsubs gun, and he took it with a nod. Holstering your own gun, you began walking to the medic.
“Where are you going?” Hotch walked with you, the team forgotten behind.
“Medic,” was all you said. Gritting your teeth as you felt the throbbing underneath your ribs.
“I thought you said you were fine,” Hotch commented, a worrying frown on his face as he took notice of you holding your ribs. He ignored the woman who called his name, his attention all on you.
“Yeah, well, I know it’s going to cause a shitstorm if I don’t get it checked out,” you clenched your jaw as pain shot through your body due to the uneven ground. “Fucking,” you cursed under your breath as you felt Hotch catch your body, causing you tense momentarily.
“Easy,” Hotch mumbled softly.
“I’m fine,” you tried your best to shove yourself off him, you could see the ambulances now, just a few feet away. “Fuck off,” you cursed at him.
“What is going on with you?” Hotch narrowed his eyes, refusing to abandon you.
You turned back to him, and you didn’t know if it was the frustration that’s been building up, your new injuries or the fact that everything was just too loud and too bright, you exploded. “Why don’t you go back to your girlfriend?” You spat the word out as if it offended you personally. As if it wasn’t what you’ve been wanting from him.
Hotch briefly took a step back as if you’ve just slapped him, your eyes instantly zeroing on the hurt that flashed across his face. “What are you talking about?”
Opening your mouth, you gritted your teeth as pain began to worsen in your head.
“Forget about it,” grumbling, you walked away from Hotch, slowly making your way to the ambulances.
--
“She has some injuries, but you’re fine, well as much as you can be,” the medic finished taping up your wound. “She shouldn’t be alone, just in case.”
“She’ll stay with me,” Hotch announced, eyes trained intently on you.
“Jesus Christ, give me a break,” you mumbled under your breath, earning a breathy laugh from the medic beside you, which quickly stopped as he saw the look that Hotch gave him.
“Thanks,” nodding to the medic, you slowly jumped off the edge and began walking to the team that was now outside.
“Morgan!” You called out, “Need someone to supervise me tonight.”
Grabbing your elbow lightly, Hotch pulled you towards him, “She’s fine, Morgan. I’m looking after her.”
Whatever smartass comment Derek wanted to say was stopped by the stern look on Hotch’s faces, and the grip he had on you. Moving you towards the car, he helped you up and placed your seatbelt. “I’m not a child,” you frowned, yanking the seatbelt from him and clicking it yourself. All you got was an exhausted huff.
“Are we going to talk about this now or are you going to wait until we get back to the room?” Hotch asked, as he got into the car, and when you didn’t respond, he let out a sigh and began driving.
--
“Why are you being so stubborn?” Hotch asked as the two of you walked into his hotel room. “I can get your stuff or you can wear mine, I know that you feel more comfortable in them sometimes.”
Ignoring his question, you rolled your eyes, tired from the night, from the case, from the situation that you found yourself in with Hotch and the trainee. You were a grown woman, and here you were feeling the same things and doing the same things you were doing when you were sixteen.
“Why are you here?”
“This is my room,” Hotch stated dumbly, and for the umpteenth time that night, you rolled your eyes.
Exhausted, you stared at him, and exhaled loudly. “I mean why are you here with me, when your precious Canavan is also injured and needing to be looked after.”
“I want to make sure you’re okay,” Hotch said softly, taking a step forward but stopping when he saw you taking one back. “I frankly don’t care about her right now.”
“That’s not a very Unit Chief thing to say,” you quipped, removing your jacket, wincing as you stretched your arm too much.
“Honey,” Hotch started, moving towards you, hands out ready to help.
“Don’t,” you snapped, finally removing your jacket. You moved towards his bathroom, intending to shower until you heard him shuffle behind you.
You exhaled loudly, turning to face him, exhaustion on your face, “What do you want, Hotch and if you say it’s because you want to make sure I’m fine, I’m going to castrate you in your sleep.”
Hotch couldn’t help but chuckle at your retort, even when you were injured and in pain, you still managed to be so you.
“You heard the medic, I just need some rest,” you waved him off and began to remove your trousers. “If that’s all,” you gestured to the bathroom door.
“That isn’t all.” You looked at him expectantly, “You’ve been ignoring me.”
Scoffing you paused your movements and ran your hand through your hair, “And? In case you haven’t noticed we’ve been on a case.”
“Don’t be naive,” Hotch chided. “We’ve been different,” at the solemn look on his face, a small part of you softened. “We have been for a while,” Hotch confessed softly. What he won’t tell you was he was racking his brain, trying to think of anything that he could have possibly done to make you drift away from him.
Did you finally realise that you were too good for him? That he was a damaged old man and you deserved someone who could keep up with you? That you deserve someone good?
“I wonder why that is,” you commented under your breath.
“What?”
You scoffed, exasperated by everything and especially at the man in front of you. “Hotch, why don’t you just do us both a favour and just go relieve Morgan from his duty of taking care of Canavan. We both know you want to be in her room anyway,” you moved to close the bathroom door, a growl practically escaping you when he moved to block it.
“Why would I go into her room?” By the narrowness of Hotch’s eyes and animosity in his voice, you knew that you had to tread carefully.
“I’m sure she needs the big boss to comfort her after the big night she had,” you mocked and you felt like a bitch. Again, you wouldn’t feel this way, you normally wouldn’t say things like this, if it wasn’t for everything. You knew she was probably scared, it was one of her first times on the field and she got attacked. You closed your eyes at the guilt you felt.
“What the fuck?” It wasn’t the first time you heard Hotch curse, you were one of the few he allowed to hear him like that, but the tone severity of his tone took you back. “Why would I go into her room?” He repeated again, this time enclosing in your space. “Why do you keep bringing her up when I don’t care about her outside of work?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you and her not eye fucking the entire case?” You laughed bitterly. “For weeks, ever since I came back, all I can see are the two of you practically humping each other whenever you were in the same vicinity. I had to watch you laugh with her, Hotch!”
“Is this why you’ve been such a pain the last few weeks?” Hotch frowned, but there was an underlying tone of teasing that you didn’t like.
“Fuck you,” you spat at him, you shoved him from your space and stomped back to the bedroom. “Guess since I’m not the youngest, I lost my shine, eh?” You mockingly winked at him, venom in your tone. “She’s new, young, probably your type. Like I was once upon a time,” you almost regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. You bravely stared at Hotch, ignoring the fluttering in your chest and the churn of your stomach.
Hotch hissed your name in warning. “Do not,” Hotch warned. “Look at me,” he directed you.
There was something in his tone and his demeanor that made you keep your eyes on him. He was breathing heavier, his face flushed in anger. At you? At the situation? You didn’t know.
“I’m in love with you,” Hotch said seriously, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been in love with you since the first day that I saw you, and I fall in love more every single day I talk to you.”
Standing there in shock at the confession, you didn’t know what to say. It was the first time that either of you put anything to what you were feeling. What this was between the two of you. Your shoulders sagged a bit, a small bit of the fight leaving you, but a big part of you who’s been on the edge of crashing out needed this fight.
“You never did anything to tell her that you were taken!”
“What did you want me to do? We’ve never talked about this!” Hotch raised his voice, eyebrows to his hairline. “I didn’t want to put words into your mouth in case you didn’t feel the same way.”
Never felt the same way? You thought bitterly. Is he an idiot?
“You never stopped her! You instigated things, Hotch. Don’t think I don’t have eyes,” you bit out. “Is it because I was away for a week? That suddenly you forgot me and she appeared.”
“Do not insult me with the thought that my feelings are that fickle,” Hotch snapped. “That all it takes to forget my love for you is some woman throwing herself at me,” walking towards you, Hotch kept his gaze on you. Every step, every word was deliberate. “I didn’t realise what you saw, what you perceived was me eye fucking her, or practically humping her, when those actions are only ever reserved for you.”
“I was being nice, I’m her boss,” he explained, more gently this time but still a firmness in his tone that isn’t usually directed to you. “This job is already hard, you’ve told me plenty of times that I need to be kinder, put myself in their shoes, to not be a hardass,” at that you couldn’t help but chuckle, Hotch mirrored it with his own smile. “I want to be kinder for you. You make me want to do that.”
“I’m sorry for not stopping it, I’m sorry for allowing her to think that there was ever a possibility of me being into her when all I think of is you,” he moved forward now, internally elated when he saw you stay put. “I’m sorry for making you believe that I don’t live for you.”
Hotch was frustrated to say the least, not at you but at himself. For not seeing what Canavan was trying to do. The hurt that you felt all because of him, because he was being an idiot. All he could do was hope that you gave him a fighting chance. That he wouldn’t lose you because of this stupid, careless misunderstanding.
You briefly looked at him, you knew that he wasn’t lying. If there was one thing that Hotch would never do to you, it was to lie. You watched as he went through the different emotions, eventually landing on something that he only wore around you.
Walking towards you, he took the risk of gently placing his hands on your neck, “I’m in love with you and I’m sorry. You are the only thing that makes me sane, the one that actually makes me want to come to work because I can see you,” he admitted. “Please don’t let me not know what it’s like to see you first thing in the morning, or what kind of furniture you want for our home.”
And you wanted that. You wanted that with him. You wanted everything with Hotch, the good, the bad and the ugly. You wanted to know what kind of pots he preferred, if he liked multiple blankets on the bed. You wanted the laughs, the fights and bickering. You didn’t want that with anyone else.
“You let her touch you,” was all you could say. Thoughts running a mile per minute. You cringed inwardly as your behaviour from the past couple of weeks bombarded your brain. Were you really that petulant? That juvenile? You could feel the tears of embarrassment line your lashes. “And you’re an idiot for not seeing that she wanted to jump you.”
“And for that I’m sorry. I promise that you’ll be the only one that gets to touch me.”
“Good,” you said defiantly, and you watched as the left side of his lips tilted up. Raising your hands, you placed them on his chest. “Because I swear, if that ever happens again, Aaron,” you threatened.
“I know, honey,” Aaron nodded solemnly. He knew that if anything like this happened, you would be gone. Whatever future he wanted with you would be gone.
“You know though right?” You said softly, hoping to convey what was caught in your throat. You followed Hotch as he sat down on the bed and pulled you to him.
“Know what?” He teased, wrapping his hands around your waist.
“You’re being annoying and I’m injured,” you whined, your arms slowly falling to his shoulders. “You’re annoying,” you spoke as you slowly sat down in his lap.
“Baby, say it,” he hovered his hands around your waist, being extra careful of your injured side.
“I’m kinda in love with you,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “and baby? Really?” You arched a brow.
“Kind of?” Aaron smiled up at you. “I wanted to try something new,” he shrugged. “Weird?”
“No,” you shook your head. “Just different. I love it.”
“Oh, so you love that, but you’re kind of in love with me,” Hotch teased, fingers drumming against your waist.
“It’s because you’re being annoying,” you supplied. “But ask me tomorrow morning and it may change.” Leaning down, you smiled at him, the tension and anger washing away as you looked down into his eyes. “Now kiss,” you pouted and bent down, slotting your lips slowly to his.
It was soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world, and for the moment, you did. You grinned as you felt his stubble graze your skin. Placing one hand on the small of your back and the other on your thigh, Aaron pushed you closer to him, opening his mouth to allow your tongue to slide in.
Tracing the inside of his mouth, you felt his tongue slowly try to dominate yours, allowing him, you let out a moan as you felt Aaron’s hand drift down to your ass. He squeezed once, eliciting another moan into his mouth as you pushed yourself closer, hips flushed together.
“You’re beautiful,” Aaron whispered against your lips, as he pulled away from you. “My beautiful girl.” And there was no lie in what he said. You are beautiful, on top of him, slightly panting and face flushed. “I love you.”
“I’m kinda in love with you, Aaron Hotchner,” you grinned before kissing him again. Pushing him down, you began to slowly grind against him, hands grasping his shirt.
“Honey, you’re injured,” Hotch smiled against your cheek, as he sat up. Kissing from your cheek to the path to your ear, Aaron gave your lobe a kiss before he whispered, “Once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor-,”
“Pound town?” You finished for him, arching one brow. You flinched a bit as a bellowed laugh came out of Aaron.
Smiling largely at you, you couldn’t help but be entranced by the dimples of his cheeks and the light in his eyes. “Yes, honey. Pound town.”
--
You woke up to someone shuffling around the room, grimacing as you felt the telltale of a headache. “You okay, honey?” You felt the bed dip next to you. Opening your eyes, you were met with the beautiful sight of one Aaron Hotchner, wet hair and a towel wrapped around his hips. Before you could even truly appreciate the scene, a stabbing pain erupted behind your eye.
“Headache,” you groaned and closed your eyes.
Aaron tutted and moved around the room, opening his bag and running the tap. “Here, honey.”
“Thanks, love you,” you automatically said Aaron handed over some meds and water.
You didn’t see the lovestruck look on Aaron’s face, “Kinda in love with me or love me love me?”
“You’re more annoying in the morning,” you chided, handing him over the empty glass. “But love you, love you.”
Leaning down, he kissed you lightly, “Once this headache is gone, prepare for some serious smoochin’,” you warned. “Now come back, we have two more hours before we meet the others.”
“You want breakfast?” He asked as he climbed into bed with you, towel forgotten on the floor. “Fruit might help you with your headache.”
“Do you think they have scones?” You wrapped yourself around him, enjoying the warmth his body brought. “You smell good,” you placed a kiss on his neck, hand slowly drifting down.
“Honey,” he warned. “You’re injured, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not going to do anything strenuous,” you rolled your eyes, “yet,” cuddling closer to him, you couldn’t help the noise of content you let out. “I have three weeks of touching you to make up for, Aaron Hotchner.”
--
“What’s gonna happen to Canavan?” You asked as you traced nonsensical patterns on his forearm. Breakfast in front of the two of you, and Hotch was right (not that you’d ever say it) about the fruit helping with your headache.
Hotch made a noise above you, shifting a bit to allow his back to be more comfortable. “Discipline from the board, I assume. Then they’ll have to look at her files, she may get kicked out of the academy if they deem her unsuitable. She’s out of the BAU, though,” Hotch commented. He didn’t wish any harm on people, but he came very close when he found out she was the reason you went into that room. The reason why you got injured.
“She’s a good kid,” you muttered.
“I thought you hated her,” Hotch asked, leaning your body so he could look at you.
“I hated how she made me feel but I don’t hate her. I’m pretty sure that I would have done the exact same thing when I was her age,” you shrugged. “But she’s a good agent. Maybe not for the BAU, but somewhere else.”
It was silent for a little while, too long for your liking so you turned your head and realised that Aaron had been staring at you. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
“You’re something, you know that?” Hotch said quietly. “You’re wonderful and I love you.”
--
“Finally!” Spencer exclaimed as he saw the two of you walk into the jet. He grinned as he saw Hotch’s arm around you. “I knew it!”
“Reid, please try to keep it down,” Aaron cautioned, as his grip tightened on you.
“So it only takes for (Y/L/N) to get beat up for you to confess you’re in love with each other,” JJ teased as she gave you a hug and once over to make sure you’re okay.
“You guys couldn’t have become a couple like normal people?” Emily asked, as she raided her wallet and handed Rossi a fifty.
“I told you,” Rossi waved his money and winked at the two of you.
“Come on, honey,” Hotch guided you to your usual seat, hand drifting down too close to your ass.
“Honey!” Derek chortled as he and Emily shared a look.
“I’m sorry that you only have your hand to go home to, Derek,” you sniped, a grin on your face. Derek rolled his eyes as Hotch followed you with a knowing smile.
“I booked my appointment with Doctor Mohan,” you told Hotch, as you put your phone on top of the table. “She should give me the all clear today, if we land on time.”
“Not today,” Hotch chuckled lightly, his hand landing on your thigh and giving it a squeeze.
“You said, and I quote, ‘once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor’,” you stared Aaron down. “Don’t tell me you’re a liar.”
The rest of the team, minus Canavan, who was holed up in her own seat, watched as the two of you bickered.
“So, kid, how long do you think they’ll take before he pops the question,” Derek questioned, opening up his notepad.
“Six months,” Rossi instantly piped up.
“You say that as if you know something,” JJ looked at Rossi who all but shrugged.
“Maybe I have a bit of insider knowledge,” Rossi smirked, as he put himself down for a hundred.
