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You are a nurse at the asylum Cordelia Holmes is a patient at, and have taken a liking to her oldest son. Chaos and confessions ensue, when your friends and his brother start meddling in affairs that aren’t theirs. (YS!Mycroft x nurse!reader, strangers to more, miscommunication, comfort)
“why do you care that i’m using AI to write my fics?”
putting the environmental and ethical considerations aside, it’s because writing is a craft even if it’s ’just a hobby’. to practice becoming a better writer, you have to read because it will expand your vocabulary and understanding of tone, syntax, and plot development. so when i’m scouring for fics and they turn out to be AI, i’ve learned nothing from it. AI uses consistent phrasing and signals that it learned to mimic from humans. writing is a craft and AI will only ever mimic the work it has stolen from authors, and can never be original or genuine because it is not human. you cannot learn to sew if you cannot thread your own needle. you cannot learn to sing if you refuse to learn your scales. you can learn and you can write.
Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> When Mycroft asked you to marry him, he thought it would be in name only. However, as time goes on, the lines between being your friend and being your husband seem to blur.
Disclaimer: Mostly fluff, friends to lovers, domesticity, brother's best friend/best friend's brother, one bed trope, hurt/comfort, Mycroft gets wounded, talks about children, marriage of convenience, happy endings.
When Mycroft asked you, one of Sherlock’s only and oldest friends, to be his wife, he thought it would be in name alone.
He needed a stable foundation to secure his place in the Foreign Office and, on many occasions, he had heard you say that you needed security away from your family and the older you got the less likely that seemed.
The ceremony, although slightly shocking, was quick and efficient. Simple vows exchanged, nothing too personal. And nine months later, no child was born. Whether strictly business or love, it wasn’t socially unacceptable.
“Are you still awake?” Entering his study, you took a look at your husband. He should have gone to bed hours ago.
Confused, Mycroft looked to the mantle clock and realised the time. “Oh sh…”
With a tired smile, you stepped inside and stood by his side. You felt him relax under your touch.
“What are you working on?”
Mycroft leaned back. “It’s…not important.”
“You’re still awake at two in the morning. It must hold some consequence.”
He sighed, “It’s for Sherlock. He…needs my help.”
“Legal?”
“More so than the last time.”
You smiled, leaning down to wrap your arms around his shoulders.
Since you had known the Holmes brothers, Mycroft had always looked out for Sherlock. Even if it meant giving him gray hairs before he was thirty.
“Think it can wait long enough for you to get some rest?”
He sighed, pushing the papers forward in order to stand from his chair. “I don’t see why not.”
Snuffing out the candles, you took Mycroft by his hand and gently dragged him to bed.
It wasn’t until a year into your marriage that you both started to share a bed. Nothing other than sleeping, and the odd cuddle, occurred. But it was nice.
It was nice to know you both had someone.
In the beginning, it had been only a little less than awkward. Maybe if you hadn’t known each other for so long beforehand, it would have been easier. Maybe.
But, one night when you’d both finally gotten home from saving Sherlock’s neck once again, you’d collapsed onto the master bed. Mycroft had landed beside you and asked you to stay.
After spending the last three days searching for one family member, he didn’t like the thought of being separated from another, even if just for the night.
From then on, it just…stuck.
You both already talked and dined together. Once a week, you’d both go out and have lunch or dinner at a tea shop or restaurant. You were already a friend of the family before marriage so there was no bad blood.
Sherlock did seem…off for a while when the engagement was announced. But, after a few weeks, he came around to the idea.
Sharing a bed, just to sleep, didn’t seem too big of a stretch.
“I’m meant to see Lestrade today,” Mycroft told you when you’d both finally woken up.
Rubbing your eye, you turned your head to look at your husband. Mycroft had a strange ability to look devilishly handsome, even in the morning.
“And?”
“I have a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach…”
“Sherlock?”
Mycroft nodded. “I do worry about him.”
Reaching up, you laid a gentle hand on the side of his face. “He’s your brother. And, he does often find himself in precarious situations.”
“But if he’s on Lestrade’s radar…”
You rubbed your eye, again. “Then…hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.”
Mycroft nodded. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
“Are you alright?”
You rubbed your eye for a third time. “I think there’s something in my eye.”
“Let me see.”
Leaning closer, Mycroft gently brushed his thumb under your eye. “There’s an eyelash. Hold steady.”
“Ow.”
“That didn’t hurt.”
“It’s not your eye.”
“Stay still…there.” Mycroft leaned up a little. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
Mycroft smiled, his own hand resting on your face gently. His eyes traced over your own, before he felt his breath catch in his chest for a moment.
Just as his eyes dropped to your lips and started to wonder the same thing he’d been wondering for weeks – what would it be like to kiss you? – there was a knock on the bedroom door.
Like most mornings, you both put distance between yourselves and went about your day. You met him at the bottom of the stairs before he left for work, fixed his tie and kissed his cheek.
The entire way to work was spent with thoughts of you. Even on your wedding day, you didn’t share a kiss. A pillar candle inside the room had fallen from the table when the officiant stepped back, distracting both yourselves and everyone else from the final piece of your marriage agreement.
The kiss.
Mycroft couldn’t lie to himself; though you were his wife, you were his friend. And he was yours. Although no verbal agreement had been made, there was an unspoken understanding that the marriage was strictly business. If either one of you were to fall in love with someone else, it would have to be kept secret until you could both find the least messiest way out of the marriage.
But that was three years ago.
Since then, you’d saved both his and Sherlock’s neck countless times. He’d been there for you, even when you tried to push everyone away. You had made sure he took care of himself, in the time he forgot he was human. He had made sure to take care of you, even when you said you could do it yourself.
“I hate to pester but when am I going to get grandchildren?” Cordelia asked you.
You and Mycroft exchanged a glance before he took the lead of the conversation. Every Sunday, you both took a trip to Appleton Manor to visit Cordelia. And, every Sunday, the conversation always landed near or around the topic of children.
It was unusual to be married three years and not have a child. Most couples you both knew were on their third child by now.
“I know you both said you’re waiting for the right time, but Mycroft. You’re more than secure at your job, and Y/n…children-”
Reaching out, you held her hand. “I know. I know. But…we’re just taking our time, right Mycroft?”
He nodded with a reassuring smile. “Yes, dear.”
Mycroft couldn’t lie to himself. He did often find himself wondering what it would be like to have children, especially with you. But, again, you were friends. Marriage in name, alone.
You couldn’t lie to yourself, either. You had found yourself thinking what it would be like to actually have children, especially with Mycroft. You were an only child, growing up. Sherlock had become not only a friend, but a brother of sorts, when you were kids.
And Cordelia wasn’t the only mother-in-law asking for grandchildren. Your mother had been waiting longer than three years to see you married with children.
The thought both excited and terrified you at the same time. Because, for as much as you were married, yourself and Mycroft had never…crossed that line. With all technicalities, you hadn’t even kissed each other.
By that logic, children were…a long shot in the dark.
“Well, whenever you decide to have children, there is an empty room at the top of the hall for a nursery.”
Yourself and Mycroft smiled at Cordelia before you both realised what she had said.
“Let me show you.”
Less than five minutes later, yourself and Mycroft were opening the door to an old bedroom. It was the nursery Mycroft had stayed in as a baby. After Bea grew up, the nursery became a collection room for old trinkets and sheets.
Except, as you both stood looking inside, it was…freshly painted.
The cot had a fresh coat of wood-stain and wax, the mattress was new, as were the sheets and curtains. Old wooden toys had been refurbished to look like new.
It was…perfect.
“O-Of course, I would expect your mother would want to be close, too, whilst you were recovering. And London is no place to recover in peace. But I understand if-”
You were on the brink of tears. “Cordelia, this is…”
“Mother, this is truely…”
“I’m lost for words.”
“You can just say if this was a bad idea-”
You shook your head, quickly. “No. No, no, no. Of course, not. No. I just…it’s a lot to take in. Thank you, Cordelia.”
“Yes, mother. Thank you.”
“You both like it?”
You nodded. “It’s wonderful.”
Cordelia took a breath. “Oh, thank goodness. Of course, nothing has to happen now. But, I wanted you to both know that there is a place here, for all of you, always.”
The carriage ride back home was quiet. Filled to the brims with a silence that was almost suffocating.
“So…”
“So…”
Mycroft cleared his throat. “We never broached the topic of children, did we?”
“No…we didn’t.”
“Do you, rather, I guess, would you– would you like– to– unless there’s someone– I suppose, unless you have someone else—”
Reaching out, you took his hand. “Mycroft.”
Almost selfishly, it eased you to know that he was dealing with the issue as well as you. Awkwardly, whilst trying to remain normal.
“Please tell me you know what I’m trying to say.”
A small chuckle left you. “I think I do.”
“Dear lord,” Mycroft lifted a hand to his brow. “One would think this kind of conversation would be easier.”
“Yes, I suppose so. If one wasn’t married only in name.”
“Plenty of couples are only married in name, surly.”
You nodded. “But how many are just friends? Friends who might want children?”
“I don’t know. I don’t…know.”
Mycroft laid his head back and looked at you.
“How about we take this one step at a time?”
“I think we’ve skipped the first few.”
You nodded. “And maybe that is something we have to retrace before we…commit to children.”
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
Mycroft smiled, squeezing your hand. “Retrace. One step at a time?”
You nodded. “I think I can agree to that.”
Despite everything seemingly going back to normal, there was a fresh awkwardness around yourself and Mycroft. Some conversations would die away, others simply would start off too awkwardly for either one of you to stick around long enough.
However, it would only take a few weeks for all of that to change forever.
First, there was a government gala where one particular member of parliament decided that you were to be his date, electing to ignore the fact you were someone else’s wife.
It wasn’t the first time you had heard Mycroft call you his wife, but it was the first time it seemed to truly mean something more than just a name coming from his lips.
Then Sherlock found himself in a spot of danger, which just so happened to pull you into that spot, too. Thankfully, you were unharmed, but Mycroft wasn’t so lucky.
With a slash across his jacket, a heavy log of wood thrown to bash his rib cage and a grazing bullet left him with: a smattering of scars across his back, a growing purple bruise across his side and chest, and a burn-like scar.
“I really do think you should see a doctor, Mycroft.”
Mycroft shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”
You looked across his bare back and chest with sadness. Despite the new scars, you couldn’t help but let your fingers trace over healed ones. They were miniscule in comparison, and decades old.
“I’m okay,” Mycroft said, his voice gentle. “Look at me?”
With a gentle finger, he pushed your chin up until you looked him in the eyes.
“I’m okay,” he repeated.
“You’re still bleeding.”
“All that matters to me, is that you are alive and well.”
“At what cost?”
“A couple of scars that will heal.”
Reaching up, you went to lay a hand on his arm where you usually would. Only, there was now a fresh scar.
“It’s okay,” Mycroft quickly took your hand, kissed it, and held it close to his chest. “It’s okay.”
Taking a deep breath, you tried to still your tears.
“Don’t cry, darling.” Mycroft held you closer, wiping away the falling tears.
“When I heard the shot…Mycroft…I thought…”
“I know. I know. For a moment, I did, too. But everything’s okay. We’re both safe.”
Reaching up, you wrapped your arms over Mycroft’s shoulders and neck, being careful to not disturb his clean wound. Meanwhile, his own arms wrapped around your waist securely.
The final push came a few days later.
Until then, your days had been filled with soft and quiet moments that you shared with Mycroft. You kept his wounds clean and made sure they were healing, eventually he told you where the other scars came from.
Most were from being a child – climbing trees, rolling down twig-covered hills, and the like. But a few – only a few – were from more…serious incidents.
“My father got angry one evening. I don’t even remember what it was over, but I got in the way. I know he didn’t mean it but…”
Leaning down, carefully, you placed a single kiss against the scar.
“You’re not your father, Mycroft. You’re not him.”
That night, you held each other until you fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. But that wasn’t the case a few nights later.
“Can’t sleep?”
Mycroft looked over at you from his space on the sofa, “What? Oh, sorry. No, I guess not.”
With a tired smile, you closed the door behind you and took a seat beside him. On instinct, he lifted his arm and held you by his side.
“How are your wounds?”
“A little sore, but healing thanks to you.”
“Good.” Looking up at him, he seemed…pensive. “Mycroft? What are you thinking about?”
Suddenly, he turned to you. “We’re married, yes?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
“We’re husband and wife.”
You nodded, again. “That’s usually what happens when people get married.”
“Do you think of me as your husband?”
You chuckled, nervously. “Why are you asking?” Then your stomach dropped. “Mycroft-” You sat up. “Have you…” You tried to steady your voice. “Have you found someone?”
Mycroft sat up, too. “No. I just…I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking a lot, actually, and…I think- no. I know…I want to be married. Specifically, to you.”
“We already are.”
“Not just in name,” he quickly added.
“Oh.”
You fell quiet as you looked at him. He was waiting for a response, but your reaction told him that your brain had come to a halt.
“It’s not just because of these last few days. Well, I suppose it gave me the push I needed but...I don’t want to pressure you into anything. I just– and this isn’t about being intimate…I’d like for us to try and be more than just friends.” Mycroft took a strained breath. “I’m really hoping I haven’t read into things wrongly, or made assumptions–”
“No. You haven’t. I just…”
The longer you looked at Mycroft, the more you wanted to invent a time machine to go back to when he first offered to marry you, and hit yourself over the head. Entering into a contractual marriage with the one guy you’d secretly been crushing on, from afar, probably wasn’t the best premise to avoid catching feelings for your husband.
Mycroft’s breathing seemed strained. Like he was secretly wishing to turn back time, himself.
But for the wrong reasons.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
He didn't make assumptions.
For as long as he had been thinking about your marriage being more than you both agreed, you’d been thinking about it a lot longer.
Mycroft seemed confused, and a little concerned, when you reached for him. Unable to think of what to say, your mind landed on one simple thing that could express what you were trying to find the words to say.
Simply, you kissed him.
It was a little awkward, at first. Uncertain, testing, searching. After a moment, Mycroft finally moved.
His hand came to hold your face, gently, as he deepened the kiss a little. Leaning forward, pressing a little harder, your mouth parted just a little.
With a slight of hand, it wasn’t long before you found yourself straddled across your husband’s lap.
It wasn’t the first time you’d been dressed in a nightgown and dressing robe in front of Mycroft, but it was the first time he had touched you. Just small and sensitive touches – a skimming of his palm over your clothing, the tender cupping of his hand, a squeeze of your hip.
A small noise came from the back of your throat as he seemed to shift a little under you.
“Is-is everything alright?”
Trying to catch your breath, you nodded. “Yes. It’s just…new.”
Mycroft swallowed. “We should probably slow down.”
“Probably,” you agreed, your fingers gently tracing his jaw line.
It was the logical thing to do. After all, it was past midnight and, despite his injuries, Mycroft was well enough to travel. You’d both promised Cordelia you would go and see her.
But there was something in his kiss that felt…magnetic. Pulling away from his kiss was harder than leaning closer and kissing him, again.
So, you did exactly that.
Not that either of you were complaining.
Being married for three years granted you both more than a little leeway in terms of intimacy.
And Cordelia certainly noticed the change in both of you when you arrived at Appleton Manor two hours later than scheduled.
“We got caught in…traffic! Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Traffic. There were so many carriages in the city this weekend. It was ram-packed.”
Cordelia smiled. “Mycroft, darling, perhaps you could fetch me my shawl. It’s just in the drawing room.”
“Of course, mother. I’ll be right back.”
The second Mycroft disappeared, Cordelia took you by your arm. “You two are terrible liars. But, I’ll forgive you. I suppose nearly dying gives you both a second lease on life. And a second honeymoon.”
“Cordelia!”
“Oh, please. Before Silas turned out to be a raging psychopath, we were the same. When we were a lot younger. But, I won’t embarrass you further. I just wanted to say…it rather suits you. Being in love. Showing it.”
In your head, nothing had really gone any differently. But, perhaps, there was an atmosphere. Less secret looks, more open ones. A few more noticeable, lingering touches.
Before you knew it, things were changing. Even more so than they already had.
updated May 3 2026. I'm separating the dialogue prompts into their respective sections. Went through Anger & Angst Lists the last few days & separated them into smaller lists. Will be working on the horror/Apocalyptic list next!
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
a/n: Here it is!!! Part II is done, and I had so much fun writing it, I hope you guys love it as well, please let me know what you think!!!
inspired by this lovely ask ♥️
pairing: YS!Mycroft Holmes x nurse!reader
summary: Cordelia is broken out of the asylum, and what follows is a wild rollercoaster ride all over Europe for Mycroft and reader.
c/w: Mostly fluff, some hurt/comfort, mentions of injuries, hospitals, blood, (I don’t think the descriptions are very detailed), mentions of pregnancy and infertility after the time ski, French (which I don’t know at all, I’m so sorry for the mistakes!), reader is described as having long enough hair to tuck behind her ears, italics.
wc: 5.8k
*The Asylum***
“Did you know?”
You whipped around at hearing the familiar voice.
“Mycroft!” You rushed to him and lifted your arms in order to hug him. “I was so worr-“
He gripped your wrists, not forcefully but decidedly, keeping an unusual distance between the two of you, pulling you into an empty corridor. “Did you know that they were recording my mother?”
You recoiled slightly, eyebrows furrowed. “What? No! Who recorded her?”
His hands slid lower down your arms, softer now. “I’m sorry, darling,” he sighed, one hand coming down to rest on your waist and pulling you closer towards him. “I’m sorry, I just ... I don’t even know,” he admitted.
Your hands rested on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing small circles close to his neck. “Where is your mother now?”
“Back at home. With Sherlock.”
You nodded and searched for his eyes. “That’s good. Isn’t it?”
He nodded, though you noticed the tension in his jaw and how his throat bobbed.
You took a look around before bringing one hand up to his cheek and resting your forehead against his. He exhaled slowly, pulling you impossibly closer.
“I’m sorry, I just... I needed to ask. I don’t know who to trust anymore. What to think.”
Your thumb moved to draw tiny circles again. “It is all right. I understand. You can trust Sherlock. You can trust his judgement. And you can trust me that I never keep anything from you. I did not know that they were recording her.”
His eyes were closed as he nodded. “I’m sorry.”
You chuckled and pressed a light kiss on his cheek. “Don’t be.”
He smiled despite himself. It took him a few seconds to collect himself again and taking a step back.
“So what happened?” you asked. “Maude told me that Sherlock made an escape with Cordelia, but she didn’t have any details.”
“Well it is a long story,” Mycroft replied, pinching the bridge of his nose, “and I will tell you everything once you have finished for the day. The short version is: my mother was drugged, recorded and we don’t know why yet, so Sherlock decided to bing her home. Which happened after he went back to prison, broke out of rison, made sure fake Shou’An was behind bars, got her out again, while Bucephalus was murdered and Professor Malik went missing.”
Your eyes grew wide. “Drugged? Darling, I am so sorry, I should have paid more attention, I had no id-“
“You couldn’t have known. And if I am being honest, I have a suspicion that it all started after you were her nurse.”
In the past year, Mycroft and you had finally found the courage to confess your feelings to one another. While you took slow steps and tried to keep the relationship as private as possible, it did not take long before word reached the head nurse and the doctors, who promptly stopped assigning you as Mrs. Holmes’ nurse.
You still visited her, though only on days you were not working, and on the days you were working you made sure to be friendly without lingering, in order to prove that you could be professional, not only to your superiors but also to yourself.
While you knew Mycroft words were meant to calm you, you could not help the queasy feeling that settled under your rib cage.
“What if there are more?” you asked.
“More patients that are drugged?”
You nodded in reply, as your hands started shaking slightly.
Mycroft immediately took your hands firmly into his, ducking his head slightly to look into you eyes.
“If - and that is a big if - if there are other patients being drugged, there is no way you could have known.”
You nodded but your gaze was unfocused.
“Look at me,” he said. “We will figure this out. But for now you have to get out of here. After your shift, tell Maude and Edith what has happened and that you will be gone for at least a week.”
“A week? Darling, where are we going?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out and tell you as soon as I know where Professor Malik is going. I will come to pick you up, once your shift is done.”
You nodded though you were still visibly distressed. “All right.”
A heavy sigh left Mycroft’s lips. “There’s so much happening, I don’t know what to focus on first. I’m sorry to have dragged you into this.”
“You didn’t drag me into anything. Besides, I think adventure is just part of your family. I’m happy to witness.”
His chuckle matched your teasing tone, and he took a look around, before pressing a gentle kiss on your lips. You hummed into the kiss, overtaken by surprise, but melted into it nonetheless.
“You are part of this family, if not because of our relationship then because my mother adores you.”
Heat crept up your neck and ears, but you feigned composure. “Very flattering, Mr. Holmes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
“Why of course, nurse, I wouldn’t imagine keeping you from your patients for longer than absolutely necessary,” he said, but pulled you in for another kiss.
When he left you couldn’t help but think about how stupidly in love the two of you were to be able to joke in these circumstances. You watched him leave, and with a heavy sigh, turned back to take care of the patients.
Tough Mycroft had reassured you that he would take care of everything, you could not focus for the rest of the day, and apparently neither could anyone else. Every nurse, doctor and patient seemed to be agitated. You could not wait for the day to end.
When everything was wrapped up for the evening, you pulled Edith and Maude to the side and guided them outside, to tell them everything Mycroft had told you.
“What do you mean you won’t be here for a week?” Maude asked, panic lacing her voice.
“I don’t know; I don’t know what Mycroft has planned, but I think we’ll have to figure out what is going on.”
“What about your patients?” Edith asked.
Your throat constricted. “I don’t know. Can you keep an eye on them?”
Maude nodded immediately, but Edith seemed hesitant. “Keep in eye on them, how? What are we even looking for?”
You shrugged helplessly. “If Mycroft and Sherlock think that Mrs Holmes was drugged, we cannot assume that she was the only one.”
“And what about the recordings?” asked Maude.
Panic clawed its way up your chest and throat. “I don’t know,” came your hoarse response. Too many questions, always the same answer.
Edith saw the grip the fear had on you and pulled you into a hug. “It’s all right. We’ll make sure to keep an eye out and we’ll write if there’s anything suspicious.”
The weight on your chest started to dissolve slowly. “Thank you.”
Maude joined the group hug. “We’ll wire you if there are any big changes.”
You nodded, relief washing through you.
“You better not come back married,” Edith tried to lighten the mood, “I insist on being a witness at your wedding.”
You snorted and Maude giggled.
“Take care of yourself, is what I’m trying to say,” Edith smiled.
“I will. You, too, take care of yourselves.”
You saw the carriage halt at the corner of the street. Mycroft stepped out and talked to the driver, before coming over to you and you friends.
“Maude, Edith,” he greeted both of them, bowing his head slightly to each one.
“What is all that talk about drugged patients?” Edith demanded to know. She had a manner of never beating around the bush, which you appreciated in her. Mycroft learned quickly that she was not trying to be rude, but that her nature was just very direct.
“My mother was drugged. I don’t know if any other patients are affected.”
“Where are you taking her, Mr Holmes?” Maude asked, pointing at you.
“Well, it appears that professor Malik is in Paris, so we will go there, try to find out what he is doing there, and how our mother is involved.”
“Paris?” the three of you asked incredulously.
His eyes flicked between you and your friends bemusedly. “Honeybees,” he mumbled. “You three have a hive mind.”
Edith scoffed. “Curtesy of being in nursing school at the same time.”
He turned to you, offering his arm. “We really have to go as soon as possible.”
“All right.” You turned to you friends and hugged them tightly one last time, before taking Mycroft’s arm and walking towards the carriage. He helped you up and as soon as the carriage set in motion, the reality of what was happening seemed to come crashing down on you.
“So what now?” You turned towards Mycroft.
“Other than following Professor Malik to Paris?” His shoulders were pulled up and the muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth together. “I really don’t know.”
* Paris***
As you were laying in the carriage, the world seemed to narrow down to your thrumming heartbeat and the pressure you forced your hands to apply to Sherlock’s abdomen.
Mycroft was pushing the cart, manoeuvring through the streets and straining himself to get his brother to the hospital as quickly as possible.
Next to you you could hear Cordelia’s laboured breathing and Sherlock’s shallow puffs of air.
“Cordelia, can you press on the wound for a moment, please?”
Her wide eyes searched yours for a moment before nodding and pressing her hands where yours hand been a split second ago.
She watched you as you carefully placed a hand on Sherlocks forehead and to fingers under his chin. “What are you doing?”
“Ensuring that his airways are free.” you replied clipped, effortlessly slipping back into your professional expertise, as you pulled his head backwards carefully and tipping his chin up. “He’s burning up,” you observed quietly.
Your hands came down to the wound again, applying pressure and releasing Cordelia from the task, who immediately leaned close to her son, stroking his hair softly. You saw her fingers trembling and her lips quivering.
“He will survive,” you said.
“How do you know?”
“The wound is treatable. As soon as there is a doctor, this wound is less dramatic than it looks right now. The highest risk is the blood loss and a possible infection. The infection I can prevent and, if need be, treat. So really the only thing we need to worry about is the blood loss. And we both know Sherlock is too stubborn to die of something so trivial.’’
An incredulous laugh spluttered out of her. “Thank you, dear.”
You smiled at her, hoping your doubt didn’t show through the mask you so carefully practiced as nurse.
When you arrived at the hospital, immediate chaos engulfed you. Mycroft and you carried Sherlock and placed him on a stretcher, while Cordelia immediately went to convince the surgeon to help her son.
You distantly observed Mycroft try and encourage his younger brother, you could hear Cordelia offering her gold, but your mind refused to take any of that in, instead focussing on the people who needed help.
When a nun walked by you in a hospital apron you grabbed her arm softly.
“Exuse-moi,” you said in a broken accent. By now the surgeon was taking a look at Sherlock and your heartbeat slowed a little.
The nun was looking at you expectantly. “Excuse-moi,” you said again. “Je peux aider, je suis infirmiere.”
She seemed relieved. “C’est excellent, nous avons be soon de tout le monde. Je vais vous chercher une blouse, vous pouvez commencer avec n’importe quel patient”
You didn’t catch everything she said, but she seemed friendly enough and pressed some gauze into your hands, so you concluded that your help was indeed needed and welcomed.
“Where are you going?” Mycroft grabbed your hand, looking frantic and subtly pulling you into the direction the other nurses had taken Sherlock to.
“Mycroft, I have to help,” you said helplessly.
“It’s dangerous- Sherlock needs you.”
“Sherlock needs a surgeon, and he has one taking care of him now; I need to help.” Your fingers slipped out of his hand. A nurse pushed an apron towards you, which you took and tied around your waist, holding the gauze between your chest and chin.
Mycroft looked defeated. “Please stay with mother and me.”
“I can’t, I’m sorry.” your hands were gripping the gauze again as you to a tentative step backwards.
Mycroft nodded emotionless and turned to follow his mother. Tears gathered in your eyes and threatened to spill. You turned harshly and walked towards the first patient you saw. The woman was clutching her leg, silent sobs rocking her shoulders.
“Ma’am, I need to take a look at that.” She probably understood as much English as you did French, but lifted her hands regardless. The wound looked gnarly but no arteries had been hit, so you found a cloth and wiped of most of the blood, before pressing gauze onto it and bandaging her thigh.
“Bien?” you asked. She nodded and squeezed your hand. “Merci beaucoup!”
You rose up, and searched for more gauze, bandages and water, before making your rounds again and helping as many people as possible. It was as if your body was moved by outside forces, your hands automatically doing what they had learned in nursing school, your mind calm and focused on the injuries.
Before you knew it it was nightfall and there were hardly any new patients coming in. A nurse who spoke some English came up to you and put her hand on your shoulder.
“Thank you. For help,” she said. “You go rest. Go to your family.” She pointed towards the corridor into which the Holmes’ had gone earlier.
You nodded, your conversation with Mycroft rushing back to you. Guilt gnawed at you, when you walked towards the room in which Sherlock was resting. Standing before the door, you planned what to say to Mycroft when the two of you would find a moment alone.
The soft knock on the door seemed eerily loud and disrupting in the abandoned hallway. Your hand shook as it pressed the door open slowly.
The sight that presented itself to you, tore at your heartstrings. Sherlock was laying in bed, pale and motionless, while Cordelia clutched his hand in hers, whispering to him quietly. Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, one hand on his mothers shoulder, providing stability, while his gaze was focused on his brother’s face.
Your throat closed up at the image before you. Your mind almost convinced you that you were intruding somehow.
“How is he?” Again, your whispered statement seemed too loud. Mycroft looked up and gave you a tiny smile. Your heart sped up.
“He’s stable,” said Cordelia, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock.
Mycroft extended his free hand towards you silently, beckoning you forward. You stepped closer and took his hand. He pulled you closer and tucked you against his side, his arm coming up to rest around your shoulders.
One of your arms came up to fast around his torso, while your other hand rest on his chest. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your temple, lips lingering on your forehead for a few seconds.
When you looked up, you saw his eyes were glassy and red rimmed. Tears immediately shot in your eyes as well.
“I’m so sorry.” Your hoarse whisper echoed in the room.
He shook his head and hugged you close. “We’ll talk later,” he simply stated. You nodded and buried your head in the crook of his neck.
You stayed like that for a long time, until you heard Cordelia’s breath even out. Her face was more peaceful asleep. You smiled at the sight of her and Sherlock, committing it to your memory.
Mycroft shifted slightly and you stepped back, giving him space to get up and shrug off his jacket. He draped it over his mothers shoulders, squeezing his hands into her shoulders softly. She shifted and let out a sigh.
Mycroft turned to you and nodded his head towards the door. You tugged your chin a little closer to your chest and moved out of the room quietly.
The hallway was still quiet, except for the click of the door behind Mycroft. He let out a tired sigh and dropped down on a bench further down the hallway.
By now, fear had spread in your chest again, worry about the argument that didn’t really happen closing up your airways.
Mycroft was sitting bend over on the bench, head resting in his palms, his fingers pressing on his closed eyes. “Darling, please... sit.”
You shuffled closer reluctantly, stopping a step short before him. When he didn’t hear you move anymore he looked up at you, eyes searching for yours. You kept your head low, biting down on your bottom lip.
He stood up and stepped closer to you, his finger lifting your chin, before his hand came to rest on your cheek.Your chin wobbled slightly, when his hand came up to pull your lip from between your teeth gently.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, resting both his hands on your hips, “Sherlock is going to be fine.”
He spun you around slowly, until you were standing with your back towards him. “And mother is holding up better than we could have expected.” You frowned, confused about how he didn’t mention your stubbornness from earlier, and even more confused when you felt his hands an your back.
“James has been here to visit,” Mycroft continued to murmur.
He spun you again, and when you were facing him again, he was holding the bloodstained apron in his hands. You had forgotten all about it as soon as you had entered Sherlocks room. A sob struggled its way out of your throat when you looked at the red stained apron in his hands. He dropped the fabric and pulled you in for a hug immediately, one hand stroking your hair and swaying your body back and forth gently.
You let yourself cry. It was as if your body had been pulled like a bow since Sherlock had broken Cordelia out of the asylum, and finally, finally, the arrow had been shot and the tension released. Mycroft held you through it, murmuring comforting words in your ear.
When your sobs quieted down, he guided you towards the bench again, sitting down with you. You looked up and saw that his cheeks were tear stained as well.
“I’m so sorry, Mycroft,” you whimpered, voice cracking on his name.
He shook his head slightly. “Whatever for?”
“I should have stayed with you. I shouldn’t have left, it was selfish.”
He huffed out a quiet breath, which under these circumstances you decided to count as a laugh.
“I admit, I was not happy. But you wouldn’t be the person I love, had you not thrown yourself at the opportunity to help.”
A wet, incredulous laugh escaped you. You wiped your nose. “So you’re not angry?”
“Is that what you thought?” He searched your eyes, and you shrugged in response.
“No, I wasn’t angry. I was scared for my family. And I know you can take care of yourself, I know that” - his hand squeezed yours - “but I was so scared that something might happen to you and that I wouldn’t be able to help.”
You lifted one of his hands and placed a kiss on his palm. A tired smile spread on his face.
“Come here,” he mumbled and pulled you closer.
Fatigue took over and you laid down on the bench, resting you head on his legs. His hand came up to your head, his fingertips massaging your scalp gently.
“I saw you, you know?” He asked gently. You hummed for him to continue.
“Out there. I saw you nursing the people. When I couldn’t take it to just wait for his surgery to be over, I went out into the main hall to find you. And then I saw you. You were taking care of a small boy who was caught in crossfire. And you were so gentle, so kind. I don’t know if you saw, but the boy was enamoured by you. He probably didn’t understand English, but he was just looking at you taking care of him.”
You turned your head and looked at Mycroft. His expression was so soft, you felt your heart melt. Your whole body seemed to calm down at the sight of him, warmth spreading from your sternum all throughout your body.
He continued softly. “And I felt so proud. So proud, of you, of your skills. Of being able to call you mine. And I thought that if I ever get to be a father that I wouldn’t want to share that with anyone else but you.”
You sat up suddenly, alert and observing his face closely. “Mycroft,” your voice trailed off at his expression.
“I want to spend my life by your side.”
“Mycroft-“ your voice was shaking. “You are not proposing right now.”
He smiled and looked away quickly. “No. As much as I would love that, and as much as I would love marrying you right here and now- no. I will propose to you with a ring and everything.”
You raise your eyebrows. “What was that whole speech for then?” you ask in an incredulous tone.
He shakes his head and pulls up his shoulders.The laugh the two of you share is freeing in a way. All the tension of the past days and weeks seems to vanish within a couple of seconds.
He grasps your hand, and you let him rest his head on your legs this time. He seems more exhausted than you.
“You know I don’t need the fuss, right?” you whisper after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence. “I don’t need a ring, or a proper engagement.”
He smiles. “I know you don’t need it. But you deserve to be fussed over, and to be taken care of. God knows how much you care for others.” He yawns softly.
You blush, unable to find an adequate reply, instead opting to draw tiny patterns on his shoulders.
“I love you,” you mumble.
His eyes are closed, but he smiles. “Love you more,” he whispers, before falling asleep in your arms.
The next morning, you wake at the same time as Mycroft gets up from the bench stretching his limps. A soft groan escapes you as you get up from the bench and stretch your neck.
Mycroft kisses your temple softly. “Good morning, darling,” he muses. “Good morning, my love,” you yawn.
Before you get anything else out, James comes down the hallway with what seems to be pastries, and your stomach grumbles immediately, reminding you that the last meal you had was roughly twenty hours ago.
“Ah,” he grins, “Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. The clerk and the nurse.”
You blush and hide your face in Mycroft's shoulder. He doesn’t grace James with an answer, instead stretching his hand out for some of the food he brought. He subtly took a step back from you.
James hands him a croissant, turning serious. “How is he?”
“Stable. He will survive, and he seems to recover pretty quickly.” Mycroft tore off a piece of the pastry, handing you the bigger part of it, and popping the rest into his mouth.
“And what says your professional opinion?” James turns to you.
You tear off a bite sized piece of the pastry, handing the croissant back over to Mycroft. “I am surprise he’s already awake again. But it is a good sign. He needs to rest though, we cannot risk him overworking himself too soon.”
“And what about infections?”
“From what I’ve seen the nurses and the doctors are working excellently here. It will only get risky once he’s out of the hospital. But I’ll be there to take care of the wounds then.”
James nods. “All right. I think he’ll like some of those, too” - he’s holding up the food- “and as cute as it is to watch you two love birds share food, you could have just asked for two croissants.”
His smirk is absolutely ridiculous, and both you and Mycroft blush furiously at his words, hands frozen mid air, as the last piece of pastry made its way from your hands into his again.
Before you can defend yourselves, James has already disappeared into Sherlock’s room. Honey- like silence stretches between you.
“I should probably make sure my mother is alright.”
You nodded, tucking some loose hairs behind your ears.
“What are you going to do?” he asked you.
You looked at him thoughtfully. “What do you want me to do?”
He huffed out a laugh. “I asked first.”
You smiled a little before turning serious again. “I would like to see if I can help some more. As long as Sherlock is not discharged, that is. Unless you want me to stay here.”
He smiled and picked up the apron from last night. “Go. We’ll wait here for you, and send for you as soon as plans change.”
You nod and take the apron. You turn to leave, but change your mind after six steps, turning around again and hurrying back into his arms to press a kiss to his lips. “Thank you for taking care of me,” you mumble. “And of your mother and Sherlock.”
“I- You don’t have to thank me for that,” he replies in shock, arms gripping you a little tighter.
You smile. “Yes, I do.” A kiss on the corner of his mouth. “God knows we don’t thank you enough.” A kiss on his cheek.
He laughs softly. “All right. Now go, before I change my mind and have you stay here.” A kiss on his lips again.
“See you soon, my love.” You hurry towards the main hall of the hospital.
As soon as you come within a couple of meters of the hall, your soft morning bubble bursts. Most patients are still asleep, yet the constant groaning and muttering in their sleep is a restless cacophony.
Your eyes search for the nurses in order to get instructions. Quietly you move towards the back door, where you find the nurse who sent you off the evening before.
“Ahh, our English angel! Bienvenue,” she greets you, “You have returned to help?”
“Yes, if I may.” You smile at her and she laughs under her breath.
“If I may? We need all the help we can get. Give me that,” - she tucks at the apron - “I will get you a new one. And then... how do you say...? Se tuer à la tâch.”
You tie the new apron tightly behind your back and stuff the most basic supplies in the pockets, before starting to make your rounds. At some point you see the small boy Mycroft had talked about the evening before.
The boy had a bullet wound on his arm. The bullet did more than graze him, but didn’t reach the bone, which made treatment easier and the healing process more manageable. You had stitched him up and put his arm in a sling to prevent him from any sudden movements.
He had already seen you when you were talking to the nurse, and so when you approached him, he waved at you excitedly with his unharmed side. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment ça va?”
“Bonjour. Ça va bien, et tu?”
“Comme-si, comme ca.” he grins at you.
You chuckle, and check his wound between bandage changes. “Oh, this looks very good,” you mutter to yourself.
“Vous sont tres jolie,” the boy says confidently.
You were not sure if you understood correctly, and looked up at him questioning.
“You...” he hesitates, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. You know exactly when he has found the word he was looking for, because his face lights up like its Christmas morning. “Beautiful! You very beautiful!” He grins.
You laugh out loud, and quickly slap a hand over your mouth as to not disturb the other patients.
“Aren’t you sweet,” you coo, “thank you.”
When you finish bandaging his wound, the boy is practically bouncing on the stretcher. “I go house?” He asks.
“Home? I’m not sure,” you admit. You wave over the nurse from earlier and explain the boys situation to her. After a quick discussion with him in french, the nurse decides he is ready to g back to his parents.
“Thank you,” you say, when you watch the little boy skip out onto the street. “I meant to ask... I introduced myself yesterday, but I never got your name?”
“It’s Estelle, I am charge nurse here,” she says warmly.
“Charge nurse? I am so sorry for bothering you with all these trivial matters then.”
“No, no, its quite well. I like to be informed.”
You smile, and open your mouth to ask another question, but she beats you to it. “The boy yesterday, with the bullet. He is not your family, no?”
“Well-“ you splutter out, “you see- I - his brother...”
“Ah,” she interrupts you gently. “His brother is your husband.”
“Not yet.” You blush.
“Oh la la, not married yet sleeping together in a hallway,” she winks at you.
Your eyes widen, presumably in a comical manner, because Estelle laughs heartily at your expression. “Do not worry. In France we are not so... ah, comment çe dit? Old fashioned?”
You giggle at her scrunched up nose, smoothing out your apron for lack of better things to do with your hand.
“He loves you very much. I can tell. It is very rare what you two have.” Estelle smiled at you, and then straightened up a little.
“Enough chit-chat. There are patients waiting,” she says, ushering you towards the hall, decidedly but surprisingly gentle.
*6 Month later****
Estelle walked down the small alley from the market place to her apartment. She heard the bell toll six times, and smiled as the last rays of the autumn sun warmed her face. It had been a good day at the hospital.
Exhausting, yes, but satisfying nonetheless. She had helped deliver three babies, all of which were perfectly healthy, and only one of the mothers experienced complications, which Estelle managed quickly and efficiently. She took comfort in knowing that even if she could never bear children herself, she was the reason someone else could do so safely.
She picked up the mail that was left at her apartment door and pushed open her the door, absentmindedly flicking through the letters.
“Good evening, my love,” she called out to her husband.
“Ah, Cherie, you are back.” He stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Come, you have to try this pastry. I am thinking of selling it soon at the bakery.”
Estelle smiled, handing him the mail and entering the kitchen, where the yeasty-sweet smell intensified. She picked up a pastry and bit into it, a satisfied hum immediately rumbling in her throat.
“Cherie? Why do you have mail from England?” Her husbands tone was amused.
“England? I don’t know. Maybe her Majesty heard about my outstanding sense of humour,” she deadpanned, taking the letter from his outstretched hand. She opened the letter, somewhat nervous and started reading with furrowed eyebrows. Her husband came up behind he reading along over her shoulder.
My dearest Estrelle,
I hope you are doing well! How is everyone at the hospital? I hope it is not as busy as it was when we were there.
I meant to write to you so much sooner, but a lot has happened in just half a year. It would be too much to recount in just one letter, so I trust you will write back and I can fill you in on everything slowly but surely.
The most important thing, it seems to me, is that everyone is well. Sherlock has recovered marvellously from is surgery, and is back to his old self. He instructed me to send the warmest greetings and his whole hearted gratitude to you and the whole hospital staff. His mother also sends her gratitude and blessings.
I learned so much from you in these few days that I was thee, that I have decided to leave the asylum and work in the hospital in London. I think my skills are used for far better purposes there. My dear friends, Maude and Edith, like to say that France made me betray them. But they are only joking, and I know they mean well.
Now, I cannot hold back my big news any longer: Mycroft and I are married! He proposed a week after we returned from Constantinople. I was so overwhelmed, the whole month had been full of so many emotional highs and lows, with his family not being... well, I think you would call it old fashioned.
But of course I said yes, and we were married four month after that. Which, for us British might be a bit quick, but what can I say? You’ve had a great influence on me.
Now we’ve been married for almost two months, and I have never been so happy. Neither has he, or so he tells me.
You said to me once that our love was rare, and I could not agree more. I don’t think I have ever met someone who cares so much for others. (When I told him this, he laughed; maybe you can explain to me why he thought that was funny?)
Anyways, the other big news is... We think we are expecting. We are not certain yet, and I am only writing you this because I need to tell someone. By the time the letter reaches you, and you have responded, I will be far enough to know for certain, or enough time will have passed for me to have gotten over my grief. In any case, I am confiding in you second, since the first to hear will always be my dear husband.
Dear Estelle, please respond! I cannot help but feel I have left a good friend back in France... If you ever do find yourself travelling across the sea, please do not hesitate to visit us. Mycroft and I would be so happy to see you again!
I will stop now, I do not wish to bore you. (You would be too kind to tell me when I share too much).
I await your response eagerly.
Remembering you fondly,
Your English angel.
Estelle smiled as she closed the letter, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “What do you say, my love?” she asked, turning to her husband. “Time to finally visit London?”
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 112k┊ongoing┊updates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
In loveee with “Words unspoken”, not sure if you take suggestions or anything but a part 2 taking place after Sherlock broke Mrs Holmes out would be interesting 👀👀👀
Hello, love, thank you so much for reaching out!!!
i loveeee that idea, and started writing immediately haha, unfortunately I won’t be able to finish it soon, so here’s a tiny sneak peek 😉
Hope you are having a lovely day!! ❤️
******
You could not focus and neither could anyone else, it seemed. Every nurse, doctor and patient seemed to be agitated. You could not wait for the day to end.
When everything was wrapped up for the evening, you pulled Edith and Maude to the side and told them everything that Mycroft had told you.
“What do you mean you won’t be here for a week?” Maude asked, panic lacing her voice.
“I don’t know; I don’t know what Mycroft has planned, but I think we’ll have to figure out what is going on.”
“What about your patients?” Edith asked.
Your throat constricted. “I don’t know. Can you keep an eye on them?”
Maude nodded immediately, but Edith seemed hesitant. “Keep in eye on them how? What are we even looking for?”
You shrugged helplessly. “If Mycroft and Sherlock think that Mrs Holmes was drugged, we cannot assume that she was the only one.”
“And what about the recordings?” asked Maude.
Panic clawed its way up your chest and throat. “I don’t know,” came your hoarse response. Too many questions, always the same answer.
Edith saw the grip the fear had on you and pulled you into a hug. “It’s all right. We’ll make sure to keep an eye out and we’ll write if there’s anything suspicious.”
The weight on your chest started to dissolve slowly. “Thank you.”
Maude joined the group hug. “We’ll wire you if there are any big changes.” You nodded, relief washing through you.
“You better not come back married,” Edith tried to lighten the mood, “I insist on being a witness at your wedding.”
You snorted and Maude giggled. “Take care of yourself, is what I’m trying to say,” Edith smiled.
A/n: this was supposed to be pure fluff , but the story took a life of its own haha. Doesn’t follow the canon story line.
Pairing: YS!Mycroft Holmes x Nurse!reader
cw: some angst, mentions of past neglect and abandonment, talks of asylum and mental health issues, hurt/comfort, happy ending
wc: 5k
next part
“My apologies, Mrs. Holmes,” you said, carefully balancing a tray while turning around, “I was not aware that you had a visitor.”
“Do come in, dear,” she said warmly, “Mycroft won’t mind, will you, my boy?”
The man’s eyes flitted from his mother to you and back again. “Of course not,” he said perfectly politely, though you could not help but notice the absence of warmth in his tone.
You smiled and entered the room fully now. “I have your tea and your medication, Mrs. Holmes.”
“Wonderful!” She smiled. “It is quite a beautiful day, is it not?”
You sat down the tray and started to pour the tea. “Quite so, Mrs. Holmes. The weather is improving marvellously and the flowers are blooming. I heard that even Mrs Collins’ roses are coming to bloom again.”
“Are they?” the woman asked bewildered. “That woman has the attitude of a demon. How any living creature is going near her voluntarily is beyond me.”
You laughed softly as you took out a pill from the bottle and handed it to her alongside the tea. “Now, now, Mrs. Holmes, I do hope you do not express that opinion outside of these four walls.”
You turned and handed Mr. Holmes the second cup. “Though I cannot say I disagree.”
Mr. Holmes’ and your gaze met briefly, but you quickly averted your eyes.
Mrs. Holmes giggled at your comment and said: “You, my dear, are my favourite nurse.”
You laughed at that. “Mrs. Holmes, I believe you say that to every nurse.”
“Why yes, but I only mean it with you,” she whispered as if letting you in on a secret, leaning closer.
You grinned widely as you picked up the tray once more. “Won’t you stay for a cup?” Mrs. Holmes asked earnestly.
“Oh no,” you replied,”I would not want to impose myself on you two,” you said, though carefully avoiding Mr. Holmes’s gaze. “Besides, it is a very busy day.”
‘Oh, all right then,’ said Mrs Holmes, “ But next time you must stay even if I have a visitor.”
“If time allows it, I will,” You smiled, and nodded to both of them, before leaving the room and closing the door behind you.
Your steps echoed softly in the corridors of the asylum. You opened the kitchen door with a push of your hip and set down the tray on one of the carts. Immediately, you picked up a clean tray, as well as cups, saucers and fresh tea.
The door was opened suddenly, revealing another young nurse.
‘Oh, there you are.” Maude choked out between puffs of air, “I have been looking all over for you.”
“Good graces, look at you, Maude! Sit down, you are going to exhaust yourself,” you grinned, and walked over to hand her a glass of water. “Now, what in the world could be so important?”
She held up a hand to you, while gulping down the cold water. A satisfied sigh escaped her, as she lowered both hands and placed the glass on a nearby table.
“I just wanted to warn you that Mr. Holmes is visiting.” She grinned at you and waggled her eyebrows.
Heat spread up your necks and cheeks. “Well,” you said, “you should have run faster, Maude.”
“No?” She gasped, trying to hold in laughter.
“Yes,” You groaned, dramatically flopping down to her opposite. “It was embarrassing.”
Maude could not keep the laughter in. “What happened?” “I practically barged into Mrs. Holmes’ room.”
“As one does,” she commented. Her eyes were betraying her, she was enjoying your humiliation.
“Oh, well, excuse me, Maude, are you her favourite nurse?” You said in mock annoyance. “She loves me, she even asked me to stay for tea.”
“Maybe she sees the potential of you being a future in-law.” You buried your face in your arms. “That is not funny.”
“Oh come on, it is a little funny.”
You raised your head from the table and cocked one eyebrow at your friend.
“Anyways,” you said pointedly, “he was already there, and not happy to be interrupted. So I just prepared the tea for both of them and scurried away as quickly as possible.”
“For both of them?” Maude asked, “You sneaky little thing, you were going to have tea with her!”
“Of course I would have,” you grinned. “But now he knows that, and I just don’t think he is happy about that. I ran off under the pretence of being busy.” You tipped your head back with a loud groan.
“Oh come, this is not so bad,” Maude tried to console you, “It could have gone way worse. I bet he didn’t even realise you had planned to take tea with her.”
“He is not dim-witted, Maude, I am sure he noticed.”
The kitchen door opened, and another nurse plopped in. “Mr. Holmes wishes to speak to you.”
Your heartbeat sped up. “To us?”
“Actually, just to you,” she grinned as if she knew something.
You looked back to Maude, who carried the same expression as your colleague.
You got up and straightened your apron. “All right,” you said and took a deep breath.
“You look wonderful, darling!” Maude called after you, which made your cheeks flame up again. You shushed her, and tried with all your might to ignore the giggles of the two women.
Breath in. Breath out. You did nothing wrong.
Mr. Holme’s back was turned towards you, but you could see his head hung low and the hand that was presumably pinching the bridge of his nose.
You slowed your steps. “Mr. Holmes? You wished to speak to me?”
He turned to you sharply. He cleared his throat and subtly straightened his shoulder. “Yes, nurse …” his voice trailed off. You told him your name.
“I wanted to ask about my mother’s treatment. When you came in you said you had her pain medication.”
“Yes, sir, for her back pains.”
“Back pains?”
You gulped and replied: “Well, your mother had been saying that her neck and back were tense and hurting. The other nurses and I, we thought physical activities might help, but she isn’t allowed to leave her room. In the end the doctor decided to give her medication. I was under the impression that he had notified you.”
You had started rubbing your wrist absentmindedly while talking.
‘I haven’t, but maybe my father has been notified. I will write to him. Thank you for your help.”
You nodded. “No problem at all, sir.”
You turned to leave, but he asked: “Were you going to have tea with my mother?”
Your breath caught, and for a split second you wondered if you would get away with ignoring him. Your pulse thrummed in your ears as you turned around.
“I… I like to have tea with her when no one is there to visit. Most of the other patients here take their tea together and I just can’t stand her being alone for no apparent reason,” you were rambling, and acutely aware of it as well, but that didn’t stop your mouth from spitting out everything.
“If you wish for me to cease doing so, I would of course, but I honestly think she enjoys it, and I think mental stimulation is important in her case.
I’m aware that it is not my place to come up with treatments or a diagnosis, but I-“
His chuckle was what interrupted your verbal output. “I’m not mad,” he assured you, “I was just wondering.”
“Oh. Sorry.” You mumbled.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I am glad she is taken proper care of.”
"Of course," you said and nodded slightly.
He repeated the gesture. "Have a good day, miss. Until the next time."
Your breath hitched, and before you could reply, Mr. Holmes was already out of the door.
You stood frozen for a moment, but then gathered your senses and got back to doing your tasks, though your mind was replaying his voice over and over again.
*****
You made your way around the asylum rooms one more time, to ensure the patients had everything they needed before the curfew was imposed, and other nurses would take over.
You knew Maude was checking on the patients on the ground floor, while you were busy on the third floor. Edith would be with one of the doctors to check on the more seriously afflicted patients.
Consequently, your expectation was to be the second one downstairs. The three of you had made plans to go to a nearby pub before each one would return to their respective homes.
You were pleasantly surprised at seeing your friends waiting for you.
“So," Edith said immediately as the three of you left the asylum, shooting you a suggestive look, "a little birdie told me you were speaking to your beau today."
You looked sharply at Mable. "You told her?' you asked.
She did not have the decently to look embarrassed. Instead, she just nodded proudly.
"Don't blame her,” interjected Edith, laughing, "I was begging her for some interesting conversation. Do tell, what happened? Did Romeo finally confess?”
The two giggled while you shot her a glare.
"Hardly." "What did he want to talk about?"
"His mothers treatment, obviously" you didn't realise the soft smile that appeared on your lips, but your friends noticed immediately.
“Aw," cooed Edith, to which Maude immediately joined. "She is in love!"
"You are ridiculous, both of you," you chided. "I just appreciate that he cares so much. God knows, he is the only one in his family to visit regularly.”
"Doesn't he have a younger brother?" Maude feigned disinterest, though the tops of her ears turned pink.
"He does, and he's actually your age," you teased.
“What?” Edith asked. “There is another?”
You giggled. “He visited once, and Maude hasn’t been the same since.”
"Oh, you two shall become family, and you will forget all about me!" lamented Edith.
That finally made you laugh heartily. “We shall never forget about you, dear Edith! However should we manage without your wit and jokes?” You pulled her in with one arm and held her tight to your side.
“You say that now,” she said in mock sadness, ‘Just you wait, until both of you have popped out little Holmes babies, and no one -”
“That is quiet enough,” you interrupted her hurriedly.
Thankfully, you had arrived at the pub, so that the conversation was cut short, for the times being.
*****
A couple of weeks later you and your best friend found yourselves rushing
to the asylum after another night at the pub.
“I’m never going out with you again.” Maude groaned in the early morning hours. Both of you had slept longer than planned, which was the reason for the two of you almost running towards work.
You chuckled softly, raising a hand to block out the rising sun. “You say that every time, yet you always beg us to take you the next time we go.”
You opened the side gate of the asylum, and let Maude enter first. “Do you know if Edith will be here today?”
Maude shrugged, opening the kitchen door and entering into the busy morning noise of the asylum. Two chefs were preparing breakfast for the patients, a tasteless, formless pap that you couldn’t imagine tasted any good.
After greeting the chefs and nurses that were already working, the two of you hurried to change into your uniforms, preparing to visit the patients when Shirley, the head nurse, rushed down the hallway, motioning for you to follow her.
“What happened?” You asked.
”Just hurry,” she replied, not gracing you with a glance. You did as you were told, though not without turning to Maude and grimacing her way. Maude looked just as surprised as you and shrugged her shoulders, before turning back to pick up a tray for one of the patients.
Following Shirley proved difficult. Though she was elderly, she was small and swift on her feet, rounding corners and stepping around patients and nurses with ease.
”Edith send word that she is unwell, as have Rose and Esther. Elizabeth and her husband have extended their honeymoon, so we are understaffed on the front of the house,” explained Shirley with the speed of lighting, “So I need you to take over the reception and any escapers.”
”What? Why me?”
”Honestly?” She seemed annoyed. “Because I said so. And also because you’re the only one I trust to be friendly to visitors.”
“That seems an unfair reason. Am I getting punished for my excellent behaviour?” You smirked, though the look you got in return told you that your humour was not appreciated.
”Sorry,” you mumbled, and took your post in the entrance hall. Shirley gave you one more pointed look and said: “I am serious, be friendly,”, before she disappeared out of sight.
A sigh escaped you, as you opened the visitors book. There were hardly any entries in the book, so unless half of the patients friends and families were to spontaneously visit, it would be a long and boring day.
”Oh no, have you been put in time out?” Dr. Jackson asked.
He was an elderly doctor who only visited once a week, though he was very caring and friendly towards the patients and nurses alike. He was to retire soon, though every nurse was hoping he would stay longer.
”You know me, Dr Jackson,” you smirked in reply, “I always get in trouble.”
He laughed at that. “As long as it’s the good kind of trouble. We really can’t afford to lose any help around here.”
”Aye, captain,” you saluted playfully. He chuckled and opened his mouth to retort something else, but the main door opened, revealing the first visitor of the day.
”Ah,” said Dr Jackson when he spotted the visitor, “that is my cue to get back to my patients.”
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hide a smile. The visitor was a particularly difficult family member who contradicted everything any nurse or doctor said. Dr Jackson was the only one to talk back at the man, but ever since then he tried to avoid the man as much as possible.
“Mr. Manford,” you said with practiced friendliness, “What can I do for you today?”
*****
You had been right. The day was slow, and apparently every patient today decided to behave and not make any escapes. You were bored out of your mind, when a cheerful voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
”And this must be my mother’s favourite nurse!”
You looked up to see a young man standing in front of you. His bright blue eyes unmistakably identified him as a Holmes.
“Ah,” you said with raised eyebrows, “the prodigal Holmes son, I assume?”
He cocked his head slightly. “And how does one come to that conclusion?”
“We have met before, you know,” you chuckled in reply.
He hummed, masking any embarrassment if it was there at all.
”Your mother is in her room,” you smiled and pointed down the hallway.
”Thank you,” he replied courtly. “I see why my brother has taken a liking to you.”
You choked on your breath, and before you could ask him whatever he could mean by that, he had disappeared into the direction you had pointed out to him. Warmth crept up your neck and you considered taking a break, before realising you could not without anyone taking over for you.
You fanned your face with a scrap paper laying around, before being surprised once more.
”Feeling all right there?”
“Mr. Holmes,” you choked out, “back so soon?”
He chuckled. “Is twice a week too much t visit one’s mother?”
Ever since you had barged in on the two of them, he had made sure to be friendly to you, stopping every now and then to chat. You had become pretty good at gauging when the oldest Holmes son would come to visit.
Your eyes almost bulged out of your head when you realized just what you had implied. “N-no, of course not, I just- I meant no offence, its just…”
You took a deep breath to stop yourself from rambling. “I just talked to your brother, and since he was alone I assumed you would not be here today.”
Very professional, you praised yourself sarcastically.
”Ah. The menace is here.” His jaw tightened slightly. “I do hope he has
behaved himself.”
You smiled. “Excellently, sir, he was very friendly. He is already in your mothers room.”
”Thank you,” he said, though he lingered a beat longer than necessary.
You looked up from the visitors log. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Holmes?”
From the corner of your eye you saw Maude enter the main hallway. She spotted you, and upon realising who you were talking to, her jaw dropped comically. You made a point out of ignoring her reaction.
“Please, call me Mycroft,” he said, clearing his throat. You noticed his cheeks turning slightly pink, making him look younger than he acted.
You smiled, ducking your head slightly when telling him that he should also call you by your first name.
“Will you come and have tea with us?” He asked, a hand coming up to scratch his neck.
“Oh, I should not,” you said nervously.
”I insist,” he said, smiling cheekily. Who knew he could be such a flirt?
”I really can’t. The head nurse has me managing the reception, so I have to stay here until someone swaps with me.”
”And isn’t it lucky that I came just to do that?” Maude interrupted, pushing the tray with tea she was holding into your hands.
Mycroft gave her a conspiratory smile. “Very lucky indeed. My mother will be thrilled.”
You could not help the giggle that escaped you. “I will come right up.” You sat down the tray and watched Mycroft leave. When he was out of earshot you turned towards Maude and squeezed her arm gratefully. “You truly are the greatest friend,” you whispered as you hugged her tightly.
She laughed. “I know. But honestly, you better put in a good word for me with the younger Mr Holmes. And do not stay up there for too long, I hate the reception.”
You squeezed her once more. “I won’t, thank you, Maude!”
“Thank me at your wedding!” she called out after you.
You did not find it in you to shush her this time, instead hurrying towards Mrs. Holmes’ room.
“Ah, my favourite nurse,” she smiled at you as you entered.
“How is my favourite patient doing?” you asked, smiling brightly at her as you poured tea and handed the cups to her and her sons.
”I do not know,” she retorted, “How are you doing, Mycroft?”
The man in question promptly choked on his tea, while his younger brother snickered softly. “Yes, brother dear, how are you doing?”
He just glared in response, before turning to you. “I am so sorry.”
You chuckled. “Don’t be. I have always wondered what it is like to have siblings.” You set the tray near to the door.
”You don’t have siblings?” Mrs Holmes asked.
“No, I don’t.”
”You were abandoned as a child, were you not?” Sherlock asked, eyeing you curiously. Your face fell at his statement.
”Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed angrily.
“Oh come, brother dear, do you mean to tell me you didn’t know?”
Shame pricked behind your eyes and hollowed out your chest.
“Sherlock, darling, …” sighed his mother tiredly.
”It is a simple deduction, really, I don’t-“ he went on.
”ENOUGH!”
You flinched at Mycroft’s tone. Your throat burnt. You picked up the tray and chocked out an excuse me, then hurried back towards the kitchen.
“Wait,” you heard Mycroft call out after you, but you did not pay it any attention.
”Just wait,” he said again, this time closer and softer. A hand came up and reached out for your arm, never really touching.
You stilled.
Mycroft hesitated a beat, before saying: “I am so sorry for what he said.” You breathed in sharply. “Did you know?” You couldn’t look at him. “Did you deduct my family history?”
You heard his breath falter before the soft response came. “I … I had a suspicion. I was never as sure as he was just now, but… I suspected that you had grown up in precarious circumstances .”
You nodded. “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Holmes. Now if you will excuse me, I have to get back to the reception.”
”I never meant to upset you.”
His voice was even quieter now, his hand brushed you arm briefly, unintentionally, before falling back down to his side limply. Your chest tightened.
”You did not upset me. I simply don’t need pity.”
”Of course not. That is not what i was trying to imply. I just… I didn’t think he’d-“ He trailed of.
You pressed your lips into a polite smile.
“Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”
When Maude saw you come down again, she mercifully did not ask anything. Instead, she squeezed your arm tightly and mumbled: “Today’s drink is on me.”
You shook your head and forced another smile. “I’m fine.”
*****
Which proved to be a lie. You hated that your past affected you the way it did, that you never knew how to handle questions about your family and where you came from. Mostly you hated that you had shut down in front of Mycroft and his family.
Ever since that day, you had made sure to avoid him, ashamed of your emotional outbreak, but too proud to apologise.
Sherlock had come around and asked for forgiveness, which you had granted obviously. You had heard rumours of his wit and intelligence, but you also knew that he was not the most skilled at social interactions.
When he apologised, you were almost certain it was his mother who had urged him to do so, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Sherlock had no malicious intend.
Avoiding Mycroft at all cost also meant that your only friendship outside of the workplace was lost. If it was a friendship at all, the little voice in the back of your head kept nagging. He probably thinks you are pathetic.
You shook your head and tried to focus on the tasks at hand again.
You knocked softly on Mrs. Holmes’ door, before entering.
“Your tea, Mrs. Holmes.”
”Thank you, dear. Will you sit with me?” Her words formed a question, though her tone hardly allowed for discussion.
You sat down, but avoided her eyes. You thought you knew what she was about to say, so you tried to apologise before she could chastise you.
”Mrs. Holmes, I am so sorry for my behaviour when-“
”Oh, darling, no!” she interrupted you, “you do not have to apologise! I wanted to ask how you are doing.”
”Oh,” you replied dumbly, “I’m fine.”
She searched your face. “That’s all? You are fine?”
You swallowed audibly, but nodded. “I’m doing good.”
She hummed in response. “May I ask… what is your family situation? Sherlock has a way to find out truths without paying attention to the nuances.”
Your heartbeat sped up and your mouth felt parched. “I… Uhm-“ you trailed off, trying to gather your thoughts.
”You don’t have to tell me, of you do not wish to,” the woman reassured you.
”I want to, I’m just scared I will start to cry,” you chuckled to mask the awkwardness you felt.
“Darling, you are allowed to cry. I have never once seen you complain or be frustrated here. You are always friendly and kind. It is all right to feel sad as well.”
You nodded, though you still tried to gulp down the tears.
“My mother…” you said and drew in a shaky breath before you continued. “My mother had a psychological affliction. When I was three she was sent to an asylum. A-and my father took care of me, but when I was six my mother became ill. I mean more ill than before. She died in the asylum.”
By now tears were quietly streaming down your face. “I’m sorry, its just that this week would have been her birthday. I’m always a little emotional,” a wet chuckle escaped you.
Mrs. Holmes nodded, and sat down next to you.
”My father, he… he did not cope well. He began drinking, even before she died. And when she wasn’t here anymore… h-he just- he just left for days on end. He left me alone at home a-and I… well I was taken in by an orphanage. And later when i was thirteen an elderly lady took me in; Mrs Baxter.”
You sniffled and wiped the tears off your face.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs. Holmes mumbled and reached out a hand to touch your knee gently. “I am so sorry.”
You shook your head vehemently. “Mrs Holmes, I do not need pity. I am lucky to have known my parents, and lucky to have been taken in by a remarkably kind woman. I have a stable job which I love. There is no need to pity me.”
Mrs. Holmes smiled and scooted closer to you. “You are right, dear. You are quite lucky, and you have remarkable resilience and courage.”
She searched for your eyes, before continuing: “Do not confuse pity with empathy. There may be people who look down on you out of false pity. But there are more people who feel with you, out of genuine kindness and care for you. You do not have to carry everything on your own.”
Your bottom lip wobbled slightly as you nodded in response with furrowed eyebrows.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she chuckled and hugged you.
You chuckled as well, and hugged her back. “Thank you, Mrs Holmes.”
”No need to thank me. Now,” she sat back and patted your leg, “cheer up. Crying cleanses the soul, so you are as good as new.”
You laughed a little and wiped the last tear stains from your face. You straightened and picked up the tray.
”Oh, and just to be perfectly transparent,” Mrs Holmes stopped you before you opened the door, a tiny smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Mycroft is not capable of false pity. His heart is too pure.”
You nodded, blushing at the words left unsaid by Mrs Holmes, and closed the door carefully.
******
“Oh, I am sorry, Mrs Holmes,” you said, “Mr. Holmes.” You turned to leave, but Mrs Holmes interrupted you.
”Stay, dear. Mycroft doesn’t mind,” she smiled knowingly.
Your eyes shifted in his direction, just to find that he was already looking at you.
“I shouldn’t,” you said with hesitation, and saw his face fall a little.
For a moment no one seemed to know what to say, but then Mycroft cleared his throat and gestured to the door. “A word?”
His voice was quiet and laced with vulnerability. You swallowed your nerves and nodded quickly.
He opened the door and let you step out first, a hand hovering near the small of your back. He stepped out as well and closed the door behind him softly, but with determination.
A beat of silence passed, before you decided to bite the bullet. ”Mr. Holmes, I am very sorry for my behaviour last week.”
He shook his head gently. “Please, I told you to call me Mycroft.”
You frowned. “Alright… Mycroft, I am very sorry for my behaviour last week,” you said, though your voice lilted higher at the end.
He smiled at you and gave you a look that seemed to say silly girl.
“You do not need to apologise. I wanted to apologise for pushing you into that situation in the first place.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you smiled, “I am glad you consider me a good enough friend to invite me at all.”
”Friend. Right,” he nodded, though his eyes did not meet yours anymore.
Assumptions, assumptions, the little voice said. You are not friends.
You gulpep. “I am sorry, I did not mean to assume…”
“No, no… it’s… Its all right.” His hand hovered near your elbow, again not touching you. “I just… the truth is…” his voice was shaking, his hand came up to scratch his neck.
”The truth is, quiet selfishly I do not see you as a friend.”
You took in a sharp breath and nodded. “I understand. And I am sorry if I have overstepped at all.”
”No, you do not understand. I see you as more than a friend. I have for a long time, but I…”
He seemed at loss for words, but his hand finally touched your elbow. Goosebumps seemed to stretch from the point of contact all over your body. His hand slid lower, fingers tentatively brushing yours.
“My mother told me about your conversation, and I realised that I had never taken the time to see your point of view. That you might see pity where I tried to hide my genuine affection for you. A-and I realised I had to be honest about my feelings towards you, if I ever wished for a chance to regain your friendship.”
You were shaking slightly, and opened your mouth to reply, when you heard giggling behind you.
You clamped your mouth shut and dropped your shoulders slightly.
Mycroft’s head snapped up and his gaze focused on a point behind you. You smiled despite yourself.
”Mr. Holmes. Mycroft,” you corrected yourself. “Am I correct in assuming that there are two young nurses behind me, one blond and the other dark haired?”
He chuckled at your words. “Quite right, my dear.”
“Well,” you said, “We will not find any privacy in this house as long as these nosy friends of mine are around. May I suggest that we arrange for a walk once I am no longer needed here?”
You heard Maude gasp behind you, and practically felt Edith’s incredulous gaze on your back. Mycroft's cheeks tinted slightly as he lifted your hand softly and pressed a kiss to your fingers.
Just something short'n sweet, while I work on my longer WIPs.
Mycroft either marries an eldest daughter who thinks and acts exactly like him, or he marries someone who is the complete and polar opposite of him. But he’d definitely marry someone who is caring like him, and who would have a “Who can take more care of their significant other”-competition with him.
They'd call each other “dear husband”/ “my dear wife”, but Mycroft would also love calling her Mrs. Holmes, just because he can't believe he got lucky enough to maker her his family.
People would tell them to take their time after the wedding, to just enjoy each other. And of course they'd I enjoy alone time, and especially their honeymoon, but they'd both enjoy each others families too much to stay away for long ,so that they spend all their time with them.
He’ll spoil his wife rotten; he brings tiny gifts all the time, stuff that reminds him of her. Whatever he gets his hands on and he thinks she’ll like.
Of course she insists that she doesn’t need any of those gifts, but she understands that that is his way of showing his love.
Mycroft would be the kind of husband to act on all of the love languages:
Touching his wife’s waist at all times, and making sure he is always holding her hand or offering her his arm? Kissing her on the cheek or forehead in public, but also very passionately in private? Smoothing her hair out when they are relaxing in the evening, or tracing patterns on her arm? Like, yes, he will do all of that (I also have a feeling like this man might be touch starved, but that’s a thought for another time…)
Moving on to acts of service. For him it would be so natural, he probably wouldn't notice at first, and she'd always be so amazed that he cares so much. He’d bring his wife her tea when he sees that she is tired. He wouldn’t let her lift a finger because “that’s what I am here for”. he would do anything to make life as easy as possible for her.
Mycroft would definitely tell her how much he loves her and how beautiful she is multiple times throughout the day. He would enjoy seeing her blush whenever he praised her for something. His wife would probably be reserved and proper as well, so anything risky he says to her would immediately cause a reaction, and he couldn't even lie about low much he liked having an effect on her.
Quality time would be the hardest, I think, because this man loves his job. So spending long hours at the foreign office was a rather regular occurrence. But he’d still make sure to always spend the weekends with his wife and to take her out regularly.
His wife would really be able to ground him, whenever he felt like he was loosing control. Especially whenever he had to take care of his mother or Sherlock, she would be there to take care of Mycroft.
The first time he is sick, she tries to take care of him and asks if he wants a soup or warm milk. To which he reacts: "that's probably wise. I'll go and heat something up.” First she laughs. And then she just stares at him horrified, when she realises he's actually serious. She orders him to stay in bed, while she makes a soup and dotes on him until he is fit again. Mycroft doesn’t really see what the problem is, but he is grateful that someone is taking care of him for a change.
This also applies to when work becomes overwhelming. In the first year of their marriage, Mycroft had a particularly difficult case to deal with, which has him up in his office well past midnight. When his wife walks in on him, Mycroft expects her to ask him to come to bed or to scold him for ruining his eyesight with the bad light. Instead she carries in an extra candle and places a cup of tea next to the file he was reading. She came to stand next to him and leaned on the armrest, laying her arm across his shoulder. After a moment, she ran her fingers through his hair briefly and pressed a kiss to his temple, mumbling: “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,”, before retreating. Mycroft swore he wasn’t emotional, there just must have been a speck of dust in his eyes :’)
Author’s notes: I am very obsessed with Young Sherlock, and Mycroft is just *chef’s kiss* This fic was inspired primarily by this post, and follows the events of the show loosely, though I focused mainly on the relationship between Mycroft and reader.
wc: 7.2k
pairing: YS!Mycroft Holmes x fem!reader (assistant)
cw: mentions of murder (duh), mentions of stalking, probably some historical inaccuracies, miscommunication, crying, hospital, fluff, strangers-to-colleagues-to-friends-to-lovers, fluff, hurt, comfort
feedbacks and interaction is always appreciated!
Oxford
The passages were bustling with students and professors alike, everyone eager to start on new academic challenges. Scouts and porters were hurrying along the hallways, making sure everything was perfectly ordered. The autumn air was crisp, even though the sun still gave its best performance.
You walked over to the man standing with his back to you, notepad and pen in your hand, until you were just a few paces apart from him.
"Mr. Holmes?" you asked.
The man turned around, and piercing blue eyes met yours. 'Ah! You must be- "
"Your new assistant, sir.”
He smiled at you. "You have truly changed a lot since I last saw you, miss."
"I should hope so, sir, " you smiled in return, "I was but eight at the time.”
He extended his hand. You took it and he shook it firmly. You noticed the contrast of his warm hand compared to the chilly breeze.
"I wanted to thank you again for this opportunity, also on behalf of my parents. It really is a great relief." You twirled the pen in your hand aimlessly while talking.
He waved you off vaguely. "Do not mention it. I am glad to be able to help. And truly I could use the assistance. I would not be surprised if you flee by the end of this year after having to put up with me and my schedule," he spoke with humour.
"Not me, sir. I will not back down from a challenge." you grinned.
He laughed, and you decided it was your favourite expression of his. "I do feel like this is the start of a great camaraderie."
One year later
The carriage rattled on, as you sat in silence, contemplating events that had taken place in the past days, and especially this afternoon.
Mycroft sat equally pensive across from you, staring blankly at the scenery outside the carriage. Your hands rested on the novel you were currently reading, a small break from the busy life you led as an assistant. Your mind had been occupied with the day's events, so that the book laid in your lap unread.
"Mr. Holmes," you interrupted his train of thoughts. He snapped out of his trance, focussing on you.
"Forgive me, I just… I wanted to ask if you are alright?' He inhaled sharply. "Yes, yes, l am… quite fine. Really."
You looked at him intently, trying to figure out how much he was lying. His mouth was sat in a line, and there were bags under his eyes. He was obviously exhausted. And probably frustrated, given Sherlock's situation and the recent loss of his job.
"I do not mean to overstep," you said carefully "however, I do think it is allowed to feel angered at this whole situation."
"I suppose you are right. But anger rarely helps anyone."
"It might help you to express your anger. Get rid of it, in a way." Mycroft nodded, though he did not say anything.
"You do know, you do not have to pretend for my sake, right? I am just an assistant, and I am more than lucky to have a superior who does not make his anger a daily occurrence. "
Mycroft chuckled. “If I did not know better, I should think you want me to be angry."
"I want you to not bottle up everything. Do go on, sir. Humour me a little." You grinned and started twirling your pen mindlessly.
He huffed out a breath and looked at you quizzically.
"Alright. I am angry. Furious. I worked hard for this career. I always did my best. And l am trying to be a good brother. And now it seems I have failed at both." He gripped his cane with inhumane force. "Why is it that everything I hold dear blows up right into my face?"
He paused, but you knew he was not yet finished.
“I mean it is my fault. I should have never brought him to Oxford in the first place, I should have seen the trouble coming from a mile away.”
“So you are angry at yourself?”
He looked outside. “I suppose so.”
You chewed on your lip, working up the courage to say: “If I may, sir. I believe you are too hard on yourself. You could not have predicted the future, even if you wanted to. And Sherlock is a grown man who should be able to take care of himself. You caring about him enough to risk your career speaks highly to your character. It is not a flaw to love.”
He hummed non committed, and looked out of the small window again.
The carriage soon came to a stop and Mycroft jumped out, extending his hand to help you out of the carriage. He thanked the driver and walked to the entrance of his house, turning to check and see that you were close behind.
When he turned again, two figures came out of the bushes. “Good evening!”
“For the love of God, Sherlock!” exclaimed Mycroft.
Your guts twisted - this evening was about to become very chaotic.
Half an hour later
"And now I have lost my job."
Sherlock's interest was awakened and he sat up straight.
The evening had taken a strange turn with the appearance of the younger Holmes and his friend. Mycroft seemed angry, Sherlock unbothered, James enjoying himself just a little too obvious, and you tried to melt into the wall and stay unnoticed.
James however fixed his gaze on you with a knowing smirk. “If you're out of a job, how come she is still here?”
"Not that it is any of your business," Mycroft said, "but she is still here, because I can still pay her, and because I promised her parents to assure that she learns everything necessary to become independent, should she choose to do so."
"Not to mention, because I am great company" you attempted to joke, hoping to avoid the obvious scandal. Unmarried and in his house was bad enough, the late hour just made it all the more suspicious.
Of course Sherlock did not leave it be. “At this hour? In your private home? Brother dear, I do believe you are hiding something. Have you finally fallen in love?”
His tone was mocking and James provided the dramatic gesticulation to his words, clasping his hands over his heart and pouting as if he were deeply moved by the scene.
You blushed furiously and averted your gaze, tears pricking in the corner of your eyes. Once again you cursed yourself for telling Mycroft about your circumstances and thus adding on to his burdens.
“That is not what this is,” hissed Mycroft. “And I do ask you to be more considerate in front of the lady.”
“But she is not, in fact,” interrupted James. “A lady, that is. She’d hardly be working for you if she were nobility. And she would certainly not stay here. So an affair it must be,” he grinned cheekily.
Mycroft released his breath through his nose, looking from James to Sherlock and back. If looks could kill, you thought, I would not want to be in his range of sight right now.
“I really do not see how this concerns the two of you,” he said slowly, “But I am telling you to keep her from harmful rumours. She has been followed repeatedly by two men to her lodgings, and felt threatened. When I heard of it, I decided that it was not safe for her to stay there. Until we find a better solution, she stays here in the guest room. There is nothing improper going on, this is purely of friendly nature.”
“Right,” nodded James, though it was clear he didn’t believe a word of what was said.
“And now, if you’d be so kind,” Mycroft went on, though a blush had crept up his neck as well, “what are you two here for?”
Sherlock extended a single glove towards his brother.
”If it were cold, and my hands were smaller, this would be very useful, thank you.” Mycroft commented, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“This belonged to Shou’an,” he said, as if it should be obvious. He explained their findings and deductions to Mycroft, while you sat quietly and listened. At some point you fished your pen out of your pocket and started twirling it between your fingers.
The three of them argued and reasoned some more, before Mycroft remembered the escort.
”We should talk to Ezra Hornsby.”
A tiny voice in your mind screame: we including me? But you bit the inside of your cheek, and stayed silent.
“He accompanied the princess from Dover. He will know when she arrived.”
Sherlock turned to James with a triumphant grin. “That was a hmm, as in hmm, he’s got something.” The two young men in question left the room, satisfied to have achieved their goal, leaving you and Mycroft behind.
When the door closed, Mycroft let himself fall into one of the chairs groaning deeply. "Whatever did I do to deserve a brother like this?'
You chuckled in reply. “I believe that is simply how families work, sir."
Another heavy sigh escaped him. “l am afraid you are correct, as always, my dear assistant. Remind me, what else must I do today?"
"You are joking, I hope, sir?”
"Of course, I am. I just do not want to accept my defeat yet.” He released a long breath through his nose. "And I thought I had asked you to call me Mycroft,” he said, fixing his gaze towards you.
You turned away to avoid meeting his scrutinising gaze when you felt heat climbing up your neck., "Old habits die hard " you said, biting your tongue to avoid calling him ‘Mr. Holmes’.
A beat of silence passed, before he mumbled “Indeed, they do.” When you looked up at him again he had turned away already.
"Right," he announced suddenly, getting up. "I have to go and accompany my dearest brother and his friend. No, you stay here,” he said, seeing you get up as well. “I have dragged you all across London these past weeks already, and we never know what happens when Sherlock is involved. Take a couple of days off.”
Oh. We, excluding me.
"Mr. Holmes, I am no damsel in distress who cannot deal with stress or physical activity. I want to come."
He chuckled and stepped closer to you. "I know," he smiled benignly at you. “Will you humour me regardless?" He seemed to almost plead. “You can stay here in the house. Work on your writing, maybe?”
”I would get more creative input if I came with you,” you tried to argue, but it was a weak rebuttal. He looked away from you, almost disappointed and so you gave in and nodded. "Alright. I will stay here. I might as well do my job. For once,” You grinned mischievously.
‘Thank you. You do not realise what a relief it is to know that not everyone has lost their wits.’
You laughed. ‘Enough flattery. Go help your brother.’
Mycroft bowed to you slightly before leaving the room. Your blood was still rushing in your ears long after the door had closed.
Five Days Later
‘Mr. Holmes, I am begging you. Please. Let me come to Paris. I will never have the means or the freedom to travel again. This is my one and only chance to see something outside of England.”
The past days had been rather eventful, and Mycroft had been all over trying to find answers to Sir Bucephalus murder and Professor Malik’s disappearance.
Now he had announced that he was going to Paris in search of the Professor, and you had it set in your mind that you were going to accompany him.
“I hope you do realise that I am not actually going on a vacation there. I am investigating a murder. I do not know what is going to happen there. Not to mention the active revolution going on.”
“Sir, please. I will do anything to stay out of your way and I promise you to not seek out any danger. But please, do take me with you.”
“No.” his jaw ticked with tension.
You huffed out a frustrated sigh, and opened your mouth to rebut him once again.
“That is definitive. I will not take you with me. Your parents asked me to take you on because they trust me to keep you safe. I will not take you to Paris.”
“They placed me under your protection so that I could learn from you. And besides what am I to do here? Sherlock has vanished, so that I could not possibly bother him about his investigation, you don’t work in the Foreign Office anymore, so that I could manage your affairs while you are gone. Will you have me sit around idly all day long until you decide to return?”
“As a matter of fact, that is what I would prefer.” His face hardened as he muttered: “Glad to know where your preferences lie.”
“Well, at least Sherlock would allow me to help.” It was a low blow, and you knew it. Not to mention that this argument was possibly jeopardising your only prospect of any profitable career.
“Yes, and he would risk your safety, your honour, and possibly even your life. I will not allow you to seek out danger with his help.”
“You seem to think I am a child, whom you can allow and forbid as you please. I will assure you that I am capable of deciding and fending for myself, and so I will see that Sherlock takes me with him.”
“What happened to coming to Paris with me? Hmm?” He asked in an agitated voice.
“Well you don’t want me to come.”
“I also don’t want you to go to Sherlock.”
“Well, it’s a shame that you want me nowhere apparently. I do hope Sherlock is kinder to me.”
“So that is what this has been all about from the beginning?” “What could you possibly mean?”
“I am aware that Sherlock is the most interesting thing about me!” Mycroft’s voice was raised at you, something which had only occurred once before when he had insisted you could not stay at your previous lodgings.
That argument had been heated, but you had not felt his anger towards you then. This time around, the problem was you it seemed.
Your eyebrows shot up, and your breath caught in your throat. ‘Mr. Holmes,’ you stuttered, ‘I do hope you are aware that that is not how I think about you.’
His shoulders fell and he let his head hang low. ‘I am terribly sorry,’ he said. His hand came up to his face and he dragged it across his brow. He straitened up again and looked you in the eyes. ‘I should not have raised my voice at you.’
You stood at loss for words. ‘Please forgive me,’ Mycroft said your name, softly now, though still insistent. You nodded. ‘Of course. I am sorry to have angered you.’
He shook his head in reply. ‘You have not. I am tired and frustrated, though not because of you. My reaction was unacceptable. You did nothing wrong, Miss.’
Your lips turned into a tiny smile. Always the perfect gentleman. ‘Do not trouble yourself too much, Mr Holmes. You are human after all.’
He chuckled. ‘Alas, merely human.’
You breathed out a soft laugh.
‘You should get some rest. It is late, the day has been rather eventful, and our voyage to Paris will no doubt be equally exhausting.’
Your eyes lit up, but you schooled your enthusiasm and nodded with a bright smile adorning your face. ‘So should you.’ You got up, gathering your book and notes in your arm. ‘You can’t control everything, especially not with a fatigued mind.’
He smiled at you, though it did not quite reach his eyes. ‘Right you are.’
You turned and walked towards the door. You were about to close it behind you, when your mouth seemed to develop a mind of its own.
‘Mr Holmes,’ you turned to face him again, ‘Mycroft.’ His name felt warm on your tongue. His eyes held a glint when he looked up to you. ‘It is not true. Sherlock is not the most interesting thing about you.’ His eyebrows quirked up slightly.
‘You should not put yourself in his shadow. You are most interesting on your own.’
Your heart beat a hundred miles an hour. Forcing the door shut before he could react, you hurried to your room, missing how Mycroft's face heated up under your praise.
The next morning
The two of you left well before sunrise and took a carriage to the train station. Ever the gentleman, Mycroft had helped you into the carriage, not allowing you to help with the little luggage you had. He climbed in after you and sat across from you.
Neither one disturbed the silence that formed, for which you were glad. Not even five minutes after the journey had started, you felt yourself get drowsy with sleep, and your mind wandered off towards your parents and their little home, your mother’s homemade apple pies and your father’s booming laughter.
You were awakened suddenly, by Mycroft who was gently touching your shoulder and calling out your name.
It took you a moment to realize where you were. Your mind was aware that there was something amiss about Mycrofts appearance, yet you could not put your finger on what exactly it was.
You looked around yourself, irritated at how much light filled the carriage, and confused as to why Mycrofts coat was laying where your head had been just seconds ago.
You shook your head to get rid off the sleepiness still grasping the edges of your mind. “What is it?” You asked.
“We are almost at the station.”
”What, already?” You asked amazed. “I am sorry I was such boring company then.”
Mycroft gave you a rather tired smile. “Don’t worry. I slept a bit as well.”
A yawn forced its way out of your lungs. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled through the yawn.
Mycroft simply shook his head and smiled, though his gaze seemed to be fixed on your forehead.
”What is it?” you asked, “Have I grown a spot?”
”Uh.. oh-no, no.” He averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “I just never saw you with loose hair. It rather suits you.”
Your eyes widened and your cheeks grew warm. “Oh,” was all you could force out, as your touched your hair and realised it must have come undone while you were sleeping. “Thank you.”
Relief flooded you as the carriage came to a stop and you saw the train station, cutting off the current topic of conversation.
“Here we are,” Mycroft announced. He helped you out of the carriage as usual, but upon seeing the bustling crowds, instead of dropping your hand as soon as your feet hit the ground, he tucked into the crook of his elbow.
”Hold tight,” he said, “do not get lost.”
You would have laughed at his words and tone, had he not looked at you in utter seriousness and had his actions not thoroughly surprised you. You just gulped down your nervousness and nodded at him.
He was leading you through the crowds and in the train. Suddenly he leaned very close to you while walking.
”I did not tell you earlier,” he mutttered, “but I booked the tickets and made reservations for the hotelroom for the both of us under my name.”
Your eyes widened, and you opened your mouth to ask a million questions, but he kept on whispering to you.
”People will assume we are married, which is not ideal, I admit. But it is the least suspicious cover I could think of in all the haste. That way no one will ask questions.”
You were speechless once more.
Mycroft looked visibly uncomfortable discussing the subject with you, but before you could ask if he was all right with the plan himself, he had found a quiet coupe, in which no one had yet taken a seat. He urged you in and closed the door, hoping no one would be desperate enough to sit with what seemed a young, newly-wed couple.
He sat next to you, instead of across from you as usual, under the guise of “keeping up the image”, but he barely talked to you the first couple of hours.
The whole situation made you feel quite powerless and childish. Mycroft’s silence made you feel as though you had done something wrong, like a child waiting for their father to punish them.
You saw his hands flex repeatedly at his sides, and his jaw was locked up firmly. Your own leg was nervously rocking up and down, and your mind was equally restless, unable to take in the novel you had brought with you.
You snapped the pages shut at the exact same time your name left his lips. You both chuckled, and turned away from each other briefly, before you said: “You go first, Mr. Holmes.”
”All right,” he said, “though you really ought to call me Mycroft if people are to believe we are married.”
”No people are around here, sir” you replied with a cheeky grin, “so I will stick to Mr Holmes.”
”Ha! As you wish, dearest, but you must know as revenge I will call you the most atrocious terms of endearment I can think of, my dove.”
You snickered. “Well, sir, I do hope you give it your best.”
You saw a mischivious glint in his eyes. “All right then, light of my life. Let’s see how you hold up. I could call you …” he put a finger on his chin, tapping it lightly. “I could call you my pearl?”
You rolled your eyes playfully.
”My angel? My muse, my princess!” A giggle escaped you.
“My queen? Your majesty,” he proposed thoughtfully.
“I must say, Mr. Holmes, I expected worse.”
”Worse?” He looked offended. “I will give you worse. I will call you my sugar cube.”
You swatted his arm lightly.
”My flower,” he said.
”Boring,” you replied.
”My honeysuckle,” he exclaimed and immediately looked horrified of himself, his cheeks flaming up brightly.
You burst out laughing, “Honeysuckle, Mycroft? Where on earth did you pick that up?” You asked, wiping tears from your eyes.
”Truly, I don’t know what came over me.” He was laughing now as well, and it occurred to you that it had been a while since you had last heard him so care free. You wondered if a younger Mycroft had been happier.
”Tell me about your childhood,” you said softly, leaning back against the seat and turning your head towards him.
His eyebrows met. “You know about my childhood.”
You shrugged and then shook your head. “I know what happened to your family during your childhood. I hardly know anything about you, Mycroft.”
He turned and stared into the void in front of him. “Well there is not much to tell about young Mycroft. First it was mother, father, and me. And everything was ordinary. I don’t have many memories of that time. And then came Sherlock.”
You chuckled. “And then what?” You pressed.
“Then everything became extraordinary. Sherlock… he was always so bright. He started walking way too early, speaking as well. Followed me around everywhere.” Mycroft smiled at the memory.
“When he was three he told on me for stealing candy out of the pantry. Three! Instead of joining and enjoying the candy.”
You couldn’t help but grin at the image of baby Sherlock and young Mycroft.
Mycroft shook his head with a smile. “And soon, he became smarter than me. It became clear that he was brighter than me very early on. My father adored him, because he had more interest in natural sciences than I did. They would be out in the fields all day. And my mother… She loves us both, I know that. But she was much more affectionate towards him. Soon I was no longer his brother, but I was his older brother, I carried responsibility. Which I did not mind, I loved having a purpose, but sometimes I wondered…” he trailed off, and you noticed hid foot bouncing slightly.
You wanted to reach out and comfort him, but did not find the courage.
”Anyways, shortly after came Bea,” he resumed, “and she was the sun. She did not grow up quite as fast as Sherlock, but still incredibly smart and dedicated. She was… she was everything. We all loved her to bits.”
He smiled again, though his eyes were focused on something invisible on the ground.
‘I often think that I could have prevented it, you know.”
You inhaled sharply, and reached out thoughtlessly, resting your hand on his.
He turned his hand around and loosely interlaced his fingers with yours.
“I should have taken care of her, when Sherlock was busy.”
”Mycroft, you were a child.”
He turned to you, and you saw the corner of his mouth quiver. “The eldest child, and old enough to almost start an apprenticeship.”
You shook your head, and turned your whole upper body to face him properly. "It's still not your fault," you insisted.
Mycroft did not reply, just shrugged unconvinced.
"Is that why you took me in?" you prodded.
His brows furrowed again. "How do you mean?'
"When I told you about the men following me. You did not waste a second, you immediately suggested I come live with you."
He nodded slowly. "I suppose it might have something to do with it. Though, I hope you know I would have helped you regardless. "
You smiled. "Of course, you would have, Mr. Holmes, " you said, removing your hand carefully from his. "After all you are a perfect gentleman."
He snorted at that, and shifted so that he was sitting up straighter, your arms no longer touching.
Silence settled between you once more. You supposed you should have felt awkward, but truthfully you felt as though this was as normal a conversation as any other. Friends, you reminded yourself, we are friends.
"What about you?" he asked suddenly, turning his head on the headrest to face you once more.
"What about me?" you asked surprised.
“Your youth," he said, “I don't know anything about the time after you and your parents moved to Manchester "
"Oh! Nothing particular happened to me" you chuckled. “I grew up, I made friends. Eventually I started to develop affections for boys my age, which my father was not happy about at all."
You smiled, when you told him about the time your father tried to forbid you to go to the fair with your friends when he found out that the boy you liked at the time was going with you and how your mother had convinced him to trust you and let you go regardless.
Mycroft looked at you with wide eyes and the tiniest smile as you gesticulated while telling him about how you had embarrassed yourself in front that of boy by laughing too loudly and how he never really talked after to you afterwards (which father was quite happy about.)
"Anyways," you concluded, "I grew up some more and realised I wouldn't want a husband who doesn't like my laugh. And I started to write and draw, which I quickly learned could never earn me a living, and so my father arranged for me to come work for you"
"Hmm, " Mycroft hummed.
"What hmm?" you asked.
"It sounds like you were happy," he said matter-of-factly.
"I still am " you grinned.
”Until you realise you have bigger and better prospects than following me around all day long, and go to work for someone much more important,” Mycroft said as if it was certain that it would happen.
”I don’t think so. You’ll only get rid of me by firing me.”
That drew a dry laugh out of him. “I could never do that. But you will move on some day. Either because you find a better position, or because at some point inevitably, someone will come and sweep you off your feet, and he’ll propose to you, and the two of you will settle in the country side and raise beautiful babies together.”
You looked at him unimpressed. “You have thought about my future quite a lot more than I have, it seems.”
”I suppose I have.” He looked serious again, and his shoulders tensed up.
“When all this is over,” he said, “we have to talk about your prospects. As much as I like our arrangement, we cannot keep it like it is now.”
You clenched your jaw and averted your gaze. “You are right, I suppose.”
He seemed equally unenthusiastic at the topic, so you changed the subject quickly.
”Well, this is a conversation for another day,”you said, “but a more pressing issue is what we will have for dinner.”
Mycroft knew of course that you were trying to distract him, but readily played along, if only to please you.
”I will try and get us sandwiches at the next station. I am afraid that we will have to make do with a cold dinner.”
You grinned widely, and said sweetly: “As long as I get to share it with my dear husband.”
You batted your eyelashes at him, and he could not help but laugh at your playfulness.
”Careful now,” he joked, “you will convince me to give up my bachelor existence after all.”
”Oh, I would love to see you married and with children,” you teased. “You could even visit me and my husband on the countryside.”
He rolled his eyes. “Make fun of me all you want, this is nothing compared to Sherlock’s teasing.”
Four days later, Paris
“I have arranged a ticket for you to go back to Manchester. The train leaves this afternoon. Please do not argue.”
You stiffened. The bustling hospital hallways seemed to stop and hold their breath synchronically with you.
Nonono no. No. Was what you wanted to scream, but no sound left your throat. Your airways constricted and you felt your chest tighten.
Your surroundings became blurry. Do not cry.
“I will accompany you to the station. I have wired your parents with all the
necessary information. They will pick you up there.”
Your breath came shallow. ”Why?” you croaked.
”Well, you cannot walk from the sta-“
”Mycroft,” you interrupted, “you know that is not what I meant.”
Finally you found the strength to turn your head and look at him. He didn’t meet your gaze, and did not show any emotion.
”Why are you sending me away?”
”Because it’s to dangerous. I cannot guarantee your safety.”
”I think it is obvious that I am the only one in this company right now who does not need protection. “ You wanted to scream at him.
“I will not take the risk.”
”I could help.”
”No, you couldn’t,” he said tiredly. “You are one more person I would need to take care of, and you are the only one not directly intertwined with this fiasco. You cannot help.”
The words hurt. He was right in a way. You knew, because that could he have been the only reason tears started welling up in your eyes.
”You can’t dictate what I do, or who I help. I am not a child.”
His jaw ticked. “Sherlock is badly wounded. My mother is freshly out of the asylum. James is doing God knows what, and Shou’an is an assassin. My father is a weapon seller, and the fate of my sister is still unclear. For Christ sake, what more do you need to know that it is not safe here?!” His voice became louder with each sentence.
He sighed deeply. “I really do not want to argue,” he said quietly again, “and you are right, you are not a child. So I cannot force you to go. But you work for me, and I can tell you that the consequence for staying here would be to lose your job permantly and immediately.”
He wouldn’t.
“You wouldn’t.” You hated yourself for the tears that brimmed your eyes, for your quivering voice, for being weak in front of him.
He didn’t reply, didn’t look at you. He stood like a wall, and you felt yourself crumbling like a piece of paper.
You straigtened up, and smoothed out the skirt f your dress. Your jaw locked up and you held your chin high. “If this is how you think, sir, I do not see a choice but to leave.”
He nodded slowly. You picked up your hat , smoothing out your hair.
“Mr Holmes, please give my warmest regard to Sherlock and to your mother. I hope you will wire my family if there is any news about Sherlock’s condition or your sister’s whereabouts. My parents would be delighted to hear from you. As for my employment; I think it wise to settle any remaining matters when you are back in London, sir.”
”Don’t be like this, please,” Mycroft pleaded softly. “I am trying to do what is in your best interest.”
”As am I,” you replied. “Good day, sir.”
You turned sharply and walked down the hospital corridor, ignoring Mycroft when he called out your name,
”Where are you going?” He asked.
“To the hotel, to get my belongings.”
He hurried after you. “Let me accompany you, it is not safe.”
”That won’t be necessary, sir. James will accompany me.” You had spotted him, and immediately walked into his direction. When you were closer, you linked your arm into his. “Won’t you, James?”
”Won’t I what?” The young man looked between you and Mycroft.
”Make sure I get to the hotel safely, as well as to the station?”
James whipped his head around to Mycroft, whose pleading expression you caught in the corner of your eye.
”Of course,” James said, turning back into the direction he came from, dragging you along gently.
You didn’t’ look back.
One month later, London
You stood in front of the large dark door, straitening your skirts for the fifth time before finally finding the courage to knock. "Come in," you heard Mycroft call from inside.
Nervously you pushed the door open and entered.
“It’s you!” Mycroft rose immediately from his chair and rounded his desk. "Are you well?” He asked rushed.
"Yes, yes. Quite well. Thank you.” You smoothed your hands over your dress once more.
“How are your parents?”
”Good,” you smiled. “they were happy to have me home for longer than a day.”
”Of course,” he nodded. “They must have missed you a lot. I am sorry I did not make sure you went there more often.”
You smiled and shook your head. “That is not something in your power, Mr. Holmes.”
His face dimmed slightly at the formal title.
“I heard Sherlock is well,” you changed the subject. “I am glad to hear it.”
”Yes. Yes, he has made a full recovery. And so has mother, it seems.”
You wrung your hands together. “That’s wonderful news, truly. What about your sister?”
“She stays with my mother and Sherlock. It is all quite unusual still, but we are getting there.”
He stood awkwardly, one hand rubbing his neck.
You nodded in acknowledgment.
Silence stretched briefly, before Mycroft cleared his throat and said: “I have been meaning to apologize for my behaviour the past couple of month. Especially my behaviour in Paris. I…” he leaned back on his desk, avoiding eye contact with you.
“What I did, and what I said, was unacceptable. I should not have exploited our professional relationship in order to get you to do something I wanted.”
He paused, and you nodded. “You should not have, sir. But i am not faultless. You were right, even if I wanted to, I would not have been able to help. I am sorry for being stubborn.”
He waved you off. “Determined, is the word I would use.”
You huffed out a breath, and nervously twisted your fingers behind your
back. Where is that damned pen when you need it?
”It is actually one of the qualities I value most about you.”
“What, my stubbornness?” you attempted to lighten the mood.
”Your determination,” he smiled.
You nodded and averted yur gaze. You were at loss for words, unable to keep the small talk up. He seemed equally clueless as to how to proceed.
You pulled back your shoulders, hoping to find strength in the pretension of confidence. You cleared your throat, before discussing the matter, which you had come to London fr.
“I do think it is time to talk about my employment with you.”
He averted his gaze, but nodded. "Yes, of course."
You had stayed quite close to the door. The gap that had formed between the two of you was unfamiliar, yet it was the only way for you to go through with your plan.
"I do not think it is possible for me to work with you any longer. "
Mycroft nodded again. “I had a feeling you might say that" he swallowed audibly, "And though I do understand you have to find your own way, I regret that ours must part.”
It was your turn to avert your gaze. "As do l. But I can no larger stay here."
"I hope you will forgive me for offending you," Mycroft choked out.
"On no, no! Mr. Holmes, there is nothing to forgive! Paris is not the reason for my decision.”
"What makes you say then that you cannot stay?'
"Sir… Do not ask me. I cannot tell you, it would be improper for me to talk about it. Just know that I am grateful and in your debt for everything you have done for me, and all the opportunities. I am aware that I have been quite privileged."
Mycroft's jaw locked up once more, as he stepped closer to you, so that only one step remained between the two of you.
"l really do regret that we have to part ways. Though I have to admit I am glad you brought it up and that you wish to leave. For I can no longer keep you as my assistant. I do hope you forgive me my forwardness and my disregard of propriety, but I have to tell you how I feel.”
He drew in a shaky breath.
“I do not think it is a secret that I regard you as a good friend, And that I care deeply about your well being. However, since this whole investigation started, and since we have experienced so much together, I seem to have developed affections for you which go beyond those of an employer and his employee, and even beyond those of mere friendship."
His breath stuttered and he shook his head slightly, taking a deep breath before continuing: "It seems that I have… That I have fallen in love with you."
Tears shimmered in his eyes, as he seemed overcome with emotions. He reached out and took your hand gently into his.
"I am so, so sorry that I have let my emotions come in the way and that you have to suffer the consequences." A tear rolled down his cheek. "You deserve better than that, a thousand times better."
Tears had started rolling down your cheeks as well, and it took a great deal of strength to not sob uncontrollably.
"Mycroft," you whispered, resting your other hand on his shoulder; "Ask me again why I do not want to stay as your assistant."
His eyebrows pinched together in confusion.. "Why?" he chocked out.
"I love you, Mycroft Holmes." you said through tears, though with the broadest smile he had ever seen.
He looked at you incredulously and brought your hand to his chest, his hands engulfing yours. "Do you really? You are not joking?'
'Yes! I could not bear being around you, unable to be with you. That is why I wanted to leave.”
He gasped. "What a relief. I thought I would loose you, should I ever find the courage to admit my feelings."
You laughed. "We are both idiots, are we not?' you sniffled.
Mycroft pressed a kiss on your knuckles. "Yes, we are indeed." he laughed tearfully. His hand came up to your cheek and he rubbed his thumb softly across your cheeckbone.
The room fell into a comfortable silence, as you leaned into his palm and closer to him. He mirrored your pose, and your heartbeat sped up as your gaze shifted down to his lips. You leaned a fraction closer and -
“Wait!”
“WHAT?!” You groaned exhasperately. “Mycroft you cannot be serious right now.”
He laughed at your impatience, but took a hesitant half step back. “I’m sorry my love, it is just… it is not proper.”
You looked at him shocked. “Mycroft, I have lived in your house. We are unchaperoned most of the time, now is really the least useful time to care about propriety.”
“We are not engaged, I do not have a ring…”
You smiled at him and turned your face to kiss the palm of his hand. “I do not need a ring, darling. I do not want a ring. I just really want to kiss you.”
He chuckled. “At least let me ask you,” he argued softly.
“Ask me what?”
He let his hand fall from your face and took another step back, before taking both your hands in his and kneeling on one knee in front of you.
Upon recognising what was going on, tears immediately flooded your eyes once more.
“Mycroft, get up,” your voice was shaking again.
“My love, please let me have this. I want to have a proper engagement.” He smiled up at you.
Tears threatened to spill again, so you just nodded.
He breathed out your name so softly you almost missed it. His voice was shaking as well as he continued speaking: “My darling. Will you do me the honour and make me the happiest man alive? Will you marry me?”
You had nodded long before he even finished his question, and now it spilled out of you: “Of course I will, yes, I do.”
You laughed ecstatically, as he got up and engulfed you in a tight hug, spinning you around in a circle.
He set you down carefully, and brought both his hands up to your face once more, wiping away the tears that were caught in your lashes.
He leaned in slowly and finally pressed his lips to yours in a featherlight kiss.
All the tension of the last couple of weeks melted off as he kissed you again, firmer this time and more determined.
You smiled into the kiss, as you held onto his forearms for stability.
He parted from you reluctantly, and looked into your eyes. Whatever he saw in them made him smile as well.
“My lovely fiancée,” he mumbled, leaning in once more.
Notes: This took so much longer than I was planning :(( life has been crazy, but I think I will have time to write a little more these upcoming weeks. In the end this fic will turn into a three parter. I really want some more romance for these two, sooo I will try to have the last part ready asap because I’m think I can do better than this haha 🙈
we: 2.3k
* * *
‘Who is Bob?'
The question rings in your ears and your head starts spinning. You are about to ask whether this was some kind of sick joke, but you already know the answer. His eyes are pitch black.
Your heart pace picks up as you take two tentative steps towards him.
'Can I sit with you?' you ask timidly.
Bob does not react, but when you lower yourself on the floor across from him, he also doesn't stop you.
'What's your name?' you ask.
He blinks at you owlishly and doesn't respond for some time. Then softly: 'I don't know.'
You swallow thickly. 'Well, I can tell you my name, if you want.'
His eyes focus on your face as he nods slowly. You tell him, and with a heavy heart realize that there is no recognition on his face.
'What are you doing here?' You hope you're not pushing him too far with these questions, but it's the only thing you can think of to do. If the Void is taking his memories, you need to alert the team, but you also don't want to leave him alone.
'I don't know, actually.'
'Do you know where you are?'
'I ... I think this is the Avengers Tower.'
You smile at that. 'That's true. Do you know how you got here?'
'I - I was with the girl. She had blond hair and like ... she was Russian?' His voice wobbles.
'That's Yelena. Do you remember anyone else?'
'There was another Russian. And a blond man who was mean - but also really sad.' You suppress a snort at his descriptions.
'That would be Alexei and John.'
'I think there were more people but I don't remember.' His forehead creases, eyebrows drawn together as his lips settle into a tight line.
'That's okay,' you tell him, tempted to reach out and take his hand. 'Do you want to talk to Yelena?'
Bob shrugs, and then nods once.
'Come on, then,' you say as you get up and stretch. 'I think she is training.'
He gets up as well and trails awkwardly behind you, fiddling with his sleeves and scratching his arm.
You were right, and find Yelena as well as Ava in the training facilities. You enter with Bob, and ask him to wait while you talk to the women.
'Guys, we have a problem,' you announce in a hushed voice.
'When do we not?' Ava deadpans.
'This is serious,' you sigh, 'I think the Void has taken over again.'
'Bob seems fine to me,' Yelena argues, after a quick glance in his direction.
'Yeah, well, he doesn't know that he's called Bob. The only person out of the team he remembers is you, and even that was fuzzy to him.'
'You are saying he lost his memory?' Yelena asked with a scowl on her face.
You nod. 'He knows where he is, and he knows he came here with you. He also vaguely remembered Alexei and John, but the rest is... puff.' You make a gesture that vageuly resembles a confetti bomb.
'Okay. I will take over,' Yelena says determined and saunters off into the direction where Bob is still standing motionless. You stare after her and see her grab Bob's arm softly.
'How are you doing with that situation?' Ava pulls you back to reality.
'Me? I don't know.' Your heart stutters a little at thinking about it. 'I guess I should be relieved that the past few weeks didn't have anything to do with me, right?' You turn towards Ava and away from Bob.
'I gather you don't,' she observes.
'I don't,' you confirm, 'I feel like shit still. Losing his memories must be horrible,' you mumble, thoughts trailing off again.
'Hey,' Ava put a hand on you shoulder, 'we'll figure it out. Don't worry. After all, we are the Thunderbolts.' Her fake cheering at the team name makes you snort. You wipe your nose, and pull your sleeves over your hands.
'Thanks, Ava.'
'No worries. Does the rest of the team know?'
'Not yet,' you reply, 'I thought it was easier to go to Yelena first.'
Ava nods. 'You should tell the rest, though. This is something we need to solve together.''
You hum. 'Yeah, I'll go tell them.'
* * *
'I just think a group hug won't do this time around,' John sighs.
After you had updated everyone, Yelena had called in an emergency team meeting. Now it was almost midnight, and everyone was tired but none the wiser as to what to do with Bob.
'At this rate, I'm not even opposed to trying,' Bucky groans. Across from you Ava is blowing bubble gum, while Yelena rubs her temples.
'What if we just ... tell Valentina?' you suggest.
'Nooo,' the entire table groans.
'Sorry,' you mumble. 'Just trying to find a solution.'
'What if we just show him footage from the past months he's been with us? Try to force his memory back,' John suggests.
'And have him go into a shock? What if the Void completely takes over?' Ava argues.
You let your forehead fall onto the table with a loud breath. 'This is useless,' you mumble.
For a moment everyone is quiet.
'Okay,' Yelena clears her voice and straightens up, 'what if we treat him like we would treat someone with dementia or Alzheimer's or something. Or amnesia, I don't care. We try not to overstimulate him, we try to gently bring his memories back to live, and if he remembers something we just, you know, try to work with that.'
'So you're suggesting we don't do anything?' you deadpan.
Yelena rolls her eyes. 'Did you not listen to anything I just said?'
'No, no, I did,' you say, 'it just doesn't sound like a plan, is all.'
Yelena squints her eyes at you, but Bucky gets up to interrupt. 'Alright, fighting does not help anyone. We'll treat Bob like a memory loss patient, until we can come up with something better. I want everyone to keep an eye on him, and to share anything out of place with the whole team. Is that understood?' He shoots a pointed look at you and Yelena.
'Understood,' you mumble.
'Loud and clear,' Yelena sighs.
With that the meeting fades out, everyone shuffling out of the meeting room and towards their bedrooms.
Yelena and your room are on the same floor, and so you walk together in silence. When she turns to her room, you turn around and say: 'I didn't mean to snap earlier.'
She sighs and turns to you. 'I did not mean to be insensitive. But I really think this is the best approach.'
'I know,' you mumble, eyebrows drawn together.
'Get some sleep. Everything will be fine,' Yelena says uncharacteristically softly.
* * *
Everything was not fine. Bob's memory didn't come back and he did not remember anything between the New York incident and now. He barely talked, least of all to you, and you felt as though every time you entered a room he would leave immediately.
To say you were desperate would have been an understatement. You noticed yourself pull back from Bob, but also from the rest of the team, spending more time in your room or outside of the tower.
You knew pulling back would not solve anything, but in the end you couldn't help it.
When Bob walks into the kitchen while you are searching for a snack one day, you instinctively try to make yourself smaller.
He doesn't say anything, but still you are painfully aware of his presence behind you. When you finally found the snack you were searching for, you turn around to see Bob reading Frankenstein.
You reread the book recently and accidentally left it in the lounge are. The next day you could not find it. You had given up searching for it. Seeing it now in his hands, you stand frozen. He is already halfway through the book, for sure somewhere in the Creatures account of the story.
You can't help but blurt out: 'You know, there's a great Netflix adaption that came out recently.'
Bob looks up slowly from the page, directly into your eyes. Your breath stutters and heat creeps up your neck and cheeks. 'Sorry,' you mumble, stomach clenching again.
'Is it just as sad as the book?' he asks.
Perplexed you look up. You didn't expect Bob to be interested.
'I think the story is sad by nature. The movie has some different plot lines, but yeah, it's still quite sad.'
'Why do you like it then?'
You chuckle softly. 'How do you know I like it?' you challenge.
'Because you said so.' Bob turns the book so that you can see the pages he's been reading. They are full of annotations and underlined quotes. 'That's your handwriting,' he adds.
You are not sure how he would come to that conclusion, but you won't question him. You're way to glad he's speaking to you again.
'I think I like it because... because it portrays the human nature so accurately. And it humanizes the creature. To be honest, the movie is even better at that I think. You get a real sense of the injustice done to him.'
He hums in acknowledgement. 'You read a lot.' It wasn't a question really.
'Yeah,' you smile, 'who told you?'
His brows furrow in concentration. 'No one,' he mumbles. 'I just know, I think.'
You swear you see his eyes flicker and his usual blue color shine through for a second, before his irises go back to the bluish-black hue. Your heart drops at the change.
'Yelena said we used to read together.'
You nod shortly. 'We did. A lot actually.'
'I'm sorry I don't remember you,' he says sheepishly.
You press your lips together. 'That's okay. It's not your fault, really.'
'Can I borrow this?' he asks, holding up the book.
You swallow, unable to look him in the eyes. Your mind replays the memories of a similar conversation, which now seemed ages ago. The irony of him asking you is totally lost on Bob, yet ever more painful to you.
'Sure. Just - don't eartag, please.'
'Wouldn't dream of it,' he replies with his crooked smile. You don't quite manage to return the smile.
* * *
In the days and weeks after that you try to leave out more books, curious if Bob would be interested in any of them. In some books you check the annotations you made, and update a few of them. The books with more sensitive information on you and your friendship with Bob you keep to yourself, mindful of the team agreement to not overstimulate Bob's memories.
Bob takes some of the books to read, and when he's finished he always returns them to the place he found it. Sometimes he would stick on a note to say thank you, or to comment on the book. Your heart always warmed at that. It was like a piece of the friendship was restored.
Yelena made the most progress with him though. Soon Bob remembered what had happened in New York, and how he came to be friends with Yelena.
He started remembering John and Ava more, and warmed up to Bucky and Alexei, remembering the very first month in the Avengers Tower.
Only you were left. Sometimes you felt as though the Void had specifically targeted the memories from the moment you had joined the team.
It made you feel disconnected from Bob, but it also made you doubt your place on the team and your value as an Avenger.
You barely talked about that part, though Ava figured it out quickly. You were making chocolate chip cookies - Bob's favourites, which you pretended was unimportant- when Ava walked in, sat down and said in a very serious voice: 'Listen. I know you hate talking about it. And I know I'm not very touchy-feely. But I want you to know that we all appreciate you. You're a great addition to the team. And Bob's weird selective memory loss is not reflective of our opinion of you.'
She seemed out of breath after saying it, while you on the other hand had to hold back tears.
'Ava-' you started, sniffling a little.
'No, don't,' she said, 'no hugs or thank you's or anything. I hate emotions.'
You choked out a teary laugh. 'Okay. No thank you then.'
You turned back to the cookie dough, trying to get your emotions back under control.
'You know what, Ava? For someone who's not touchy-feely, you are the only one who seems to understand how I feel.' you said, your back turned to her, out of fear she might scold you again.
'I don't understand how you feel,' she says evenly, 'what I do know though, is how it feels to have no one to share your feelings with. And I want you to know that you can always share with me - with us. We might not understand but we will listen.'
You open your mouth to reply, when someone walks into the kitchen, prompting Ava to get up and leave with a quiet 'See you later.'
When you turn, Bob is standing there.
'Oh, hey,' you mumble.
'Hi. What are you making?'
You nod your chin towards the recipe book. 'Chocolate chip cookies.'
Bobs eyes glint childlike. 'I love chocolate chip cookies! Yours are the second best,' he grins.
'Second best?' you shout playfully. 'Bob, that's ... oddly specific,' You turn to face him, eyes squinted slightly. 'I never made cookies for you before.'
Which wasn't true necessarily. You had made the cookies before, just not specifically for him.
'Well, my Grandma makes the best cookies. I dont think anyone can beat nostalgia. And yours are great. Yelena gave them to me a couple of month ago, because she thought they were too sweet.'
You stare at him dounbfounded. 'I guess I shouldn't be surprised by the fact that Yelena is a good liar. She told me they were delicious.'
Bob chuckles. 'Well, I think they are.'
'Keep the compliments up and I will bake you brownies next week.'
'Well, that was what I was hoping for.'
You snort softly in reply and try to ignore the blush you thought you saw colour Bob's cheeks.
Summary: The Void realizes that Bob has gotten better and navigating his emotions and doubts. So when he feels his power decline, he tries a different approach. Slowly, the Void projects the doubts to you, while Bob looses his memory bit by bit.
Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x female reader
wc: 4.2k
cw: angst, no happy ending, yearning, memory loss, arguments, swearing
* * *
The shivers were creeping up his back, over his shoulders and into his chest as if a thousand people were hovering their fingers over his skin. Not touching, just dangerously present. Simultaneously his vision blurred at the edges.
If you had asked Bob about the sensation he wouldn't have remembered it, just as he didn't remember why he was standing in front of your door. What did he want here? His brows furrowed in concentration, right thumb coming up to his left hand to aggressively rub at his palm. His sigh was frustrated and he had half a mind to turn around and leave. What was is that he wanted from you?
In that moment, the door swung open and you stood there, slightly startled, though a smile spread on your face.
'Hey, Bob. Whatcha up to?'
His hand had shifted higher, his nails softly scratching the inside of his arm. 'I don't remember,' he mumbled, brows still furrowed, his eyes trained on nothing in particular. He seemed far away.
'That's okay. Happens to me all the time, especially when I don't sleep well.'
Bob exhaled softly, and straightened his posture.
'Do you want to get some coffee?' you asked.
'Yeah, that would be good.'
You walked down the hallway towards the elevators. A comfortable silence wrapped around you and Bob as you made your way towards the kitchen. The closer you got, the more Bob seemed to relax. He dropped his shoulders, his face softened.
'Oh, I remember,' he let out suddenly. You turned slightly to look at him, as you waited for him to continue.
'I wanted to ask you about that book you were talking about...'
'The Ministry of Time?'
'Yeah, exactly! Could I borrow it? I'm finished with On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous.' he told you.
'Oh I haven't read that one yet, is it good?' you asked as you poured two cups of coffee.
'I liked it a lot. Though there are some heavy subjects that are discussed.' He went on to tell you everything he did and didn't like about the book, while you sat, listening to him comfortably.
The two of you had developed a strong friendship over books, swapping books recommendations frequently, giving each other recommendations and going to book stores together.
Bob felt as though he could be normal around you, as if your friendship grounded him back in reality. It was the same for you; your were more than your powers when you were with Bob, more than just a useful addition to a team. Valentina had included to the New Avengers roughly half a year after the New York incident, and while you were grateful to the team you never felt like you were really part of the group.
Bob had not talked to you for the first few weeks, until he was practically forced to. He had left a book lying around in the kitchen, which you had picked up and started reading, unaware of who it belonged to. You were engrossed in the story, reading half the book in just a few hours, unaware of what was happening around you, when you suddenly heard someone clear their throat close to you.
You had looked up and found yourself face to face with Bob, who looked utterly uncomfortable and awkward, fidgeting with the sleeves of his sweater.
'Are-are you going to f-finish that?' he had asked, his voice breaking slightly.
'I think I might. It's really good' you had replied, still unaware that it was his.
'Oh.' he paused, though you felt like there was something more he wanted to get off his chest. You had asked him if he was okay, and he had nodded nervously, not meeting your eyes.
'You're not very convincing, you know?' you had said.
'W-well, it's just that I had hoped to finish the book today.'
You were of course mortified, immediately handing over the book and slipping of the chair you had sat on.
'I'm so sorry, i shouldn't have-' 'no,no, keep it as long-' 'I don't know-' The two of you were practically holding a people pleasing competition, before you broke out in laughter at the absurdity of the conversation.
In the end you agreed that he would finish the book first, and then lend it to you.
If you were honest, you were a little worried that he forgot what he had wanted to ask you this morning. When it came to books, Bob was the sharpest. He had once told you that reading helped keep the void in check, especially when the team was on missions. He said he'd get so invested in characters and plot lines, that he didn't have time to think about himself, which prevented self doubt.
Forgetting which book he was going to ask about was uncharacteristic, and you felt your gut turn as if it was anticipating bad news. You tried to assess him, and thought to yourself that he really did look tired.
You tried to shake the thoughts off and calm yourself down. Everyone sleeps bad every now and then.
The rest of the day was comparatively peaceful. You and Bob both got lost in your current reads and tried to block out the bickering and shouting of the team as best you could. By evening the incident was basically forgotten.
* * *
You and Bob were sitting on the roof of the tower, enjoying the first warm day of the season. He was reading Pride and Prejudice (your recommendation) and you finally got started on The House on Mango Street (his recommendation).
'I like how Esperanza really has a hybrid identity.' you said after having finished a chapter, turning to Bob.
His brows furrowed. 'Who's Esperanza?'
You turned to him incredulous. 'The protagonist of The House on Mango street.'
'oh, i don't know that one. Sounds interetsting though.'
Your stomach turned, you could practically feel the bile coming up. 'Bob? You recommended this book to me.'
His eyebrows were still pulled together, and he seemed to unfocused. He didn't reply for a few seconds, and then: 'I did?'
'You said it was an interesting exploration of mixed cultures and the immigrant experience. Bob, you praised this book to high heaven.' You didn't ask him how he couldn't remember it. It was implied, and you could see his thoughts race in his head.
'I must be really tired,' he muttered. 'Can you tell me more about it? To jug my memory.'
'Of course,' you replied softly, and started summarizing the plot, and repeating the thoughts he had shared about this book.
'She becomes a writer in the end, doesn't she?' Bob asked at some point.
'Yeah, she does. In her own home.' You scrutinize his face.
'I think I remember now. I don't know why it's so fuzzy.'
Your lips press tightly together, before you reply: 'It's okay. Sometimes it happens. Maybe you are just stressed.'
He nodded slowly. 'Yeah, maybe.'
You got up. 'I'll get something to drink. Do you want anything?'
'Yeah, a tea please. I can come with you.'
'No, no,' you waive him off. 'Relax, I'll get it.'
You turn and enter the building. As soon as you are out of Bob's sight you start to jog towards the meeting room, where you expect Bucky to be. You were right and you spot him hunched over what you assumed were mission reports. He looked tired and worn down and a small part of you felt bad for bothering him. Doubt crept up your spine and made your fingers itch, as you wondered if this was the right time to ask for help. You convinced yourself to just move, one feet at the time.
'Hey, Bucky,' you greeted the grumpy man, while opening the door not bothering to knock.
'Hi,' he replied not particularly enthusiastically.
'I need your help with something.'
He groans tiredly. 'I swear if one of you idiots broke something again-'
'It's about Bob,' you interrupt him loudly. He looks at you with an exasperate expression. 'It's Bob,' you repeat, calmer this time, swallowing the lump in your throat. 'He - he doesn't remember a book he recommended me.'
Bucky's eyebrows shoot up. 'That's the big emergency? He forgot about a book?'
'Bucky, you don't understand. He adores his books, he loved reading it. He told me he would give this one five stars, which for the record he never does. It's ridiculous really, but he says four stars is for a great book, and only really special books get five stars. But this one he thinks is special. He said he connected with the protagonist on 'a spiritual level'. He recommended it to me two month ago, and now he doesn't remember it. That is not only weird, that is concerning.'
Bucky looks at you bemusedly and unimpressed.
'What?' you snap.
'Nothing,' he chuckles, lifting his hands up in mock defense. 'Just, if you have a crush on him, you should tell him not me.'
Your face grew hot from embarrassment and anger. 'That doesn't have anything to do with what's going on,' you mumbled, while vividly contemplating if you could get away with murdering your team leader.
Bucky grunted and got up from his seat. 'Look, I get it, we all worry about Bob. I'll talk to Yelena, see what she thinks. But I think it's normal to forget things. Don't read too much into it just because you have feelings for him,' he said earnestly, patting you on the shoulder once.
You slumped a little, feeling like a little child who got too exited and was then scolded by his parents. You made your way toward the kitchen to bring Bob his tea.
When you walked back out on the roof, Bob was sitting up straight and the book laid forgotten at his side. He stared off into space and you noticed he was scratching his left arm absentmindedly.
Tension rose in your stomach when you saw him. Bucky had been right of course, you had started to develop feelings for your friend. You had tried to keep it a secret but obviously had been unsuccessful. If even Bucky saw it, the whole team probably knew. And if the whole team knew then Bob probably knew- you suddenly wondered if Bob pitied you, and felt utterly pathetic.
Your face grew hot, shame climbed up your throat, squeezing past your airway, making you choke on your nothing. You instinctively cleared your throat, and Bob turned around. UNsure just how it was possible, you felt your cheeks grow even hotter.
'Here's your tea,' you croaked, extending the cup towards him like a peace offering of someone trying to please the gods.
'Are you okay?' Bob asked, taking the cup and carefully blowing on the liquid. The gods were pleased, the subject still in distress.
How more blood rushed to your face was a mystery to you. You felt as though everything you did was somehow wrong and making the situation worse. 'I-I'm actually not feeling great.' you admitted, 'I think I'll lie down.'
You fled the scene, and left Bob standing there utterly in the middle of the roof, limbs dangling aimlessly, the cup directionless in his hand. He had wanted to tell you something but as soon as you had given him the cup of tea, his vision had blurred and shivers had spread across and into his chest.
* * *
The next few days you were absolutely miserable. Moping in your room, barely interacting with the team. It got so bad that Bucky felt the need to apologize for his comments. It was a conversation you hoped you would never have to have again, with awkwardness and stiff words on either side.
You tried to avoid Bob, for fear of embarrassment and because your mind started to convince you that he actually didn't like you, not even in a platonic way. You were sure he was just putting up with you, and that you were becoming annoying.
Bob, on the other hand, was miserable as well. He didn’t understand the change in your demeanor, and couldn’t remember doing anything to hurt your feelings. He was sitting on the couch in the lounge area, open book in his lap, though his gaze drifted and he didn’t take in the words on the page.
John walked in, sweaty and panting from his workout. He dropped his bag and plopped down next to Bob.
‘Hi, Bobby,’ he said, taking in the state of the man next to him. ‘You alright there?’ Whenever Bob was not doing great, John would get flashback from the vault and the shame rooms.
‘Wha-? Oh, hi Walker.’
‘Wanna tell me what’s got you sulking the past few days?’
Bob shrugged. ‘It’s nothing,' he mumbled. 'Can I ask you something?’
John nodded shortly, eyebrow raised in his signature resigned look.
‘How did things end with Olivia?’
‘What the fuck, man?’ John scowled and Bob reacted immediately. ‘I-i-i’m sorry, I didn’t mean it in an asshole way.’ He gulped thickly. ‘I just- I need to know. I don’t wanna lose her.’
‘Lose her?’ John clearly wasn’t convinced. ‘Who the fuck would you lo- oh.’
'Yeah. Oh.' Bob rubbed his face.
John sighed heavily. 'Look, Olivia and me... a lot happened. And a lot of mistakes were made. If you want to boil it down to just one thing... I was selfish. We didn't - I didn't sort my problems out before it was too late already. But I don't think our situation is comparable to yours.'
Bob hummed in acknowledgment.
'Have you told her you like her?'
'I can't. What if she laughs at me?'
'Yeah, right,' John scoffs, 'cause that is totally something she'd do.'
'I don't know, man. I just really like her and I don't wanna lose her.'
'You know that there is a very simple solution to your problem, right?'
Bob's head whipped up, eyes bright. 'Yeah?'
'Yeah. Talk to her.'
Bob slumped back and stared off again.
'Look,' John admitted, 'I'm not great at the advise part. But I know your a good person and I think she likes you too. But you won't get anywhere if you don't talk to each other. You don't know if she's even quiet because of something you did. It might be unrelated.'
Bob nodded slowly. 'That's solid advice man. When did you get so nice?' he teased.
John let out another groan as he got up from the sofa. 'Yeah, yeah, fuck off. I liked you better when you were scared to make fun of me.' He snatched his gym bag off the floor. 'But seriously, go talk to her.'
Bob stared a little more into the distance, but knew that ultimately John was right. So he pulled himself out of it, grabbed the little bookmark you had made for him with your favourite quote written on it, and closed the book. He got up and felt his head ache a little, like he was getting a migraine.
He walked to the elevator with heavy steps experiencing a weird deja vu sensation. Once inside, he realized his back was prickling and shivers ran up his neck and down his arms. He stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway. Why was he here? He was reading before, he didn't remember why he had stopped. Where did he leave the book?
He shook his head at himself, then turned around to find his book.
* * *
A demanding knock pulled your eyes away from the phone and towards your door. You closed the doom scrolling device and let it fall next to you on the pillow.
'Come in,' you called out.
Yelena stuck her head in and entered. 'Hi, there,' she said in a bored tone. 'Are you alive'
'No,' you deadpan. 'Why?'
'Just checking,' she retorts, eyebrows raised as she examined one of the books on your shelf. You desperately needed a new shelf; books were stacked and crammed into every compartment, some threatening to fall out, while there were more books stacked next to the shelf on the ground.
'Did you eat today?' she asked.
Your eyebrows pull together in concentration, as you try to remember. The days were blurring together in your head. 'I had a banana earlier.'
'Yeah, well, its 3 pm. You need to eat.'
You groaned in response and turned to lay on your back.
'Come on, get up.' Yelena nudges you, poking your side.
'Ey, stop that!' You swat her hand away and flop your arm back on the bed. 'I don't even feel hungry.'
'I do not care how you feel, you need to eat.'
You whine as you get up as slowly as possible, just to annoy the assassin a little more.
'Come oonnnn,' she complains. 'It is food, not torture.'
'Why do you even care?' you asked, as you slipped on a pair of socks.
'Because you're the only sane one of this team, I'm not losing you to malnutrition. Now let's go.'
'Awwww,' you coo playfully as you follow her into the hallway and shut your door, 'you like me.'
'Yeah, yeah,' she can't help the smile taking over. 'I'll like you even more once you've eaten.'
You enter the elevator and gasp in mock surprise. 'Even more? You are going soft on me.'
Yelena rolls her eyes. 'Don't worry, Bob's still the softest for you. Or the hardest, who knows?' she smirks.
Usually you and her would giggle about these kind of jokes, but you just blush and avert your gaze, without any response.
'Oh,' Yelena's voice turned soft. 'so this is what this is about?'
You shrug simply.
'Okay, you know what? You need a girls night,' she says as you enter the kitchen. 'Just you, me and Ava.'
'What about me?' You hadn't seen John when you had entered.
Yelena's eyes shot daggers at him. 'Absolutely not. Girls night with just the girls. We don't need more men ruining the vibe.'
'More men? Jesus, who got your panties in a twist?'
'It's just Bob.' Yelena said as she pulled out a bag of pasta and pre-made bolognese.
'Wait, so he still didn't talk to you about it?'John asked turning to you.
'About what?' you said, forehead wrinkled.
'Oh,' John let out a breath, realizing his mistake.
'Walker, what does 'oh' mean?' You asked concerned.
'Nothing,' he replied, hands up in defense, though his eyes revealed panic. Yelena had turned to him as well now, the two of you were standing right in front of him. For some reason, Yelena was holding a kitchen knife.
'Walker,' she said, 'I suggest you tell us what you know. Right now.'
An exasperated sigh left his lips, as he started recounting his conversation with Bob from a few days ago.
* * *
You sat numbly on the chair, contemplating the past few days.
'I swear, I saw him walk in the direction of your room. I thought he'd talked to you already.' John looked helpless.
Your airways were restricting again, your chest felt hollowed out and squeezed in at the same time.
'We know he is shy,' Yelena tried to diffuse the situation. Your stomach clenced and you felt like you were going to throw up.
'Or he realized I'm not actually worth the trouble and he doesn't want me that much after all,' you choked out.
'Look, again. I know I'm not great at advice,' John interjected, 'and I don't follow my own advice very often. But- you guys need to seriously talk to one another.'
You nodded absentmindedly, though John suspected it was a sign that you heard him, not that you agreed with him.
You didn't belief in fate or destiny, or karma, or any of those things, but Bob walking into the kitchen in that exact moment had to be a cosmic middle finger from the universe.
'Hey, guys,' he greeted simply. Everyone let out a soft hey, one after the other, and an awkward silence stretched between the four of you.
John was the first one to snap out of it. He cleared his throat and stammered: 'I actually need to be- I gotta - yeah... Yelena can you help me with that?'
Her eyes were huge, and if you didn't know better you would have thought she was panicking. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah, I also gotta...'
The two of them left the kitchen without saying anything. In any other situation this would have been declared a miracle. Now it was just you and Bob and a lot of tension between the two of you.
'What were you guys talking about?' Bob asked, seemingly distracted.
'Uhm ...' you knew this was your chance to actually have the conversation with him. You knew if you didn't talk about it now, you'd never have the courage to actually bring it up.
'Well, John was telling us - me about... about the conversation you two had a few days ago.'
Bob's eyebrows pulled together, yet he didn't interrupt you.
'A-about... me,' you clarified.
'What about you?'
You felt your stomach try to bring something up, but since you hadn't eaten you couldn't throw up. 'What do you mean what about me?' you asked, as you felt tears gather in your eyes.
Bob just looked at you without any emotions. Your eyes couldn't hold the tears any longer.
'Bob, seriously? What the fuck is up with you? This is so not like you.'
'How would you know what's like me?' he asked, his voice low.
Your heart shattered right there. 'I - what? We are friends, I know you,' you sniffled, tears streaming down your face and lodging themselves uncomfortably under your chin.
'I don't know why you'd say that,' he mumbled, his brows pulled together like he was trying to solve a math equation rather than talking to you. You couldn't stop the sob that tore from your throat.
You fled the kitchen with superhuman speed, hurrying to get to your room, praying to any divinity that you wouldn't meet anyone. Of course, the universe worked against you. When rounding a corner you bumped into Alexei.
'Hello there, little one,' he said in good humour, though when he saw your face he immediately soften his tone. 'Oh, no.' he mumbled. His huge arms came up to hug you.
'Alexei-' you started to protest, but he cut you off. 'Shh.... I know you don't think you need this. But let me help.'
You gave up struggling against him and relaxed into his arms, letting the sobs out and the tears flow freely. He just patted your shoulder. You assumed it was more awkward for him than for you, but it felt too good to finally cry everything out.
After a few minutes your sobs subsided and your tears flowed silently.
'So, tell me. Who may I kill?' Alexei asked.
A watery laugh left your lips as you wipe your face. 'No one, Alexei. But thank you.'
'You want to talk?' he asks much more gently than you would have expected from him.
'No, not really,' you sniffle. 'I think I'll take a nap.'
'Okay. But tell me if you change mind. I will gladly kill person who made you cry.'
You smile a tiny smile, and leave to go to your room.
* * *
The next day was torture. You cried most of the time, were unable to eat and unable to talk to anyone. Yelena and Ava dropped by routinely to check in on you, and try to cheer you up, feeding you your favourite snacks and comfort foods.
John came by to apologize at one point. You waved him off and told him you knew he didn't have bad intentions.
When Alexei found out what had happened he was, for the very first time in his life, speechless.
Bucky tried to navigate the chaos with military precision, but ultimately just clapped you on the shoulder with the advice to take a vacation if you needed it.
The day afterwards there was less crying, and less interactions. The girls still checked up on you, but the rest of the team gave you space.
The following days developed similarly, until eventually a week had past and you felt nothing anymore. You didn't cry, but laughter was also hard to muster and in the end you felt like a living corps.
You didn't see Bob at all, and a part of you was grateful. At least you could pretend nothing had happened as long as he wasn't around. You knew you would have to face him again eventually, but just for know you could pretend.
It happened ten days after the kitchen incident. You walked into the lounge room at six in the morning, unable to sleep. He was sitting crossed legged on the rug staring off into the distance.
When he heard you, he turned. It was hard to breath, and you swallowed thickly before choking out: 'Hey, Bob.'
You looked at him and noticed that he was weirdly still. His eyes were fixated on you, but seemed almost completely black.
Wrote a little thing for an anon - hope it’s okay! Posting like this so I can do a cut easier.
Your cell rings just after lunch.
Gator’s voice on the other end, low and a little awkward, the way he gets when he’s asking for something he doesn’t want to frame as asking for help.
“Dad’s taking Karen out. Dinner, he said, maybe a show. He wants us - me and the girls - off the ranch. All night.”
You could hear the grimace on his face with all that that implied.
“I figured - if you weren’t doin’ anythin’ - could I bring ’em to your place? For a sleepover?”
Oh.
This is new.
You’re quiet for a second, just a second, not because you’re uncertain but because you hadn’t seen it coming and you need a moment to catch up with yourself. A sleepover. The girls, here, in your space, without Roy and Karen anywhere in the vicinity. Something loosens in your chest that you hadn’t quite known was tight.
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course.”
You can hear him exhale, just slightly, like he’d been holding something since before he dialled.
“They’ll behave. I swear.”
“I know they will.”
“Jess talks a lot.”
“Gator.”
“Yeah?”
“Bring them.”
He hangs up and you sit with the phone in your hand for a moment, looking at nothing in particular.
Outside the window the sky is doing that thing it does before snow - that particular flat, muffled white, like the world holding its breath. You’d been planning nothing for your Friday off work. A quiet afternoon, maybe a walk if the cold stayed manageable, an evening with a book you’d been picking up and putting down for three weeks. Nothing that can’t be set aside. Nothing that comes close.
You think about Jess and Maude.
In your two years with Gator you’ve seen them plenty. Enough, you’d have thought, to know them. Sundays at the ranch when Roy was holding court and Karen was moving quietly between rooms and the girls were there the way furniture is there - present, background, managed. Birthday dinners where they sat straight and spoke when spoken to and Roy smiled at them in the particular way he had that didn’t quite reach anything. A handful of occasions where you’d caught something real - Jess’s uncontained laugh at something Gator said, Maude watching you from across a room with those too-careful eyes - before the moment closed over again like water.
You know their surfaces. You know that Jess is loud and Maude is watchful, that they both flinch at certain sounds in ways that tell you something about what they’ve learned to calibrate to. But you’ve never had them without Roy in the building. Without Karen managing the temperature of every room. Without the whole careful architecture of that family arranging itself around everyone inside it.
You’re not sure, you realise, that you know them at all yet.
Enough to know that when Gator is near them something in him shifts - not softer exactly, because softness isn’t quite a word that fits him, but less defended. Like he remembers what he’s supposed to be for.
You set the phone down and go to see what’s in the kitchen.
Roy takes Karen out maybe once a season, if that. In all the time you’ve been with Gator you can count the occasions on one hand - a birthday dinner, some function or other, once what Gator had described only as a thing for the county in a tone that closed the subject. Each time, the girls had stayed on the ranch with whoever was available, which mostly meant whatever deputy Roy had pulled into babysitting duty by implication rather than request. They’d never come to you before. You wonder if Roy and Karen even know this is where they’ll be.
You’d wanted to offer, before. You hadn’t known how to do it without making Gator feel like you were pointing at something he’d rather not have pointed at. So you’d waited, and he’d gotten there himself, in his own sideways fashion, on an afternoon in November with snow coming and nowhere particular to be.
You find half a bag of rice, some chicken thighs in the fridge, a mango that’s just on the right side of ripe. You think about what ten year olds like. You think about what ten year olds who have grown up in Roy Tillman’s house have probably never been offered.
You start making a list.
****************
You pick them up from school at half past two. The car park is chaos - every parent and carer in the district had the same idea, the snow coming down just seriously enough to make the school day feel optional - and you have to idle at the kerb for a few minutes before you spot them.
Gator’s out of the truck before you’ve fully stopped, standing where they’ll see him. He’d offered to drive and you’d said no without explaining why, and he hadn’t pushed. You’d wanted him free of it - not watching the road, not in charge of something. Just present.
Maude sees him first. Her face does a complicated thing - relief, and then something more careful underneath it, like she’s already calculating what the occasion costs. She’s ten years old and she already does that. It makes your chest hurt in a way you’ve learned not to let reach your face.
Jess just runs and launches herself at him, knowing instinctively that he’ll catch her.
Maude reaches the truck a few steps behind, more measured, and looks up at him with the particular expression she has for situations she hasn’t fully assessed yet.
“Where are we going?” she asks. Not are we in trouble - she’s too sharp for that - but close enough to it in register.
“Snow day,” he says.
She looks at the sky, then back at him. “We already had a snow day last week.”
“You’re having another one.”
Maude looks at you then, checking. You nod once, like it’s settled, because it is. After a moment, something in her shoulders drops about half an inch. Not all the way. But half an inch.
You stop at the supermarket and let them choose. Within reason, you say, which is a sentence that has no meaning to Jess whatsoever. She selects a packet of pink wafer biscuits, a tin of hot chocolate that’s more sugar than cocoa, and a bag of marshmallows large enough to be a structural concern.
Maude picks up a box of proper hot chocolate - the kind with real cocoa percentage listed on the back - and puts it in the basket with the quiet efficiency of someone who has learned to manage excess by supplementing it with something sensible. She catches you watching and goes very still.
“Good call,” you say, and mean it plainly.
She relaxes, then looks annoyed at herself for relaxing. You let it go.
Gator carries the basket and says nothing. He’s good at that, lately. Knowing when the moment isn’t his.
****************
The snow turns heavier at around four.
You’re in the kitchen making the hot chocolate - both kinds, blended together because Jess negotiated this with a tenacity that would serve her well in about fifteen years - and Gator’s in the living room with them. You can hear Jess talking. She talks the way some rivers move, continuously and around any obstacle, and Gator answers in short sentences that somehow don’t stop her.
Maude isn’t talking. But you can hear the television, and her occasional short laugh, and that’s enough.
You bring the mugs in and Jess immediately tries to put six marshmallows in hers and you let her, because it’s that kind of afternoon. Maude takes hers in both hands and wraps her fingers around it and closes her eyes for just a second, like she’s registering the warmth.
You sit next to Gator on the sofa. His arm goes around you, easy and automatic, the way it does now. Jess pretends to be disgusted - “if you start kissing I’ll hurl!” Maude watches it happen with an expression you can’t quite name - something measuring, something almost wistful - and then she looks back at the television.
Gator’s phone buzzes. He reads the message and mutters under his breath.
“He’s doin’ what? He’s bein’ fuc -”
“What’s who doin’, Gator?” Jess, curiosity winning out over her manners.
The girls are both watching him with wide eyes, just waiting for him to finish his sentence.
He exhales through his nose. “Weather be damned, he’s still takin’ your mom out tonight. That’s what he’s doin’.”
The girls absorb this without visible surprise, which tells you everything.
You reach over and put your hand over his where it’s resting on his knee, and he turns it palm-up without looking at you and holds on.
You drink your hot chocolate and Jess tells a story about something that happened at school involving a hamster and a misunderstanding about whose turn it was to feed it, and Gator makes a sound like he might be trying not to laugh.
Maude’s feet, in a pair of your thick socks, are tucked up beside her on the armchair. She looks warm. She looks, for this particular hour, like a child who is only ten years old and nothing more complicated than that.
You let yourself look at her for a moment longer than usual. There’s something almost unbearable about it, in the way that very good things can be - the specific ache of wanting to protect something you have no official claim to protect. She isn’t yours. You have no name for what you are to her, not yet, maybe not ever in any way that would hold up to scrutiny. You’re the woman Gator brings around sometimes. That’s all she knows about you.
But she picked your socks. She’d gone through the drawer you’d opened for the girls with the same careful attention she brings to everything, and she’d chosen the thickest pair, the ones with the pink stripe at the top, and she’d put them on without comment like it was ordinary. Like warmth was something she was allowed to just take when it was offered.
You hope she remembers it. Not the socks, not the hot chocolate or the dinner to come, not even the specifics of the sleepover. Just the feeling underneath all of it. That there are homes where the temperature is warm and the evening is just an evening and nobody is waiting for anything to go bad.
You hope it goes somewhere in her that Roy Tillman can’t reach. Somewhere he doesn’t know to look.
****************
When you start pulling the ingredients out on the counter Jess immediately wants to know what that is, pointing at the mango.
“Mango.”
“What’s it for?”
“Dinner.”
She looks at it with deep suspicion, the way children do when food comes in unexpected shapes. “What does it taste like?”
“Really sweet. Like sunshine.”
“And it’s for dinner?”
“Yeah - we’ll chop it up and add it to the pan with chicken, garlic, coconut milk, chilli -”
“Is it spicy? I don’t like spicy.”
“It’s not too spicy. More like warm. Does that sound okay?”
Jess opens her mouth to argue the logic of this and Maude, without looking up from where she’s now sitting at the kitchen table, says, “You used to hate cheese and now you eat it on everything.”
Jess closes her mouth.
You hide a smile and start preparing.
You put them to work because idle hands, and because there’s something good about giving children a task that produces something real at the end of it. Maude is precise and focused, cutting the mango into neat cubes with the careful attention of someone who finds repetitive tasks settling. Jess stirs the sauce with a wooden spoon and narrates the process to no one in particular, a continuous commentary on the smell, the colour, the way it moves.
Gator stands slightly to one side, not quite in the kitchen, not quite out of it. He’s not sure where to put himself, which is something you’ve noticed he does in soft domestic situations - hovers at the edge, waiting to be useful in a way he understands.
“You can do the chicken,” you tell him.
He looks at the raw chicken breast on the board, then at you. “I can do the chicken,” he confirms, in the tone of a man who has never been asked to cube chicken for a fruit curry in his life but will not be admitting that.
He does fine. You don’t comment on the fact that his pieces are roughly twice the size of yours.
It comes together better than it has any right to, given the chaos. The kitchen smells extraordinary - warm and sweet and something underneath that, the spice just present enough to be interesting. You serve it over rice with lime wedges and bread that you’d cheated on and bought ready-made, and the four of you sit around your table and eat.
Jess eats around the mango first. Then she eats the mango. Then she asks if there’s more mango.
Maude eats everything in careful sequence and doesn’t say much, but halfway through she looks up at you and says, “This is really good,” with a directness that doesn’t leave room for politeness as motive. She means it. Something in your chest does a small, private thing.
Gator eats like he’s making up his mind about something. You don’t ask what.
You’re clearing up when you hear it - Jess, from the living room, having discovered the Twister mat in the bottom of your games cupboard, the existence of which you had genuinely forgotten about.
“GATOR!”
A sigh. You can almost picture the expression on his face.
“Yeah.”
“COME PLAY THIS!”
Another pause, longer. You lean around the kitchen doorframe. Gator is looking at the mat on the floor, which Jess has already spread out with the confidence of someone who has never once considered that an invitation might be declined.
“That’s -” He stops. “M’nearly thirty.”
“So?”
You turn back to the sink. You do not offer to rescue him. This is deliberate.
By the time you’ve washed up and wiped down the counters, you can hear the spinner going. Jess calling out colours with the authority of a referee at a professional event. Maude, more quietly, telling Gator he has to put his left hand on red, not near red, on red.
You stand in the doorway.
Gator is folded into an architectural and physical improbability, one hand on blue, both feet on opposite sides of the mat, jaw set with the grim concentration of a man who has decided that if he’s doing this he is going to do it. Jess is underneath him somehow, already tangled, giggling so hard she’s barely functional. Maude is the only one maintaining any structural dignity, balanced neatly with her feet on two dots, watching Gator’s form with the critical eye of a much older person.
“Your elbow’s gonna give,” she tells him.
“Is not.”
It gives. He goes down, takes Jess with him, and she shrieks with laughter and the sound of it fills the room so completely there’s no space left for anything else.
Maude looks at you with an expression that is trying very hard not to be a smile and failing.
You sit down on the floor with them.
The movie is Jess’s choice, which means it is loud and brightly coloured and involves at least one talking animal. Maude negotiates for something with a plot and loses, though she watches it with perfect attention anyway, cross-legged at one end of the sofa, occasionally making dry observations about the internal logic of the animated world that make Gator exhale through his nose in a way that might be a laugh.
Jess is asleep before the third act, which surprises nobody. She goes suddenly, the way small children do - one moment present and emphatic, the next simply absent, tipped sideways against your arm with her mouth slightly open.
Maude makes it to the credits, just barely. She fights it. You watch her fight it - the slow blinks, the careful repositioning, the increasingly losing battle to keep her eyes tracking the screen. Eventually she lists sideways toward Gator’s shoulder, and he goes very still, like an animal that doesn’t want to startle something.
She’s asleep in under a minute.
He doesn’t move.
You’re watching Maude’s feet in your thick socks, thinking the thought you’ve been thinking, when Gator speaks.
“Never thought about it,” he says. “Kids. Havin’ ’em.”
You go still. Not alarmed - just careful, the way you get when something real is happening and you don’t want to disturb it.
“Before,” he adds, like that’s clarification enough. And it is.
“And now?” you ask.
He’s quiet for a moment. On the other end of the sofa Maude shifts slightly in her sleep, then resettles. Neither of you looks at her, but you’re both aware of her.
“Now I think about it differently.” He’s looking at his hands, loosely clasped between his knees. “Not - I’m not sayin’ I’ve got some plan. I’m not sayin’ that.”
“I know.”
“She picked this side on purpose,” he says, glancing at Maude. “She’s been watchin’ ya all day. Working out whether you’re safe.”
“Yeah?”
“She decided you were, round about the supermarket. The way you said good call.”
You don’t answer. Your throat is doing something inconvenient.
“They don’t get a lot of days like this,” he says. It isn’t an explanation. It isn’t quite a thank you. It sits somewhere between the two, in the particular register he uses for things he means most.
“They can have more,” you say. “If they want. So can you.”
He picks up the earlier thread then, quiet and deliberate. “If I did. If we did. It’d be far away from here. Far away from him.” He takes a breath. “I wouldn’t - I won’t do what he did. I need ya to know that.”
The rawness of it lands quietly, the way the most important things he says always do - without ceremony, without him quite looking at you.
“I know that too,” you say. And you do. You’ve known it for a while in the way you know things about him that he hasn’t said yet - the shape of what he’s capable of, and what he isn’t, and how much distance there is between him and his father even when he can’t see it himself.
“I’m not in a hurry,” you tell him. “There’s no pressure coming from me. But I’m not going anywhere either. I want you to know that.”
It isn’t a declaration. It isn’t a plan. It’s something quieter than both of those things and more durable - the sense of two people who have looked at the same horizon and found, without making a production of it, that they’re both looking at the same far-off landmark.
He looks at you then. The television light is low and blue and his eyes are doing that thing they do sometimes, where you can see something in them he hasn’t gotten around to saying yet.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
Outside, the snow keeps falling, steady and quiet, covering everything equally, the way it does.
cw: mental health, awkwardness, strangers to friends
synopsis: You help the New Avengers manage their stuff, Bob is the last team member you meet. When you two are alone at the tower, awkwardness ensues and friendship blossoms.
*****
'This is Bob,' Yelena announced.
You jumped at the sudden interruption. You were bend over your laptop, trying to match and sync Valentina's various requests for the New Avengers press moments. It seemed nearly impossible to fit every single meeting into a months time and yet you had been tasked to schedule everything for next week.
You had been hired as the New Avengers' assistant, in order to take some things off Mel's plate. She would primarily be responsible to handle all of Valentina's affairs and any 'group outings', while you were responsible for the member's personal schedules.
The job was great, really. The payment was phenomenal and it felt like you finally did something that mattered, but Valentina was a lot. You didn't like to complain too much, but there was a line to that, and valentina was dancing tango on the edge of said line. You didn't mind the working hours or the intensity, more so the unpredictable nature of your boss, combined with the unfamiliarity between you and the superheroes.
Yelena was nice to you, she tried to make conversation every now and then. It was a general plus to your relationship that you never had to guess what mood she was in. She was practically wearing her heart on her sleeves, if you were patient enough to sort through all the sarcastic and cynical comments. Alexei was similar, if ten times louder and chattier than his daughter, always sharing (unasked) stories of his glory days back in Russia. You liked both of them; you were not supposed to play favorites, but secretly it was the Russian father-daughter duo. They felt the most normal to be around, and the first ones to accept you as part of the 'family'.
Ava on the other hand was difficult to place. She barely talked to you, and ever so often she would randomly materialize beside you. It always gave you shivers, which you were sorry about. You never meant to offend, but you couldn't help but feel awkward around her. Next to that, she was also the only member who flatly refused to show up for appointments you had made. You didn't hold it against her personally, you supposed, being stuck in a lab for most of your life did that to you: not taking orders from anyone and not following a schedule, especially if it involved obnoxious and insensitive journalist who were interested more in her fashion than in her work. Still, you never really developed a professional, let alone friendly relationship.
The two super soldiers were polite enough to you, while the former re-imagined Captain America was a tiny bit chattier than the former Winter Soldier. Both were grumpy though, and did not appreciate small talk - that you learned the hard way. From a professional point of view though, they were great. John was used to press and publicity, so you didn't have a lot of issues. Sometimes he'd complain about scheduling, but in the end he always showed up and did what was asked of him. Bucky was the perfect counter piece. Though he wasn't very used to the media, he never made your work any harder. You got the sense that he was apologetic for your involvement in the chaotic team, and as a result tried to make your life as easy as possible.
You had met all of them, so it shouldn't have surprised you to be introduced to Bob. However, Valentina had scheduled no interview moments, no interviews, no press stunts for him, and so you had assumed that you wouldn't meet him until further notice.
You looked up from your device and the various papers and memo's scattered on your desk to see Yelena and Bob stand before you. The former in jogging pants and an oversized hoodie, the latter in washed out jeans and a crew neck sweater.
'Uhh ... hi,' mumbled Bob quietly.
You smiled brightly at him as you introduced yourself. 'It's nice to meet you.'
'Um ... yeah. You, too.'
'We were just wondering if there's anything to do for Bob,' interjected Yelena, before any sort of silence could form.
'Well, right now Valentina is keeping you out of the limelight,' you admitted, 'and since you are not going on any missions yet, there is no paperwork to be done. If anything comes up, I will be sure to get it to you asap. In the mean time, if there's anything I can do for you, these doors are always open.'
You cringed at how practiced that speech sounded, but it was in fact that: practiced. You didn't know how Bob would take this information, whether or not he'd be okay with being kept from the public's prying eye, so you had thought of different ways to approach the subject, not expecting to deliver the news to him this early.
'She means that literally, by the way,' Yelena said, turning to Bob. 'Her office is always open and everyone always comes in whenever they want.'
You chuckled. 'Not much sense in locking the door if one of you can walk through walls anyways.'
Bob let out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and you noticed a weird warmth spreading through your chest.
'Well, we'll leave you to it. Shout if there's an alien invasion,' Yelena deadpans, before sauntering of with Bob following close behind, though you swear you hear a soft 'see ya' from the man.
Getting to know Bob was less intense than you had expected. He was rarely around when you were there, or at least he was not staying anywhere near your office. At team meetings he would sit at the far end opposite of your seat. He rarely contributed but always seemed to be paying attention to what you were saying.
A couple of weeks after that first encounter, you found yourself alone in the tower way past your usual time. There had been a last minute mission the Avengers were sent on, and so it left you a heap of work to reschedule all the events and appointments they would miss, sending apologetic emails to other assistants of bosses who did not have the time and could not care to do any organization work themselves.
Honestly, time had slipped away and suddenly you realized it was dark outside, while you did not even get to have lunch, let alone dinner.
With a resigned sigh you made your way towards the kitchen. It wasn't a place you liked to be. It always reminded you that you did not actually belong here, that you were not really a part of the team itself no matter how close you were to them. So entering the kitchen felt like invading their sanctuarium. This was where the six of them could relax, could be themselves and not be judged by the outside world of press, gossip, and marketing strategies. You made a mental note to stack up on snacks in your office for cases like this.
Another heavy sigh escaped you, as you went looking through the fridge and the cabinets for something that would fuel you for just an hour more, before you got home and could finally reheat yesterdays pasta.
'I was gonna order food, if you wanna.'
You jumped at the sudden interruption of the silence that had engulfed the kitchen. Bob winced when he saw you jump at his voice and let out a tired 'sorry' while shuffling towards one of the bar stools around the kitchen island, in which he let himself drop unceremoniously.
'Hey, Bob. Sorry for freaking out, I totally forgot that I wasn't alone,' you replied, trying to sound cheery without coming across as fake friendly. You made another mental note to be more aware of the sixth team member.
'I can ..'-Bob started getting up - 'I can go, I didn't mean to bother''
'No, stay! You're not bothering at all. I'm just a little tired, when I'm tired I get jumpy... so really it's on me.' you bring out nervously. Since when do I get nervous around coworkers? The thought crept up on you, and you hurried to stuff it and the implications of it in the back of your mind.
He hums in response, fiddling with his sweater sleeves.
'What were you going to order?'
'I- well, I was really craving some Chinese food.' he mumbled, seemingly embarrassed.
You were kicking yourself mentally. Go ahead, and seem like you're afraid in front of the most vulnerable person in this tower. Great job making him even more insecure.
'That sounds great, could you just order me whatever you're getting?'
'S-sure.'
'Thank you, Bob.' You smiled at him, feeling a little awkward. He typed away on his phone, you assumed he was ordering and not just scrolling to avoid talking to you.
'Hey, what are you even still doing here?' he spoke up, while sliding his phone in his pocket.
'Oh! I have to finish up some work. With this mission a lot of stuff has to be rescheduled and its a lot of polite emailing back and forth and stuff.'
'Oh,' he trailed off a little, before adding: 'But couldn't you just do it at home?'
No matter how hard you tried not to, you must have made a face while saying: 'oh, yeah, of course. I can wrap up and-'
'Tha-that's not what I meant,' Bob croaked, blushing furiously, while ducking his head low. 'I - I'm sorry, I - I shouldn't have-' he broke off, before repeating quietly. 'I'm sorry.'
He slipped of the stool and started turning away but froze when you called out his name. 'It's okay. What did you mean if not... you know, that?'
'I just meant- it must be exhausting, right? A-and at home, you could probably do it more comfortable? Those shoes do not look comfortable,' he commented, pointing at your heels.
You huffed through your nose. 'You'd be surprised. But yeah, home would be more comfortable. It's just that I can't concentrate there that well, and I tend to get distracted. So I try to do as much as possible here, even if it means staying long.'
He hums again, and just watches you for some time.
'You know, I can go if it bothers you. I won't take it personally,' you tease him lightly.
'It doesn't bother me. It's nice knowing I'm not alone,' he admits, a blush still dusting his cheeks.
In that moment you would have loved to reach out your hand and touch him. He looked like a little boy, just waiting for someone to hug him. You could not work up the courage to actually step closer, and so you settled on giving him a sad little smile.
'I know Yelena teases me for it, but my door really is always open. If you ever want to feel less lonely just come by.'
'Th-thanks. That means a lot.' An awkward silence stretched between you, in which neither one seemed to know where to go from there.
Gulping down your nervousness, you announced softly: 'I think I'll go back to the office and try to get some more work done.'
'Yeah, okay,' he breathes.
'See ya, Bob.'
You turned and walked back to your desk, unable to shake the feeling that you had done something wrong. When you sat behind your desk, you shook your head and tried to regain focus. There was still a lot to be done, and Bob was right, home was a much more comfortable place to be at.
Just when you thought you were back to your flow, a soft knock at the office door made you look up. Bob stood there, in one hand holding the food delivery, the other one clutched around two small water bottles.
'Come on in!' you invite him, slightly pushing away from your desk and closing the laptop in front of you to face him entirely.
Bob shuffled closer, and wordlessly handed you one of the water bottles. He settled into the chair across from you and opened his water bottle.
'So... can I ask you something?' he posed carefully.
'Of course!' You open the take out container absentmindedly. 'What is it?'
'Why do you leave the door open?'
'I'm not sure I know what you mean.' you hesitate to answer his question.
'W-well, I get what you said about Ava being able to - to just come in. And that you are here to help, so people should come to you for help. But I-i-i... I was wondering if you never have moments that you would feel safer with the door closed?'
'Safer, as in from you guys? Or safer from the outside world?'
'Safer from everything. Like... like a sort of barrier between you and everything else, I guess.'
You hummed around some noodles, pensive before answering.
'I guess I would feel a little safer from judgment and maybe a little calmer. No offense, but you lot can be loud,' you chuckle and hear Bob join.
'But at the same time, I think I just want to make sure I can help you the best I can, even if that means just making you feel welcome. Because in the end, I cannot help all of you with everything, I'm not a superhero or a miracle worker. But I can take care of the small things to make your lives easier. And leaving the door open is part of that. I don't want anyone of the team wondering whether they can bother me with something. ' You exhaled quietly, unsure whether you had overshared or if what you had said made sense.
Bob just watched you for a couple of seconds, slowly blinking as if deep in thought. 'Does it bother you that the team doesn't know that?'
You laughed under your breath. 'Honestly? No. My job is to stay under the radar, to be invisible. Like Santa's elves. So if they don't know, that just means I'm good at my job.'
Bob hummed quietly. 'Can I ask you another question?'
'Anything you'd like,' you smiled
'Can you schedule something for me?' He was looking at the floor.
'Bob...' You hesitated. 'Valentina really doesn't want you in the public eye yet.'
'I-i-it wouldn't be in public-' he broke of, before whispering with closed eyes. 'I-i want to see a therapist.'
Your heart broke for the second time that evening. Then you took a deep breath, grabbed the team's calendar and your laptop, opening Bobs file.
'Of course we can schedule that. Did you have any particular therapist in mind?'
You were painfully aware of the fact that you were using your business voice, but that was the thing about your mind. When it came to helping someone, a switch flipped and you did everything in your power to help as soon and as accurately as possible.
An hour and thirty-eight minutes later, you had send various emails to therapist you and Bob had found, both near the tower and further in the states, even sending one mail across the pond to a British psychologist, who was renowned for his specialization in childhood trauma. You had also contacted Dr Strange, asking him whether there was anyone in his network who could assist Bob.
The man in question was sat next to you by then, slightly slumped over and fiddling with his sweater sleeves.
You let out a satisfied sigh, turning towards him in your chair. 'I think this is it for now. I will let you know as soon as someone responds.'
'Thank you,' Bob muttered, rubbing a hand across his face. 'I'm sorry I kept you from doing your work.'
'This literally is my job,' you chuckled, 'so you don't have to be sorry. I'll just do the rest tomorrow.'
You started packing up your laptop and the notebooks, pens and annotation tags and started shouldering your bag, when you suddenly became hyper aware of the fact that Bob hadn't yet left your office. 'Is there something else you need?'
'Oh, m-me? No, I just- I just wanted to walk you downstairs,' Bob mumbled, his gaze directed to the floor again.
You smiled to yourself, as you shouldered your bag and moved towards the door. 'Let's go then.'
The pair of you walked towards the elevator in silence, waiting for the soft ping announcing its arrival. Once inside, Bob pressed the button which would take you to the ground floor.
'I-' he cleared his throat 'I really want to thank you. Not just for helping me with the a-appointments. Also for having dinner with me. I-i don't have many friends, and its really nice to not be alone in the tower.'
Your eyebrows shot upwards as you turned to him with slightly parted lips.
'And don't say it's your job,' he interrupted with a sudden confidence, 'because i know you're doing more than what your job requires. So, thank y-you.'
By the time he had finished, the elevator doors opened and Bob immediately averted his gaze.
'I'm really glad I could help,' you said softly, squeezing his arm carefully. 'And I'll make sure to bring dinner for us whenever the others are not around.'
For the first time you thought you saw a real smile on Bob's face. 'How would you know if there are going to be there or not?' he asked with a teasing tone.
'Don't underestimate my skills, Bob Reynolds!' you chide playfully, buttoning up your coat.
Bob chuckled. 'I would never.'
'You better not,' you laugh, and after a short pause you breath: 'Good night, Bob.'
'Good night, see you tomorrow,' Bob responds, before turning away and shuffling back to the elevator.
You watch him enter into the lift, thinking about whether you should to invite him for something non-work related some time. You wondered if he'd like the book store, and made another mental note to find a way to get him out of the tower for a low stake activity.
Any person passing you who bothered to look at your face wouldn't have been able to guess that you stayed late for work; you were smiling the whole way home.
