summary: After seeing how dangerous the mission is, Bob gets worried about leaving you behind.
masterlist
“Don’t tell me. Tell his family.”
The words rang over and over again in Bob’s mind. He wasn’t upset with Phoenix nor Coyote. What all of them were doing was difficult and they needed practice. He wasn’t upset with anyone but himself. He was going back and forth on whether he ever should have joined the Navy at all. On one hand he never would have met you if he hadn’t been based in Lemoore, but if he wasn’t in the Navy he also wouldn’t have the horrible feeling that was brewing in his stomach.
Bob couldn’t believe he’d ever been so stupid as to believe that he would never be in danger like this. He wasn’t scared for himself. He didn’t want to die, but he was in the Navy for a reason. He was scared for you. Bob meant to take care of you till the day you died. He couldn’t leave you unprotected. He had been distraught ever since his training.
You had a job that allowed you to work from home which was lucky because it meant as long as Bob wasn’t deployed, you could be with him. So you had gone to North Island with him even though he was only meant to be there a couple weeks. You rented an airbnb which turned out to be great for Bob because they’d only been offered barracks to sleep in on the base. He came home from his second day of training at Top Gun with worry written across his face.
“How was training, Robby?” You asked as you rose from the couch to wrap your arms around his neck and give him his ‘welcome home’ kiss.
“We have to get married before I go,” Bob blurted out when you pulled away. You chuckled.
“What are you talking about?” You asked with a smile.
“I’m not joking, honey. We have to get married before I go,” he said. His hands had found purchase on your hips, his fingers spreading across your body above the thin spandex of your leggings.
“Robby, why would we do that? We just finished paying off the venue and we sent out invitations two weeks ago,” you said with a smile. “I’m excited too, but we don’t want to let down all the people who are coming just to get a free meal.” Bob didn’t laugh. He raised a hand to your neck and ran his thumb along your jawline.
“The man teaching us is a Captain. His girlfriend has a boat and he’ll take us out to marry us before I go,” he said seriously. The smile on your face was fading away.
“Why do we need to get married before you go, Robby?” You asked. Bob gave you a sad smile.
“Just in case,” he said. He didn’t want to say what you were beginning to understand.
“In case of what?” You asked. Your voice had lost the softness that you usually spoke to him with. It was wavering and hollow. Bob sighed. He kissed your forehead.
“It’s a dangerous mission. More than I ever would have thought,” he admitted.
“Robby.” Your voice wavered. “What does that mean?” He looked at you and pursed his lips.
“I can’t tell you much more,” he said.
“Why do we have to get married now, Robby?” You asked, your voice cracking as tears rose to your eyes.
“Honey, I’m sorry,” Bob murmured.
“I don’t want to get married now,” you whimpered, the first tear spilling from your eye.
“I know, sweetheart. I don’t either,” he said.
“Then we shouldn’t. We should just go back to Lemoore,” you said, your voice cracking.
“Y/N, honey, you know I can’t do that,” he said.
“We should just go home, Robby. Just go back to Lemoore,” you repeated. Bob pulled you into his chest and ran his hand over the back of your head, smoothing your hair out. You let out the sob you’d been holding in.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
“I can’t lose you, Robby,” you whimpered through your tears. Bob didn’t know what to do. There was nothing he could say that would make you feel better and be truthful. He couldn’t tell you that there was nothing to worry about or that everything would be okay, because he couldn’t be sure of either of those things. He’d never regretted joining the Navy more, and after the two hundred push-ups he had to do the day before he hadn’t been expecting the record to be beaten for a while. You sniffled against his shirt, your arms were wrapped around him tightly keeping him pressed to your body. His hand was still running through your hair delicately.
“I love you so much, sweetheart,” he mumbled. “You mean so much to me, and no matter what–”
“Robert Floyd, you better not be trying to say goodbye to me,” you said sternly. You pulled away so you could meet Bob’s eye. You still had tear tracks on your cheeks and your eyes were red and puffy.
“I just want you to know,” he said softly.
“Tell me when you come back then,” you ordered.
“Honey…” Bob protested.
“When you come back,” you said firmly. Bob closed his mouth and nodded. There was time later for him to say what he wanted to say to you. Right now you needed to believe that he would come home. And all he had ever wanted to do was take care of you. So, instead of telling you how much he loved you and how lucky he felt to have you, he kissed your forehead and pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.
Summary: The San Diego Padres are saluting the U.S. Navy during their upcoming game, and the Dagger Squad has been invited to attend. Hangman's only goal for the game? Get you and Bob to finally act on your feelings and confess to each other.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY (I am not responsible for the media you choose to consume), fluff, friends to lovers, pining, language, female reader, language, maybe some incorrect descriptions of the Navy, suggestive and steamy but no smut, some suggestive and steamy PDA that's borderline not appropriate for public spaces, Padres don't do a kiss cam but lets pretend, I'm a Pirates fan (please pity me) so maybe some incorrect descriptions of Padres games and Petco Park and San Diego
“There’s something about a Padres jersey that has our own last names on the back that’s kind of really cool,”
You’d shot Natasha an eye roll from across the room, catching the specially made Padres jersey with your last name stitched into the back when she’d tossed it your way. In turn, you’d grabbed the one lying on your bed, ‘Trace’ stitched into the back, and tossed it over to where she sat cross-legged on your bedroom floor. You tugged your tank top down over the pink, lacy floral bra you wore before plopping down on your bed with your jersey in hand.
“Is it bad that I kind of hate them?” Nat raised her eyebrow as you held out your jersey in front of you, examining the dark brown fabric and gold stripes, before laying it down on the bed next to you. “Not the jersey itself, but that it has our names. Kind of wanted to wear my Bogaerts jersey to the game.”
Nat hummed, dragging herself off the floor and throwing herself down on the bed beside you. You cast a glance down at her, just to see a cheeky grin on her lips.
“Dying to wear Bogaerts’s name on your back-”
“Please, Phoenix, we all know she’s dying to wear the last name ‘Floyd’ on her jersey,”
Hangman’s unexpected voice was not a welcome one, as he came strolling into your bedroom to lean against the doorframe with that signature smirk of his. His presence only garnered a groan out of you as Nat sat up, laughing at the comment.
“Right, almost forgot about her undying love for our teammate-”
“I don’t remember saying you could come in,” you interjected, sending Jake a pointed look, ignoring Natasha’s comment the best you could with red creeping up your neck. His grin only widened as he lifted his hand, dangling his truck keys in the air with a little shake.
“Perks of having the spare key to the ladies’ apartment. Your fault, you entrusted me with it. Best friend perks, and whatnot,” he waved his hand dismissively, before giving you a pointed look in return to your own. “I’m also your five-minute warning that the Bradshaw Bronco just picked up the pizza and beer for lunch and should be here soon, since neither of you likes checking the groupchat. Sometimes I wonder if you two have muted it.”
“I’m terrified that they somehow shoved Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote in the back of that thing,” Natasha chimed in with a fake shiver, shooting Hangman a sly middle finger for his groupchat comment. Her actions made you laugh, nudging her shoulder with your own.
“True, those three are the most brutal during dogfight football. Lord knows what happens when they're in close proximity to each other-”
“Ladies, we have more pressing things to discuss!” Hangman interrupted, clapping his hands as he stepped toward the bed, standing directly before the edge with his hands resting on his hips. That alone had you and Nat sharing a look of amusement, but Jake Seresin was all business. “I’m determined to take ‘Operation Peob’ to the next level tonight…and by next level, I mean get you, our little flower, laid.”
You weren’t entirely sure if your brain was short-circuiting or if you’d actually heard your best friend right. Truly, though, knowing Jake as long as you had, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been speaking total nonsense. Judging by the pained groan that Nat let out at your side, you knew you’d heard him right.
“Operation Peob-?”
“It’s his stupid 1000-step plan to get you and Bob to fess up that’s not working,” Nat explained with a shake of her head. “He’s been at it for months. I’ve helped, obviously, because I’m sick of seeing you two pining after one another, but the mashup of ‘Peony’ and ‘Bob’ is just terrible.”
“That time we invited you guys out for drinks, but we both canceled last second, so it was just you and Bob? My plan,” Hangman grabbed your desk chair, wheeling it over in front of the bed to sit backwards on it, that shit-eating grin on his face that you just wanted to smack off. “Or when I started that childish game of seven minutes in heaven to lock you guys in a closet? Or when I blamed that screwed up pre-flight checklist on you and Bob so you’d be held later together-”
“I’m sorry, you did what-?”
“Point is,” Jake quickly interjected, cutting you off midsentence. “I’ve tried every single trick in the book, everything I could think of, and you two are dense. Hell, it’s like trying to talk to two brick walls, you refuse to act on shit! So, I’ve got a foolproof plan in line tonight, even Nat thought it was a good idea.”
“True, might be his best one yet,”
You looked between them as they both looked at you expectantly. Natasha Trace, your best friend and roommate, one of your closest confidants. Jake Seresin, your childhood best friend, whom you, for some reason, followed straight into the Navy because you couldn’t bear to be without him. Two people you adored more than life…who sounded certifiably insane right now.
“Guys, I’m not in love with Bob-”
“You are,” they both cut in simultaneously.
There was no reason to argue. These two people knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes, so of course they’d picked up on it.
Robert “Bob” Floyd, the bane of your existence. Not really, because you knew if he wasn’t in your life, you’d probably spend your entire life somehow searching for him. Your other best friend, who had somehow claimed that title in the few short weeks leading up to that Uranium mission. The man who, when you started sobbing as you held him in the hospital hours after the bird-strike during training, you realized you were falling head over heels in love with.
But that was months ago, before your special detachment became a permanent squadron in San Diego. You weren’t falling anymore, you were in love, and if you had to watch him do another round of push-ups during Maverick’s drills while his arms strained and sweat in the California heat, you were going to, quite literally, gnaw the bars off the enclosure you’d closed yourself into in your mind.
“It’s not my fault he’s so hot in such a fucking nonchalant way,” Nat and Jake laughed the second you dramatically threw yourself backward on your bed. “Seriously! Sure, he stutters when he’s nervous, and he’s got those stupidly cute glasses, but Jesus Christ, if he’s not the most adorable man. But, then you, Hangman, manage to piss him off and he gets this-this fucking air of slight confidence around him, he gets so quick and witty with his comments and I’m, like, two seconds from climbing his tall, slender ass like a fucking tree.”
Word-vomit, but you didn’t care. There was no use lying anymore. Jake and Natasha were silent for only a moment before Nat’s laughter finally managed to escape her.
“Wow, you have it worse for Floyd than I thought you did!”
“I seriously don’t even think he realizes how hot he is,” you shouted, completely exasperated as you threw your arms out toward the ceiling. “He thinks girls don’t pay him any attention, meanwhile I feel like a total ass the way I’m eyeing him like a piece of meat everytime his shirt rides up on the beach. Then–the worst part–he’s out here holding doors for me, brought me a bouquet of flowers for my birthday, texts me good night and good morning every day–a thing that COUPLES DO–even makes sure he walks on the outside of the sidewalk when we’re all in downtown. He’s, quite literally, driving me insane because he’s the definition of the perfect man. As if he crawled straight out of my childhood diary.”
No one else could get a word in before the doorbell rang, and you froze. Natasha laughed again, grabbing onto your arms and tugging you back into a seated position on the bed before climbing off of it herself. Jake had already put your desk chair back across the room and was halfway to the door before he shot you a wink over his shoulder.
“No, you’re driving yourself insane by not just jumping the man’s bones, given that he’s clearly just as obsessed with you as you are with him. But have no fear. Trust in Phoenix and me, and Operation Peob will go just perfectly tonight-”
Nat gave him a shove to the back, pushing him out of your bedroom.
“Give her a damn minute, I think she’s still processing the fact that she just finally owned up to her crush. Just go get the door…and think of a new name for this dumb operation of ours on the way there, too,”
They were gone in seconds, and you could hear the unmistakable sound of Rooster announcing himself the second they opened the front door. You? You were stuck in place, thinking back over all of those moments Jake (and subsequently Natasha) had thrust you into over the last few months.
That dinner hadn’t been awkward in the slightest with just you and Bob. Honestly, you’d stayed there for upwards of four hours just talking and laughing about anything and everything like you usually did. He’d let you drink, picked up the bill without letting you even reach for your purse, and drove you home. That childish seven minutes in heaven game wasn’t even awkward. They’d shoved you both into a hallway closet in Rooster’s apartment, you’d wrapped Bob in a hug, and just laughed about your friends' antics in the dark of the closet. No one was even surprised to see you wrapped around one another when the door finally opened: the second Bob had gotten comfortable around you, the pair of you were attached at the hip like that all the time.
You loved him, but you could never tell where he was at when it came to your blurry relationship, so you always danced on the edge of wanting to say something and biting your tongue. But if Hangman was this insistent, could he see something you couldn’t? Did he know something you didn’t?
“Any chance I could get some help with these pizzas?”
And suddenly, there he stood. Tall, lean, sandy blonde hair still perfectly swept to the side on top of his head, balancing three boxes of pizza in his hands, along with the box of garlic bread and mozzarella sticks (a special request from you). Your eyes betrayed you, straying from his face and down his body.
Shorts, an item you didn’t get to see quite often on him, but man, did he look good in them. A white t-shirt that clung to him just enough to drive you insane, his dog tags lying directly in the center of his chest. Overtop of that was his own personally designed Padres jersey, gifted to the entire team for Navy appreciation night at the ballpark, but unbuttoned in the front so that it lay at his sides…and, god, were you having thoughts about running your hand down his chest and over those abs you knew he was hiding-
Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you glanced back up to meet Bob’s eyes and caught sight of the blush clearly embedded into his skin, and shot out of bed.
“Jesus, Bob, were they not going to help you at all?” you asked incredulously, taking two of the boxes from him as you tried to rid yourself of the inappropriate thoughts you were having of your best friend. He only laughed, shaking his head at your question.
“I mean, they at least took the beers,”
“Of course they did,” that comment got another laugh out of him. Easily, you joined in on the laughter, kicking his shin lightly. “Let’s go, dork, you know where the kitchen is.”
Like it usually was once a week, you and Natasha’s Southcrest apartment were overrun by the loud sounds of the men you called family, your squad, all gathered in the living room. This time, it wasn’t for game night or movie night, but instead in preparation for the San Diego Padres game later that afternoon, one the organization had personally invited your squadron to be recognized at for their Navy appreciation night at the ballpark. An opportunity to stand on the field during the pre-game festivities, the chance to watch Maverick throw the first pitch, lower-level seating on the third baseline, and your own custom Padres jerseys to wear to the game. A sweet deal, all around, that your squad was more than happy to accept.
“So, a baseball game,” Bob managed to speak, standing at your side in your tiny galley kitchen that two people could barely fit in. You were taking boxes from his hands, laying them out on the small bit of counter space you did have. “I-Is this a bad time to say…I’ve never been to a baseball game?”
“Never?” you questioned him, raising an eyebrow at him as you took the final pizza box from his arms. You couldn’t help the way your lips quirked up as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know Montana doesn’t really have a team, unless you just root for the Rockies, but you never went during basic? Not a White Sox game, or a Cubs game?”
“Nope,” Bob accentuated his word with a little pop of his mouth, leaning back against the sink behind you while you squeezed past him, grabbing the plastic plates you and Nat had picked up for today the last time you went grocery shopping. “I’m relying on you to show me the ropes.”
“Depends what I have to work with here, baby-on-board,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder at him with a gleam in your eye as he rolled his eyes at the ridiculous nickname. “You know anything about the game at all, or did you really grow up under a rock?”
With everything laid out, you flipped around, leaning back against the counter behind you with Bob directly across from you. A mistake, in that tiny galley kitchen, the lack of space making the position feel more intimate than it needed to be. Bob’s legs seemed to instinctively spread slightly without a word, allowing you to stretch out your own between them.
“If you’re in the field, don’t let the other team score. If you’re hitting…score,” Bob smiled as you laughed at his explanation. “Pretty basic stuff, but I get the gist of it, Peony.”
“Yeah, it’s a very basic understanding of the fundementals, but I can work with it,” you assured him with a grin of your own, catching your eyes flicking down for just a moment to those dog tags resting against that white shirt that had no reason to look as hot as it did on him. “Should take you home with me sometime to a Rangers game, that’s where I really shine. And it's how I ended up with my callsign-”
“Your favorite flower,” Bob chimed in immediately before you could finish your sentence, your eyes catching on the way his Adam’s apple throbbed for just a moment after he said it, his eyes averting from yours and instead to the fridge, as it was the most interesting thing in the kitchen. “How Hangman started dragging you along to games, and you fell in love with the game. But then, every time you went together, they won, like you were the secret good luck charm of the team. And when he learned that peonies just happened to represent good luck…it all fell into place.”
You desperately tried to fight off your blush when he looked back at you. You and Jake had told that story about your callsign months ago, way back during the start of training for the Uranium mission. You didn’t want to think too hard about the fact that he remembered every detail of it, instead choosing to clear your throat with a very over-exaggerated nod.
“Yeah, see…you know the story. Promise you, though, Rangers games are a thousand times better. You’ll have to come home with me sometime, when we get time off,”
“Would…your family like me?”
Yeah, in your rant to Natasha and Jake, you’d forgotten to mention moments like this. He held the door, he bought you flowers, walked closest to the road on sidewalks, texted good morning and good night, and then sometimes he just…said things. Things that just came out of left field. Comments that felt like they were straddling the line of friendship and something more, too afraid to commit to one side or another fully, as if afraid to make the leap.
His eyes held something in them you couldn’t place; you could only describe it as uncertainty. Your eyes betrayed you once again, glancing at his lips where he was just barely biting into his bottom lip, before glancing back to those blue eyes you adored so much, hidden behind those glasses that were just so him that the thought of them kept you awake at night.
“Yeah. Too much, probably,” you settled on, though there was an unmistakable air of nervousness in your tone. The air in the entire kitchen had shifted with just a single sentence, the heaviness tangible, and you felt like you were going to suffocate looking into those piercing, soft blue eyes. “They’d probably never let you leave. You’d be stuck with us.”
“I-Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” your response came quickly, still laced with nerves, just as his was. But the whole time, neither of you looked away. “I’d choose you to be stuck with.”
He’d straightened slightly at that comment from you, squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms in front of his chest, the jersey lying around his shoulders tightening around him at the movement. Your eyes watched, tracked every little movement as a pang of heat flashed through you at just the sight of the muscles strewn through his biceps and forearms stretching with the movement. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. You followed suit, then stopped yourself. An invisible line was still drawn in the sand between you both, no one quite sure enough to take the leap and talk about it all. To talk about the tension, or the heated stares, or even the softer looks exchanged when you both thought the other wasn’t looking.
“Hey, my two favorite brick walls! You two somehow making love in a 75 square foot kitchen against the fridge, or can we eat some pizza with these beers?”
If there was anything that could break a moment, it was Jake Seresin. His over-confident tone shouted out from the living room, and you could hear the unmistakable sound of Natasha hitting him and the rest of the squad laughing.
With a groan and a roll of your eyes, you looked back at Bob. He wordlessly passed you the paper plates you’d set down on the counter, avoiding your eyes, even as his fingers brushed yours for a moment longer than they needed to.
The moment might’ve been ruined, but the ‘what ifs’ still hung heavy in the air like they had been for months.
“Shut it, Seresin, before I call your mother! Come get food, you hooligans, I know what you’re all like hangry and I’m not in the mood for it today,”
With pizza and beer distributed around the group, everyone found themselves seated around the limited seating that you and Natasha had in your living room. Rooster and Coyote were already taking up two-thirds of the couch, Payback and Fanboy were fighting over the beanbag, Nat had taken her favorite spot on the floor in front of the coffee table, while Bob took his usual place on the loveseat. With a beer in hand and pizza loaded up on your plate, you made your way over to the last spot on the couch. Hangman, being his typical annoying self, practically vaulted over the backside of the couch, almost knocking Bradley’s beer out of his hand as he let out an indignant ‘hey!’ at the action.
The wink Jake gave you, and the laughter that Natasha tried to cover up, were enough to tell you that this was definitely planned.
Without even sparing a glance at Bob, you took a seat on the other end of the loveseat, as far away as you could given that little moment in the kitchen not long before. You ignored the wiggling eyebrows that Jake was sending your way as Rooster scrolled through the various streaming services on your living room TV, trying to find something to watch to fill the time.
“We’ve got time for one movie; my turn, since Javy picked last week on movie night,” there was a collective groan through the room at Bradley's choice, ‘The Shawshank Redemption,’ simply because it was his usual choice during movie nights. “First pitch is at 4:10, but Mav told me they need us ready to go by 3:45 for the opening ceremony stuff. He said to meet him and Penny by the home plate gate, and someone from the home office would meet us out there.”
“I’ll take the ladies and Bob in the truck,” Jake threw in, with a sly wink sent your way. “The rest of you boys can ride with Rooster. Figured we could park in that garage off Tenth Ave since we wanted to hit up Tom’s Watch Bar after the game. Hope you ladies are cool with us crashing here tonight, because I’m not in the mood to drive home later.”
“Ah, yes, I’m sure our landlord will love a noisy, drunk group of fighter pilots staying here,” you’d shot back at your best friend, garnering another round of laughter from the group. “Nat and I aren’t sharing our beds, and we’ve only got the one air mattress, so fight amongst yourselves for sleeping arrangements. Now start the damn movie before we run out of time.”
With how often Bradley chose Shawshank during his pick on movie nights, there was barely any watching of the movie actually occurring. Payback and Fanboy had taken to giving dramatic renditions of the dialogue in terrible accents, leading to laughter throughout the room for every second of the movie.
Barely half an hour in, with pizza and sides finished off, your phone buzzed. A notification that you were added to a new group chat called ‘Operation Peob’ was the last thing you were expecting to get.
At this point, you shouldn’t be surprised. Especially with Jake. He’d been this way since high school, always butting into anything that had to do with your love life and trying to give you a push, so his meddling here wasn’t surprising. Natasha’s willingness to help and agree with Hangman, of all things, had you thinking that maybe this pining had gone on for far too long.
You and Bob were close; you sat close plenty and had been in enough semi-intimate settings with one another. What could it really hurt?
Tearing your eyes away long enough to glance at Bob for just a moment, you swore you could see his eyes dart away from your legs crossed underneath you and back to his phone in his hand, but chalked it up to seeing something you wanted to see. What you could see was that blush coating his skin. So, with a small boost of confidence, and the knowledge that Nat and Jake were definitely watching with renewed interest out of the corners of their eyes, you swung your legs out from under you and draped them across Bob’s lap without a word, bringing your eyes back to the movie screen to ignore your own skin’s flush.
You weren’t the only people in the room, but god, in those few short moments afterward, did it feel like you were. The movie felt quieter, the laughter of your friends was drowned out, and the only thing you could force yourself to think about was the fact that your bare legs were resting over Bob’s own bare legs. How warm his skin was, how it felt against your own, and you let your mind wander to how you’d give anything to feel any other part of-
Then, Bob’s hands were on your legs.
Holy shit, Bob’s hands were on your legs. And you were frozen in place.
Gentle and yet firm all the same, it was clear just in his touch how big his hands truly were as they seemed to engulf your skin. One found its place just around your knee, skin warm to the touch and igniting a fire under his touch, and what you wouldn’t give for that hand to rest just barely higher above your knee and on your thigh. His other hand rested itself right around your calf, and there only seemed to be a moment of hesitation before his fingers began to knead little circles into your muscle that had you biting the inside of your lip to keep back a noise you’d never utter in the presence of your squad.
You’d spared a quick glance at Bob out of the corner of your eyes, but his gaze never moved from the TV screen. So, you’d averted your own gaze to the movie too, but not before catching yet another obnoxious wink from Hangman and an impressed look thrown your way from Natasha.
Even as the movie had ended, and everyone was putting their shoes back on and unplugging their phones from their chargers in order to head out the door to the game, neither you nor Bob brought it up. Not once as you’d gotten off the couch, or as he’d let you use his shoulder for leverage to slip your beat-up tennis shoes on, or even as he climbed into the backseat of Jake’s truck, taking your hand in his own to help you inside.
Even in that short, barely ten-minute ride to the stadium, that heat hadn’t left your skin, and those thoughts refused to purge themselves from your head. You could only hope the same thoughts and feelings were running through Bob as he kept his gaze focused on the San Diego streets out the window.
“How did we manage to beat Rooster here?” Hangman complained the second that his truck was parked on the third floor of the garage, popping his front seat forward so that Bob could exit, helping you out as well just as he helped you in. “We left at the same fucking time, it’s not that hard to get here.”
Your hand slipped from Bob’s with a grateful, albeit nervous, smile that he reciprocated the second your feet landed on the ground of the garage.
“We took National Ave, they probably took Ocean View and hit some traffic,” Natasha shot back, rounding the truck before setting her sights on you. “You have the sunblock, right? I don’t feel like being burnt to a crisp today.”
You tossed the bottle from the back of the truck over to Nat before it was passed around to all of you, though Hangman swore he ‘didn’t need any’ and that he’d just get even more tan in the sun. He lost that argument when you, once again, threatened to call his mother.
With Rooster arriving just moments later with Coyote, Fanboy and Payback packed into the Bronco, parking beside Jake’s truck, the Dagger Squad was on the move toward the stadium.
It was barely a walk to the stadium, your chosen parking garage not even a street away, as your group made it’s way down the sidewalk in the direction of the home plate entrance. You and Bob brought up the rear, and you were barely a few steps down the sidewalk before his hand found the small of your back, sending a shiver up your spine, and easily switching places with you so that he walked along the edge closest to the road.
“Why do you always do that when we’re walking somewhere?” you ventured to ask him, bumping your shoulder lightly with his as you crossed one of the main roads heading toward the stadium. Bob shot you a soft smile as his hand found your back once more, guiding you slightly out of the way as a group of rowdy teenagers went barrelling past you all.
“Roads can be dangerous, just…don’t want you getting hurt is all,” was all the answer he offered, his hand finally leaving the small of your back after lingering for a moment longer than it needed to.
God, he really was a gentleman. That smile seemed to be etched perfectly into your face until your eyes glanced at your teammates in front of you, and the jerseys all bearing their last names hanging from their shoulders.
“Fuck,” Bob glanced over at you as you groaned, rubbing at your face. “I left my fucking jersey back at the apartment. Mav is going to kill me.”
Barely a second later, Bob’s jersey was bunched up in his hands as he presented it out toward you as you walked. Your eyes shot open as you looked at him, shaking your head, but his grin only widened.
“Take mine-”
“Bob, Mav specifically told us to wear our jerseys tonight, he’s going to be pissed at you if you don’t have yours on,”
“He’ll go easy on me, it’s fine,” he tried to assure you, lips quirking up slightly more into a smirk. “He’s still pissed about that argument you and Hangman had mid-flight the other day, he won’t go easy on you.”
Part of you wanted to argue, but there was something in the look in Bob’s eyes and the flutter it sent through your chest that had you taking the jersey from him without another word.
The first thought that ran through your mind was that it was bigger, much bigger than your own jersey that was still bunched up on your bed. You were trying desperately not to think about the fact that those biceps you found yourself distracted by almost every night you guys were at the Hard Deck, in civilian clothes or in your khaki uniforms, had been hugged by this fabric just moments prior.
The second thought was the smell; unmistakably his cologne. Bob never tended to wear a ton of it, but you’d been in close proximity enough to him to pick up on it over the last few months. Cypress, a woody smell that felt like the definition of lying in nature, surrounded by pine trees, and a hint of bayberry, another woody scent that brought a hint of sweetness to the smell.
The final thought that crossed your mind the second it was slipped over your shoulders completely was the fact that you were, quite literally, wearing his name on your back. When you’d turned to look at him again, breathless just from the idea, you swore you could see his pupils almost darken just a touch as he licked at his lips, his eyes flickering away from the back of the jersey and to your face again.
“Thanks,” you’d managed to speak as it felt like heat was coursing straight through your veins. Bob nodded, and you couldn’t help but notice the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“Of course,” the lower tone to his voice had parts of your body that you were not willing to think about in public practically aching with the need to touch him. “It looks good on you.”
Bob could’ve meant the jersey looked good on you, or he could’ve meant the name ‘Floyd’ looked good on you, but boy, were you hoping he meant the latter. Unfortunately, you’d already made it to the home plate entrance without even realizing it, and Maverick didn’t look particularly happy with how long he’d been kept waiting while Penny chatted with the woman from the front office there to lead you through the ballpark.
“I said we needed to be on the field by 3:45, that didn’t mean show up at the gate at 3:40,” Maverick shot at the group, before his eyes found Bob hiding in the back next to you. “Bob…push-ups after the next round of training, I said everyone needed to wear their jerseys today. We’ll discuss how many later.”
The eyes of every single one of your friends seemed to shoot back to both of you. Judging by the smirks on everyone’s faces, they all knew for a fact that you hadn’t been wearing your jersey when you’d all left and Bob had been.
“It’s nice to see you’re all here!” the woman from the front office greeted them all, and you were mentally thanking her for saving you from an embarrassing confrontation with your team. “We’re on a time crunch now, so please quickly follow me so I can get you guys to the field before the opening ceremony begins…”
As you all followed her through the gates of the ballpark and down toward one of the sections that would allow you access to the field, Hangman fell back into step beside you and Bob for just a moment. He leaned in, lips barely grazing your ear so he could speak only to you.
“Step two was to somehow get you in his jersey, but you both beat me to it. At this rate, you’ll be fucking by the fourth inning-”
You attempted to land a punch to Jake’s shoulder, cheeks blaring red, but he’d dodged it with a laugh, falling back into step ahead of you with Natasha and Coyote. It took everything in you to avoid killing him, or looking at Bob, as you made your way through the crowd of Padres fans toward the field.
“So,” Bob chimed in after a moment, his hand catching onto your forearm lightly and tugging you to his side before an already drunk older man could spill his beer on you. “You ever been on a professional field before?”
“Once, back in high school,” you answered him, cheeks still burning as Bob’s hand didn’t leave your arm, keeping you at his side as you squeezed through the crowd of the sold-out, late afternoon game. “Globe Life Field, it’s where the Rangers play. We took a field trip, got to see behind the scenes, and take photos out on the field.”
“I assume there wasn’t a huge crowd of almost 40,000 when you were on the field, though,”
“Not in the slightest,” you laughed, glancing back over to Bob as he laughed with you, though you could hear the nerves in his voice. You raised your hand, placing it over his on your arm with a little squeeze of comfort. “Don’t worry, it’ll be just fine. We just have to stand, listen to ‘God Bless America,’ watch Mav hopefully not mess up the first pitch after the National Anthem, and then we can go enjoy the game.”
Your reassurance seemed to do the trick as you walked through the gate at the end of section 114 and onto the field. The woman who had walked you down was positioning you all in a line around home plate, telling you each where to stand, while entertaining whatever it was that Hangman seemed to be animatedly telling her. You watched as she seemed to think something over for a moment, her eyes flickering toward you, before it looked like she agreed with whatever Jake had said, getting a fist bump out of him.
When you met his eyes with raised eyebrows, he’d only sent you a wink and took his place in line beside you.
Though your squad had just barely made it to the field on time, things had gone off without a hitch. The stadium announcer had introduced your squad to the crowd for Navy Appreciation Night with thunderous applause from the sold-out stadium. The local man singing both ‘God Bless America’ and the National Anthem was perfect and got his own standing ovation. Maverick’s ceremonial first pitch…could’ve been better, given how far in the left-hander’s batters box it ended up. You were all thankful that Penny was standing off to the side to get it on video for blackmail at some point.
“Section 116, row D,” Maverick informed the entire group once everyone was off the field, crowded back near the concessions as the first pitch of the game was thrown, and the Padres versus Mets game was officially underway. “Penny and I will go find seats, one of you bring us back a nice tray of nachos!”
Nat was quickly swept up by Hangman, Rooster, and Coyote, dragged off in the direction of one of the local pizza shops that were set up within the park, while Payback and Fanboy darted in the direction of a local beer company not far from that pizza joint.
“Well, baby-on-board,” you teased, spinning around to stand in front of him with a grin. “Ready to have some real ballpark food?”
Bob laughed, hand once again finding the small of your back even though there was a much small amount of people littering the walkway now that the game was underway, and he set you down a grin that had you ready to kiss him on the spot.
“I’m ready for the full experience, flower,”
That’s how, barely a minute later, you had Bob over at one of the self-serve food stations as you loaded your arms with food. A giant tray of nachos with cheese for Mav and Penny, two footlong hot dogs for yourself and Bob, and two comically large waters balanced on top. Bob was laughing again, trying to hold you steady so you didn’t drop any of the food on the way over to the checkout area.
“The footlong hot dogs are a necessity at any ballpark you visit- don’t laugh at me!” more laughter bubbled out of you as Bob shook his head with a grin, taking items out of your arms and scanning them through the self-checkout. “I’m giving you the true baseball experience, including the over-priced food. Nachos are a staple, too, Mav has good taste. And we can’t forget the water, this San Diego sun is brutal.”
Bob picked up the small packet of peanuts still left in your hands, shaking it with a raised eyebrow in your direction.
“And peanuts?”
“Another ballpark classic…I also know how much you love them, you’re always eating them at the Hard Deck,”
He looked at you for another moment, his smile almost visibly softening, before he shook his head and turned back to the checkout in front of you both.
“God, you’re adorable,”
You weren’t sure Bob had meant to say that as loudly as he did, given the flush crawling up his neck directly after, but he had. And that simple statement had you frozen in place, just watching him as he paid for the food without a complaint. Even as you both moved to the condiment station, slathering ketchup and mustard over both of your hot dogs before gathering the supplies and heading toward your seats, that little comment had you almost on autopilot.
“Finally, you two missed the entire first inning!”
It was Bradley’s voice that finally shook you awake. It was true, the Mets had gone down easily in three batters, just as the Padres did, and the second inning was already well under way. With a fake laugh, you shot Bradley the middle finger that had everyone laughing, before passing the nachos off to Maverick and moving toward the final seats in your row for your team.
They’d shoved you and Bob off on the end of the row toward the middle, placing you right between Coyote and whatever random group had unfortunately been stuck beside you all.
“Okay, I feel like I have to see what’s so damn good about these things now,” Bob announced one you both were seated, leaning over to ‘clink’ his hot dog off the side of your own with a shared laugh with you. You held off on your own, simply watching him and the way his face contorted slightly after a single bite. “It’s…it’s not terrible, but I think I’ve had better just from Bradley on the grill. Not worth the price.”
“No, but you’re paying for the experience,” you reminded him with another giggle. Ketchup and mustard were plastered to the side of Bob’s face from that one bite alone as you grabbed one of the napkins from his lap, reaching up to wipe it away. “Game has barely started, and you’re making a mess of yourself, Floyd.”
It wasn’t until you locked eyes with him that you froze, realizing how intimate a position that simple action put you both in. Just barely a few inches away from one another, close enough that you could see the faint smudges on the lenses of his glasses and study the exact shade of blue his eyes were. Close enough to, once again, watch the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, to get a glimpse of that flush in his cheeks that never seemed to leave. Your throat went dry instantly, but you couldn’t look away. Your tongue darted out to lick at your lips, and for once, you didn’t miss the way Bob’s eyes darted down to the action, lingering on your lips for a moment longer than needed, before finding your eyes again. It was hard to miss the way his pupils dilated the second they met your eyes again, or even the slight catch in your breath at that action.
“Hey! Didn’t Mav say something about acting professional today? Ballpark is no place to be eye-fucking each other, you two,”
If Hangman interrupted another moment with Bob today, you were personally going to bury him in the ground. His mother would forgive you; she loved you. Even so, you tore yourself away from Bob and the ruined moment, focusing on the game as you sent a blind middle finger down the row toward him as Mav lectured him about swearing with children around while the others laughed at the antics.
The game managed to go off without another comment from Hangman for a few innings. It was an evenly matched game, for the most part, both the Padres and Mets having some errors that led to runs that shouldn’t have been scored. At one point, on a blown-out call at second base, you jumped from your seat, screaming at the umpires just like many in the stadium were. When they’d finally set it off for review and corrected the call you returned yourself to your seat, shooting Bob a sheepish smile as he watched you in amusement.
“Sorry…grew up going to games with my dad, and with Jake. I get a little intense sometimes when they don’t call things right,”
Bob smiled and seemed to hesitate for just a moment before he stretched his arm over the back of your chair, his fingertips just barely brushing over your shoulder as he focused back on the game.
“It’s okay…it’s cute, seeing you all passionate,”
Bob Floyd was, once again, driving you insane. This time, you had no idea if he realized he was or not.
By the seventh inning stretch and a crowd performance of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’, your group had participated in three rounds of the wave, Coyote, Payback, and Fanboy had gotten up and given a fantastic rendition of Sweet Caroline along with the crowd that had gotten them projected onto the scoreboard. And Bob? His arm never moved from it’s place, and every so often he’d lean over toward you to mutter a question about the game right into your ear.
“Wait,” he’d leaned over for another question, and you could feel his breath ghost over the shell of your ear. It was hard to tell if you were hot because of the sun or because of Bob’s proximity at this point. The seventh inning had just ended with an out on the Padres runner at first, and they were slowly transitioning over into the eighth inning. “Why did the Mets throw to first to get that runner out when there was a guy on second?”
Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the scoreboard in left field. It’s time for the Petco Park eighth inning…KISS CAM!
“It wasn’t a forced out,” you explained to Bob, ignoring the cheers of the crowd over whatever announcement had just been made as you pointed toward the field to explain. “Since there was only a runner on second, he’s not forced to move because there’s no one behind him. If they want to get him out, they have to tag him with their glove and the ball.”
“So why not do that?” Bob questioned, glancing away from you and toward the scoreboard as the crowd continued to go wild, and you continued to explain.
“It’s not a guarantee that they’ll get him. With only two innings left, plus the score being tied, you want to throw down the runner on first and give yourself the best chance of an out. You want to end that inning as soon as possible, and while the runner is already in scoring position at second base, his chances of scoring increase greatly if he reaches third base, and you give him a chance to do so if you don’t get that runner at first out-”
“U-Uh…Peony?”
You glanced at Bob as he interrupted your explanation, tilting your head quizically at him. He glanced back at you, eyes wide and jaw slack as he pointed to the scoreboard, and you finally followed his gaze.
The Kiss Cam, broadcasted right on the scoreboard for the entire park to see. And the camera? Centered directly on you and Bob.
In a rush, the cheering of the entire stadium came straight back to you as you and Bob sat frozen in your seats, just staring at the screen as the camera stayed locked on you both. You spared a glance down the line at your friends, you squad, and they were all on their feet cheering for you both. Even Maverick and Penny were cheering.
“KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS!”
The entire stadium was cheering and chanting, and it didn’t look like the camera centered just a few rows down from you both was leaving anytime soon. At least, not without what it came for.
Slowly, you turned back to Bob, eyes still wide and words caught in your throat. He was still leaning in toward you, arm still on the back of your chair. But there was a smile on his lips; nervous, but with a faint hint of something else in the quirked edges. Something that felt a lot, in your head, like hope.
You? You were terrified, but knew that you had to make a split-second decision, one that could potentially change everything…for the better or worse.
But one more second looking at those gorgeous blue eyes, or at the way his tongue peeked out to just run over his bottom lip, had you mumbling ‘fuck it.’
Your hand wound around the back of his neck before you could stop yourself, tugging the handsome WSO closer and brushing your lips against his like you had dreamed of for months.
Even though the cheers around the stadium, practically from your friends, got louder in that moment, it was all drowned out in your own ears the second you had Bob Floyd’s lips on yours.
Gentle, polite, even a little unsure at first, was what that kiss felt like. Just the smallest touch, but the biggest leap over that blurry friendship-or-more line you’d been dancing along for so long. But the feeling, the softness of his lips, the leftover taste of vanilla chapstick, and the fluttering in your chest had your hand gripping his neck just the slightest bit harder, tugging him closer as your other hand grabbed onto the armrest between you both as if to keep you grounded. That seemed to be all Bob needed to respond in kind.
His hand left the chair behind you, curling around your shoulder to hold you as close as he could, given the awkward positioning the ballpark seats allowed. You swallowed the groan that left Bob’s lips almost involuntarily with your own mouth as his hand gripped your shoulder as tightly as it could for just a moment. While at once it was gentle and unsure, those insecurities were long gone. Bob’s lips moved against you clumsily, desperately, just trying to memorize the feel of your lips against his.
As quick as it had happened, it ended. The cheering stopped, the camera disappeared, and you and Bob pulled away from one another. A simple kiss, no more than five seconds, broadcasted for the entire stadium to see, but it had wrecked you. Inside and out, that mere moment had solidified that you were hopelessly in love with Bob Floyd, and there was no one else you’d rather be in love with. And, given the blown pupils, the heavy breathing, and the flush etched into Bob’s skin, you were praying it had solidified the same thing for him, too.
“And THAT, Dagger Squad, is how you finally get two brick walls of human beings to figure their shit out!”
You didn’t want to look away from Bob, not at all, even as the baseball game before you finally resumed play for the eighth inning. But you stole a glance behind you to Hangman as he leaned over everyone, ignoring his lecture about swearing from Maverick again, shooting you a wink as the rest of the squad looked toward you and Bob happily.
“The office worker, when you were talking to her earlier…did you plan the kiss cam?”
“I told you I had a foolproof plan for tonight, and it worked! Operation Peob can officially be labeled a success, in my eyes. At least, partially,”
“Operation Peob?”
Your attention was brought back to Bob as he asked that question, a dopey smile on his lips as his fingers kneaded into your shoulder comfortingly. You breathed out a laugh, hang sliding from his neck to rest over his chest, right on top of his dog tags like you’d thought about so many times before.
“Hangman’s terrible nickname for his plan to…get us together,” you dug your phone out, flashing him the groupchat from earlier as he let out a breathy laugh at the contents of the messages. “Nat was in on it, too.”
“Guess, she was playing double agent, then,” Bob dug his own phone out, opening another group message and flipping the phone toward you to read with a grin.
There was nothing you could do, nothing you needed to do, after seeing those messages besides laugh. Bob laughed with you, your forehead falling against his forearm as you both shook with laughter, the game behind you on the field long forgotten.
“Well, if there’s one thing I know for certain now, it’s that our friends suck at coming up with ship names,” you pointed toward his phone incredulously. “I don’t know what’s worse, Peob or Boney!”
“Boney is at least a word, I’d argue that Peob is worse. Given that Hangman came up with it, too, it makes sense,”
You laughed again, before finding yourself just completely lost in those blue eyes you’d fantasized about for so long. Bob was looking at you, too, as if lost in a daze where the only thing he could see was you. That dopey smile that refused to leave his lips was sending yet another flutter through your chest and heat to places that you didn’t need to be thinking about in public.
“So…how long?”
It was Bob’s turn to pause, thinking over your question. His arm moved from the back of your chair as your hand slid off his chest. His hand, though, only found a home right on the skin of your thigh, exactly where you’d wanted it to rest just hours ago. The feel of his skin on such a sensitive part of your body, the pressure of his grip into the muscle under his hand, had another bolt of heat shooting down your spine as your body leaned into his touch, practically begging to be touched by him.
“The first time we met, at the Hard Deck. Hangman was being a dick to me, as he so often can be, and you took his ego down with a single story from your middle school dance. I knew the second you did that…that I was utterly fucked. It only took Phoenix and Rooster a day to figure it out, too,”
If it were possible to love him more, you did in that moment. Your hand came to rest on top of his, squeezing it as the crowd cheered for the home run that had just been hit by Xander Bogaerts. Your entire attention was on Bob, though, just as his was on you.
“I realized it after the bird strike, even though I think I was already feeling something before that. To see you all scratched up, to not know if you were okay until we got to the hospital, and then the way I just broke down crying when I saw you…it was hard to ignore after that,”
Bob’s smile only widened, giving your leg an affectionate squeeze.
“We wasted a lot of time being too scared to do something about this, didn’t we?”
“We did,” you gave him a small nod, thumb tracing circles onto the back of his hand as he gave you another squeeze. “Why did you never tell me?”
“Well, at first, I was sure that you and Hangman were a thing,” he couldn’t contain his laughter as you let out a fake gag at the thought. “Trust me, after one day of training with you guys, I realized that was ridiculous. After that, we became friends, and…I got nervous. You made me nervous, like, beyond comprehension. Still do. I tried sometimes to make it obvious, with the flowers on your birthday or when I’d ask if you wanted to get dinner.”
“And to think, I was just complaining to Jake and Nat this morning that those little moments were driving me insane,” you laughed at yourself, letting your head come to rest on his shoulder as you let your eyes focus back on the ending of the game. “I was nervous, too, you know. That’s why I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”
There was silence between you both for a moment, just the cheers of the crowd around you, before Bob’s lips pressed to your hairline. In that moment, you were cursing yourself for not having said something sooner, for depriving yourself of being Bob Floyd’s for as long as you had.
“I’d wait again if it meant I got you in the end,”
Even in a crowded stadium, it was like you and Bob had found yourselves nestled into your own little world. As the game ended and the crowd dispersed to the streets, your group waiting until you were some of the last few to leave, you still stayed wrapped up in one another. Bob’s hand easily found yours as your fingers intertwined with one another on instinct, tying yourselves to each other as you moved with your friends out of the stadium. While the snide comments from the team thrown back your way had both of you blushing, neither of you dared to let go of one another.
The second you hit the streets outside of the stadium, fully able to observe the fast-setting sun, Hangman was leading the charge around the stadium in the direction of the bar he had mentioned hitting up after the game. He was met with no protests from the group, everyone wanting to celebrate the Padres' 8-6 win in the ninth, and also the ‘culmination of months of pining’ as they’d all glanced back toward you and Bob in the back of the group.
That’s where you both stayed in a comfortable silence with one another, simply watching your friends act like absolute psychos on the sidewalk in front of you. Bob placed himself closest to the road again without even asking, your hands never unlinking as they swung between you both.
“So, since we already kind of beared our souls to each other in those uncomfortable ballpark seats,” your smile only grew at the laugh Bob couldn’t help but let slip over your comment. “Where…does that leave us?”
He glanced over with that adorable smile, the one that was making you weak in the knees, and brought your hand up to his lips to leave a gentle kiss right to your skin.
If he wasn’t careful, you were going to get arrested for jumping his bones in the middle of the downtown sidewalk. Bystanders be damned, your need for this man was outweighing just about every single rational thought you had.
“This leaves us at me needing to take you out on a date like a proper gentleman, first,” was his response, letting your hands fall back down between you both. Your eyes didn’t leave the side of his stupidly handsome face, and your mind couldn’t help but wander to those late night thoughts that invaded your mind about him, or the way that white t-shirt looked entirely too good on him right now, or how you wanted to just grab him by the dog tags and tug him closer-
“Does being a proper gentleman mean you won’t fuck me before the first date, too?”
As your cheeks reddened, eyes quickly turning back to your friends ahead of you, you decided that you were going to blame Jake for that little outburst. How was it his fault? No idea, but you’d been blaming things on him since you were a child, so why not continue that trend into adulthood.
There was a yank on your hand, your body spinning until it collided with Bob, who had stopped right in the middle of the almost empty sidewalk. It didn’t take a second for your eyes to meet his, and you swore you could feel your knees wobble just at the look in his eyes: pupils blown and a heat dancing through them. He looked as if he wanted to devour you here, in the middle of the sidewalk, and the feeling was mutual. His large hand slid around your waist to your lower back, dipping under his jersey and barely pulling your tank top up so that his hand could rest against your bare skin. You knew in that moment that you must look absolutely wrecked.
“Yeah, a proper gentleman would at least buy you dinner first,” his tone had dropped incredibly low, a sound that nearly stopped your heart, and his grip right on your hip tightened. “But my patience is wearing a bit thin, especially when you’ve got my name sprawled across your back.”
“Well,” with your hands lying against his chest, you allowed your fingers to curl around his dog tags just like you’d thought about so many times today, tugging him toward you with a smirk on your lips. “Guess it’s a good thing my patience is wearing thin, too.”
Bob’s smile quirked up as he leaned in, just as you leaned up to him- until two arms wrapped around your waist and practically tore you from Bob’s arms, landing you over a broad shoulder with a yelp.
“Baby-On-Board, Peony! I expected more from you two!” Seresin. Of course fucking Jake Seresin had to ruin everything again, holding you over his shoulder like a scolded child as he let out a ‘tsk.’ “Public displays of affection can make people very uncomfortable!”
“Jake, you’re going to be lucky if you ever step foot in an F-18 again when I’m done with you,” there was murderous intent in your tone as he turned on his heel, continuing the walk toward the bar with a laughing Penny, Mav, Coyote, and Payback surrounding you both. You hit him once on the back with your fist, not that it did anything to him, before speaking just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re the one who was bitching at me to get laid!”
“Not in the middle of the damn sidewalk, though, little flower,”
“I wasn’t going to fuck him on Park Boulevard, but damn, at least let me kiss him! This is what you wanted!”
“Step one was the legs, step two was the jersey, step three was the kiss cam, and now welcome to step four: more tension. Have some faith in me, and our little baby-on-board is going to be begging to fuck you before you’ve even had a drink,”
You grumbled something along the lines of ‘castrating’ him before accepting that he wasn’t going to put you down anytime soon, at least not until you got to the bar. Resting your chin against your hand popped against Jake’s shoulder, you couldn’t help but smile as you watched Bob. Rooster was at his side, arm slung around his shoulder as he muttered something that had a blush coating your WSO’s cheeks, Phoenix and Fanboy laughing beside him. When Nat met your eyes, a smirk crawled across her own face.
“Comfortable up there, Peony?”
“Just peachy, Nat. Trying to calculate how hard I have to swing my leg in this position to take away Jake’s ability to breed,”
With more laughter from the group, your eyes found Bob’s, and he was already looking at you with the softest smile you’d ever seen that had your heart racing like it always did around him. Annoying friends or not, as long as he kept looking at you like that, you’d put up with it all.
By the time Hangman had trekked all the way around the stadium and across Gallagher Square to the sports bar he wanted to visit, the sun had set. The inside was already packed from what you could gather through the windows as Jake finally set you back down on your feet.
“We’ll go get a tab started,” Coyote announced, most of the group following in after him. Jake nodded in his direction, holding the door open for your group as he glanced down at you with a smirk. Your glare hadn’t softened at all toward your best friend.
“You ever pull that shit again, and I will tell the story about how you fell off your horse when you were eight,”
“Damn, pulling out the deep cuts,” his tone was indifferent, the cocky bastard just choosing to shoot you a smirk and a wink as he stepped inside the bar door as well. “It’s packed in here, go see if there’s some outdoor seating.”
Yeah right, like you gave a shit what Jake wanted at that point.
An arm snaked it’s way around your waist, hand resting against your stomach as a pair of lips you were slowly growing accustomed to the feeling of pressed to the side of your head. You didn’t hesitate to lean back against Bob, craning your neck to look him in the eyes as he smirked down at you.
“Enjoy your ride?”
You huffed, elbowing him lightly with no malice what-so-ever.
“No, especially when there’s another man I’d rather ride,”
Even as your cheeks flushed at your own confident statement, you didn’t look away from Bob, giving you a full view of the way his eyes darkened at the comment. He glanced to the bar entrance, before behind you both, before his hand wrapped itself around yours and tugged.
“Come on,”
The bar did have an outdoor patio, but given the raging humidity still in the San Diego air as night time set in, everyone at the bar had opted to sit inside with the air conditioning. Bob wasn’t stopping at the patio, though, guiding you around the bar tables and out past the patio to the secluded section behind the bar, hidden from the main walkways with trees blocking the view in from Gallagher Square.
Nervous giggles left you in those moments once you were well and truly along, just barely illuminated by the string lights hanging on the patio just a few feet away. Those giggles ceased, your breath catching, as Bob stalked toward you as if he was the hunter and you were the prey, backing you up until your back was flush with the brick wall of the building covered in darkness.
Then, he was on you.
It’s hot, its messy–its the kiss of two people who have been starving to get their hands on one another for months. You practically unravel, putty in Bob Floyd’s hands, those same hands that are caressing up your bare thighs and to your waist then back down once again, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Your fingers were threaded through hsi sandy blonde hair, tugging at the strands with every movement of his lips against yours and every swipe of his tongue just along the edge of your own, leaving his taste lingering in your mouth as you craved more.
One of his hands trailed down the back of your left thigh, gripping into the flesh and tugging it up around his waist, holding it there as he ground his hips toward your core as a breathless moan tumbled from your lips.
“I-In the interest of, uh–oh god–of putting it all out there,” you barely managed to get your words out, fingers tightening their grip in Bob’s hair as his lips trailed across your jawline and down your neck, nipping just enough at the skin that there were sure to be little marks left in the morning. “You…you realize I’m hopelessly in love with you, right?”
“I hope so, because I-I’m in love with you, too,” breathy, wrecked Bob Floyd was testing every ounce of your patience left, his words ghosting over your neck as he nipped at your skin once more, accentuating it with another roll of his hips. “If we’re being completely honest, then…can I say something?”
“As long as you don’t stop touching me,”
His laughter vibrated against your skin, his lips trailing back up your neck until they hovered right in front of your own, giving you the perfect view of his lust blown gaze. If you even had breath left to catch, it did, as the hand on your waist moved to the front of your jean shorts, fingers just barely dipping past the waistline and ghosting over the skin of your lower stomach.
“These shorts,” he snapped them back against your skin, the other hand still holding your thigh tight around his waist squeezing tightly for just a moment. “Have been killing me for hours. The legs on my lap? Nice play by Hangman, I’ll admit. You’ve been driving me insane for hours.”
“You think seeing those biceps and forearms in this t-shirt hasn’t been driving me insane?” your gaze flickered to said shirt and dog tags before returning to his eyes. “But…just hours?”
“No, for months,” he was quick to counter, leaning in an stealing another bruising kiss from you, barley pulling back so that his lips still brushed yours as he spoke. “When it’s hot out on the tarmac and you unzip your flight suit, and I can see the sweat dripping down your chest. Today, wearing my name on your back like it’s your own. But the one that never leaves me…when we all went up to the the Mission Beach Boardwalk. You wore that little maroon sundress, the one that barely comes to your knees. And I don’t know why, maybe you wanted to kill me o-or maybe it was one of Hangman and Phoenix’s stupid plans, but you didn’t wear bike shorts that day. You bent over to look at something in one of the shops, and I saw them clear as day: pink, lacy, covered in flowers, and barely covering an inch of your skin. I haven’t stopped thinking about them since.”
Desire coursed through every inch of you at his words, at the memory of that day. To know that Bob really did think of you in the same depraved way that you did him only had your want–your need–for him increasing tenfold.
The ghost of a smirk crossed your lips as one of your hands left his hair. He watched it as your fingers trailed over his shoulders, down his bicep as your nails dug into the skin just slightly, down his forearm as your nails traced his veins, before settling over the hand still gripping to your shorts. Hooking a finger around his, you dipped it fully below the waistline of your jeans as you heard his breath catch, looping it around the edge of your panties and tugging them upwards until they were just barely visible: pink, lacy, and covered in flowers.
“It’s a matching set,” you whispered in a sultry tone, his eyes finally finding their way back to yours with a newfound heat in them, and you swore you could see a thin layer of fog overtake the lenses of his glasses. Leaning in just barely, you caught his lower lip between your teeth, biting just barely enough for a groan to elicit from somewhere deep in his chest, another shot of heat going straight to your core, espeically as his hips once against ground forward as if they had a mind of their own, and there was no mistaking the size of the rigid bulge pressing against you now. “Guess it’s your lucky day, Floyd.”
“It will be when you’re finally under me,”
“You’ve got me pressed up against a wall,” you managed to joke breathlessly, hand finding it’s way back up to his hair. His fingers stayed dipped past the waistline of your shorts, slowly finding their way around to the back, his whole hand almost dipping lower now as the heat of his hand spread out across your entire ass, squeezing just hard enough for you to stutter out another gasp against his lips. You felt his lips curl into a smirk at the sound. “I-Isn’t that good enough?”
“Baby, I’m not fucking you against a wall with our Captain probably thirty feet away. No, when I finally get to fuck you, I’m taking my time until you’re ruined,”
Yeah, fuck anyone on this team that joked that Bob Floyd must have been vanilla in bed, or that he’d be awkward and stutter his way through any sexual encounter. He had you willing to put your entire career on the line for a misdemeanor just to finally feel him like you did in your dreams.
“Damn…I leave you two alone for ten minutes and baby-on-board looks like he’s two seconds from whipping it out,”
Jake Seresin was a dead man. Worse than a dead man, not that you even knew what could be worse, but the second you could get your hands on him you were going to strangle him. Or beat him. Or hold a pillow over his face until he finally stopped breathing and you never had to hear hid stupid voice again.
Your head fell to Bob’s shoulder, hands still wound in his hair and refusing to leave. He let out a soft, but you could tell embarrassed, chuckle against the side of your head, the hand on your ass slipping back to your waist, his other hand finally letting your leg drop back to the ground.
“Something you need, Bagman?”
“Was just seeing if my hunch was right and you two wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off one another,” you tilted your head against Bob’s shoulder in order to fully look at your best friend, your death glare doing nothing to deter his smirk and wink. “As usual, I was right, given that you were well on your way to a misdemeanor. I think you two should be thanking me, this is all thanks to my brilliant foolproof plan for the day-”
“Seresin, I know you like hearing yourself talk, but if you interrupt me one more time I’m going to ride Bob right in front of you just to make sure you’re scarred for life,”
It was Bob’s turn to laugh, squeezing your waist gently with another kiss to the side of your head. Jake’s smirk only widened as he took his hand out of his pants pocket, tossing something in your direction. You let one of your hands leave Bob’s hair to catch what he’d thrown, both you and Bob looking down at your hand: Jake’s truck keys.
“No scratches, that’s all I ask. And no sex in the truck,” Jake sent another wink in your direction, shuffling backward toward where he’d come from. “Rooster is designated driver, Phoenix and I will just squeeze in with them. I’m sure I can keep them busy here for three…maybe four hours, if that’s enough time for you jackrabbits to get rounds 1 through 5 out of your systems. Just wrap it, please, I don’t feel like calling your mom and informing her that you’re pregnant anytime soon.”
You and Bob could only stare at the place in which Jake had just been standing for a moment in shock, trying to process what had just occurred. Then, you laughed, spinning the keys around in your hand.
“He’s a dick, but I guess he’s a good wingman…at least on the ground. Remind me to thank him-”
Bob’s hand was on your chin, tugging your face back to him as his lips moved headily against yours, swallowing the moan you didn’t even try to suppress as that bulge nudged against your thighs once more. Lust, love, adoration, need, it was all prevalent in the heated kiss as Bob pulled away, hot breath ghosting over your lips.
“Thank him later. I’ve waited long enough to fuck you, flower,”
description: in which there is only one pilot you trust to bring your husband home safely
warnings: mentions of death, brief allusion to mental health struggles, angst with a happy ending, mentions of pregnancy, military/navy inaccuracies
pairing: robert "bob" floyd x wife!reader, platonic natasha "phoenix" trace x reader
notes: this story touches on the aftermath of the bird strike that phoenix and bob went through. i thought it would be interesting to explore what phoenix's feelings might have been after the fact, and show just how much she cares about bob. i didn't expect this to go anywhere but an entire fic was born from the idea, much to my surprise
Natasha’s hands were shaking.
She hadn’t even realized they were, until the ever-observant Bob pointed it out. She looked down, and sure enough, there was a tremor. Annoyed at his observation, she folded her arms and tucked her hands under them.
Bob only shook his head, bracing himself on his elbows so he could fully look at her. “You’re thinking too loud,” he mused, “I feel like I can hear what’s going through your mind from here.”
“I’m fine.”
“We quite literally just hurtled through the sky to our deaths. You’re not fine, ‘Nix.”
“The hurtling through the sky thing isn’t what’s bothering me.”
“I know. My wife is what’s bothering you.”
Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, annoyed that, yet again, he was right. She let out a sigh when he raised his brows at her. “It’s just messed up that the first time I have to meet her is in the hospital after I almost killed her husband. Why couldn’t we have met over dinner at your house or something normal?!”
Bob shook his head. “She understands. She’s not—”
But Natasha cut him off. “Does she? Or are you just saying that?”
He wanted to roll his eyes, but he didn’t. He could see how much she was struggling with this.
Natasha had taken a liking to Bob from the moment they met. She took him under her wing, and he let her, because he was happy to have someone like her looking out for him. He didn’t talk about his personal life with any other squad members, save for telling Bradley a few details here and there. But with Natasha, he’d opened up to her about a lot more. Such as the fact that he had a wife and two children, not to mention another one on the way.
Though she’d never voiced it out loud, Bob knew that she felt obligated to protect him, solely because she wanted him to be able to come home safe and sound to his family. She didn’t want to be the reason his children had to grow up without a father. So she vowed to be damn good at her job and always bring him back safely.
Until today, when she almost failed at that. In her mind, at least. Bob didn’t view it as a failure whatsoever. She’d pulled out and they both made it to the ground with some run-of-the-mill bumps and bruises that came from having to eject from an aircraft that was spiraling through the sky. Neither of them had lost their life that day, and that was what mattered.
But Natasha couldn’t help but picture the way you must have felt to receive that phone call. She imagined your mind had immediately gone to the worst case scenario. And she would be right about that.
When your phone rang that day, you were at the park with your two small children. Henry, who was four, and Juliet, who was two. It had started out as a normal day. Bob had kissed you goodbye that morning, hugged the little ones, and headed out the door with the promise of being home for supper that evening.
You went about the day as usual, but when your phone began vibrating in your pocket as you were watching your little ones play on the playground, you pulled the device, and your heart sank when you recognized what number it was, by the area code.
Your hand shook as you pressed the phone to your ear, only to hear the words, “is this Mrs. Robert Floyd?”
You answered affirmatively, until you realized no sound came out, because your voice had failed you. So you cleared your throat and tried again. “This is she.”
You were prepared for your world to crumble. Prepared for the life-altering news, informing you that your sweet Robert was dead.
But to your utter, all-consuming relief, the person on the other end assured you that your husband was very much alive, albeit banged up from a bird strike that had forced him to eject from his aircraft.
“Thank God,” you breathed, placing a hand over your racing heart. “Can our children and I visit him?”
You were given the all-clear to visit, so you quickly gathered up your kids. Henry seemed to be on the verge of tears when you told him your park trip had to be cut short, but those tears quickly faded at the promise of seeing his father.
“Daddy got hurt at work, so we’re going to go see him at the hospital,” you assured the little boy, every bit the spitting image of Bob, complete with his own tiny pair of glasses.
“Did he need a Band-Aid?” Henry asked as you buckled him into his car seat.
You smiled at his innocence. “He needed a few of them I’m sure. You can ask him all about them when you see him.”
With the kids safely fastened into the car, you climbed into the driver’s seat and headed for the hospital. Your mind was racing as you drove, and you were thanking your lucky stars that Bobby was okay. It could have been so much worse, you knew. The thought of losing your husband was nearly unbearable. Especially when you imagined raising your little ones alone, or delivering your next babe without him.
He’d been very involved in the births of Henry and Juliet, and the thought of him being absent for the birth of the one you currently carried was not a thought you wanted to entertain.
Of course, you knew it was a possibility. Especially now, with him being summoned back to Top Gun for a high-profile mission that he wasn’t allowed to talk about. It could mean him leaving and never coming home again. But you chose not to dwell on that. Instead, you focused on the fact that he was alive here and now, thanks to the quick thinking of his pilot, Natasha Trace.
You hadn’t met the woman yet, but Bob spoke very highly of her. He informed you that she was always looking out for him, in the sky and on the ground, and just from what you’d heard, you had grown to admire her.
You would, of course, have to thank her when you saw her at the hospital. She deserved a thank you for bringing your husband home safely.
Until then, you were thrumming with anxiety, all too eager to be reunited with Bob, and see with your own two eyes that he was, in fact, okay. It felt as if you held your breath the entire drive to the hospital, and you didn’t let it out until you stepped foot in the room and saw your Bobby sitting upright in bed, usually neat hair falling in soft waves, a few loose strands across his forehead.
He looked up when you walked in, and his face lit up at the sight of you and his babies. “Oh, Bobby,” you breathed, immediately rushing to his side.
You wrapped your arms around him, and he hummed, instinctively placing a hand over your rounded belly. “I’m okay, darlin’,” he assured you.
You pulled back only to brush his hair from his forehead. “Thank goodness. You had me worried there for a minute.”
Two little faces peered up at him from beside you, both wide-eyed and very concerned for their father’s well-being. Bob reached out to take Henry’s small hand. “Hey, buddy.”
“Did you need lots of Band-Aids to help you feel better?” the little boy questioned.
Bob smiled softly. “Just a few. But I’m fine, I promise. Just got some bumps and bruises.”
You noticed a woman seated on the second bed in the room. She was beautiful, with dark hair and striking features. Even in a pair of sweatpants and a stark white shirt, she had an air about her that exuded a certain assuredness.
You offered her a smile, which she returned, but hers seemed a little forced. You wanted to say something to her, but you were interrupted by Henry asking if you could help him climb into his father’s bed.
While you helped both children up into the bed, Natasha took that as her moment to slip out of the room. Seeing Bob reunited with his family put everything into perspective for her, and she couldn’t bear to watch the scene any longer. Not when she could have been the reason those sweet children lost their father.
She rushed out into the hall, needing to be anywhere but that room. She walked so quickly the breeze from her movements blew her hair back over her shoulders. Finally, she found herself at the end of the hall, right by the window, where she decided she was going to remain until you left.
One particular instance kept replaying in her mind, like a record whose needle had slipped and kept skipping over one part of a song. It wasn’t the bird strike, or the fact that she and Bob had to eject. No, she kept replaying something Maverick had spoken to her just the other day, when he was grilling the team.
“Don’t tell me. Tell it to his family.”
When he said that, she could barely stand to look at Bob, who was seated right beside her, because she was afraid she’d cry. She had never been an overly emotional person, she always knew how to keep things in check. But for whatever reason, she was deeply affected by this.
Natasha already felt responsible for Bob’s safety, and she’d already known about his family. But the Captain’s words truly put it into perspective. While she was well acquainted with the risks their job presented, that didn’t mean she wasn’t allowed to worry about what might happen.
She wasn’t sure if she could face you. And if, God forbid, there ever came a time when she made it out of a situation alive and Bob didn’t, she knew she’d never forgive herself. It made her anxiety about the upcoming mission spike, because the stakes were so much higher. This wasn’t a training exercise. This was life or death.
“Get it together,” she hissed to herself as she gazed out of that hospital window. She was usually able to rationalize things in her mind. She remained cool and collected in most situations. But this time, she felt like she was spiraling out of control, and she hated it.
Back in Bob’s room, you looked at him curiously, questioning Natasha’s sudden departure. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of just how much to reveal.
“She…she’s struggling a little. She feels responsible for me.”
“Oh,” you quietly hummed in reply. “Maybe I should go talk to her.”
“Give her a few minutes to pull herself together,” he suggested. “I think she needs to be alone.”
You nodded thoughtfully, glancing after her retreating form. However, you soon turned your attention back to your family. Both little ones had nestled themselves against Bob, and he spoke to them softly, calming their worried little minds.
He was so good with them. He always knew how to soothe them, even from the time they were newborns. Sometimes they even preferred him over you for comfort. But you were okay with it, because it was truly a wondrous sight to witness.
“C’mere,” he told you, reaching for your hand.
You gave it to him, and let him pull you over to sit on the bed. He could see the faraway look in your eyes, so he reassured you. “I’m okay, I promise.”
“I know. I just…I’m glad you’re here. Glad you made it back safely.”
He smiled softly, though his baby blues were glimmering with unshed tears. “I’ll always come back to you, remember?”
You squeezed his hand. “I know, Bobby.”
His attention shifted back to your children, who held onto his every word as he described what had happened to him that day. He didn’t go into too much detail, but he explained it in a way that they could understand. That was another thing he was good at. He seemed to know the right thing to say to them at just the right time.
Despite the stress of the situation, a sense of peace fell over the room. That was just the way it was with your little family. Were there times when you and Bob had spats, or the kids misbehaved? Absolutely. But your family unit as a whole was tranquil, and it was something that you and your husband cherished. You wanted to give your children as calm of a life as possible, especially with the career their father had.
They already experienced enough in the form of moving from place to place and dealing with interruptions in their routines. Knowing their parents loved them, and each other, no matter what came their way, was the most important thing in the midst of it all.
But there, seated beside your husband in that hospital bed, you couldn’t help but allow your mind to wander to the woman who’d left the room. Who very clearly was grappling with something. And as you enjoyed the peace within your own little family, you felt the need to invite her to be part of it.
“I’ll be right back,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss Bob gently on the forehead. “The kids need a snack so I’m gonna grab something from the cafeteria. Do you want anything?”
“Just a ginger ale,” he replied with a smile, “the pain meds they gave me kind of made me feel nauseous.”
“You got it, babe.”
You slipped away, leaving your family in the room as you headed out into the hall. What you said wasn’t a lie, you really were heading to the cafeteria. But you planned to check on Natasha first.
As you stepped into the sterile, white hallway, you glanced around, hoping you’d easily find her. Sure enough, at the end of the hall, there was a window, and she was perched on the sill. You stood there a moment, debating your next move, before you finally began making your way toward her.
Natasha was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear you approach. Your voice made her jump, and her head lifted to look at you, brown eyes wide, and filled with so much emotion.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you assured her, holding your hands out in surrender. You then motioned to the window sill. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a bit?”
She was silent for a moment, and you feared she might turn you away, until she finally relented with a nod, moving over a little to give you space to sit beside her. As you did, you let out a soft sight, hoping to break the ice gently.
“I really should thank you for making sure Bobby made it back safely today.”
That was exactly what she was afraid you’d say. “Don’t thank me,” she whispered.
“But I feel like I should. It gives me such peace of mind to know that you’re up there with him. He tells me all the time just how great of a pilot you are, and–”
“Please, just stop.”
Her abruptness made you freeze, and you looked at her, concern written all over your features. When you realized she was crying, your heart ached for her. “I’m sorry, I overstepped. I’m sure you want your space still, so I’ll let you have it.”
But when you rose to leave, her hand came out to grab your wrist. “No, don’t leave,” she said, catching your gaze. “Truth is, I’m the one that should be apologizing. I’m not the hero you think I am. I…I hesitated up there, today. And when you’re flying, you don’t have time to hesitate. But I did, I thought I could save the aircraft, and I put your husband’s life in danger because I couldn’t just pull the ejection handle like I was supposed to, and I–”
“Natasha.”
She went quiet, lifting her tearful eyes to meet yours. You reached out to place your hand over her own. “It’s okay. None of that matters now. The important thing is that both you and Bob are alive. It could’ve been much worse.”
That’s what I’m afraid of! She wanted to exclaim. I’m terrified of it being so much worse. I’m terrified of being the reason you end up a widow! But Natasha wasn’t sure why she was so upset over this. She had years of training under her belt. She’d been prepared for situations like this. Even so, she was grappling with it now.
“I-I don’t mean to be cynical, but please don’t put your faith in me. I will do what it takes to bring me and Bob back home safely every time, but I’m not some master pilot who never makes mistakes. One day, I might…might mess up.”
You realized what this was all about, and you shook your head. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m putting unnecessary pressure on you.” You could slap yourself, really. “Natasha, I need you to know something. We only just met, but I can tell you have my husband’s back. I know you’re not perfect. I know you’re capable of making mistakes up there. And that’s okay. All I ask is that you be careful up there, for both your sakes.”
She took in a breath, closing her eyes for a moment. Her hands rested on the edges of the window sill, gripping tightly. “But what if I end up being the reason you lose your husband?”
“I won’t blame you for it.”
“Why do you say that?”
You let out a soft sigh, deciding to be candid with her. “Years ago, my dad was in a crash where his WSO died, but he survived.”
That got Natasha’s attention, and she lifted her head to look at you. She didn’t say anything, so you took that as your cue to continue.
“I saw what it did to him. He blamed himself for it, even though it was an accident.” You looked down at your hands, though your vision was blurred from the sudden wave of tears that surfaced in your eyes. Memories of that time were difficult to relive. “It really sent him on a downward spiral. He let it destroy his life. So, I say all that to say, I will not blame you if something should happen to Bob. I would never make you bear that burden. Not after seeing what that kind of guilt does to a person.”
Natasha nodded thoughtfully, letting your words sink in before she finally spoke again. “I’m sorry for dumping this on you. I don’t know why this has me so emotional.”
“You just went through a traumatic experience. It’s normal to be emotional, honey. I’d be concerned if you weren’t.”
“It’s just…I really care about Bob. So by default, I care about you, and your kids, even though I just met you. I just want to make sure I’m doing everything I actively can to bring him home to you.”
You reached out, placing your hand over her own. “Make sure you’re looking out for yourself, too. I want you both to come home safely. Bobby would be devastated if anything happened to you. And so would I, because his hurts are my hurts.”
She managed a smile, despite herself. “I’ll do my best,” she assured you.
“That’s all I could ever ask from you.” After a moment, you rose to your feet, giving Natasha a kind smile. “I’m going to head down to the cafeteria to get some food for my babes. Wanna come with me?”
She considered it before she stood. “I’d like that.”
Together, you headed to the elevator, bound for the cafeteria.
Natasha finally felt some peace wash over her after your conversation. She had been so deep into her head, expecting you to point your finger at her and berate her for putting Bob in danger. But you’d done nothing of the sort. You’d been warm and understanding. There hadn’t been a judgmental bone in your body. Although she was still struggling with what had happen, and she would always feel that heavy weight of responsibility for Bob, the sting was eased a little by your reassurance.
And she decided that instead of avoiding you like she initially had attempted, she was going to follow you back to that hospital room, and she was going to meet your sweet children, and get to know the people that Bob loved so deeply. She needed that wholesomeness after the events of the day. She hadn’t allowed herself to fully process it, as it was. She’d been too concerned about her backseater to focus on herself.
For now, however, she would find joy in the fact that she and Bob were okay.
So, she followed you down to the cafeteria, and she helped gather some things as you described what each of your children liked. Soon, with an armful of food and ginger ale, you both headed back upstairs.
When you made it back to the room, Bob looked up to see you walk through the door together, and he caught your gaze, offering a relieved smile at the sight of Natasha by your side. You must’ve gotten through to her, he thought.
“There you are, Momma!” Henry exclaimed. “You were taking forever!”
You smiled as you set everything down on the table. “I had to stop and talk to a friend, first,” you replied, leaning down to kiss him on the top of the head. Only Bob and Natasha caught what you truly meant.
“Hope you and this friend worked everything out,” Bob mused, glancing between you both.
Natasha smiled then, nodding her head as she glanced at you. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”
Bob felt himself relax at her admission. The tenseness she held in her shoulders had lessened, and there was a genuine smile on her face. Whatever you’d said to her had made a world of difference. He made a mental note to thank you later for taking the time to reach out to Natasha.
That evening, you all enjoyed a peaceful time in that hospital room. Natasha listened to the story of how you and Bob met, she got to know your children and their vastly different personalities, and she learned that you were expecting another baby girl, and that you hadn’t chosen a name yet.
Spending time with your little family was like a breath of fresh air, and by the time you left that night, Natasha felt a warmth in her chest. She could see how important you and your little ones were to Bob. You were his entire world, and he clearly cherished every moment he had with you. It reminded her that she needed to live in the present, and not spend so much time terrified over what the future might bring.
She watched you bid him goodnight before you left, and it brought a smile to her face.
You’d just gathered the kids up, after they’d given their father multiple hugs and kisses and begged him to read them a bedtime story. He made one up on the spot, about a brave fighter pilot and her WSO.
Then, he looked at you, blue eyes full of wonder, as if you’d set the very stars in the sky. He reached out for your hand, pulling you in to kiss you sweetly. His warm hand stroked over your cheek, and he let his forehead rest against your own. “I love you, sweetheart,” he earnestly said.
“Love you too, Bobby. Sleep well.”
As you ushered Henry and Juliet out the door, you turned to Natasha. “Goodnight. Take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will,” she assured you.
Satisfied with her answer, you finally left, and quietness filled the room again. Natasha let out a soft sigh, leaning back in her bed. She glanced over at Bob, and said, “your wife is something else.”
“Isn’t she?” He happily agreed.
Then, she fell serious, her brow furrowing. “I’m sorry for how I was acting earlier. I was just really in my head and this stupid fucking bird ordeal threw me for a loop. Which feels really stupid, because it could have been so much worse. But it just really messed up my head, for some reason.”
“Hey, it’s okay, ‘Nix. I get it. You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
“I’ve got your back, Bob. I want you to know that. No matter what happens in the sky, or on this mission, I’ve got you.”
He nodded. “I know you do.” There was no doubt in his mind.
All too soon, the events of the bird strike faded into the background, and it was back to business as usual once they were cleared to return to work. The pressure was on, and both Natasha and Bob threw themselves into doing the best that they could, preparing for what would likely be one of the most difficult missions of their lives.
Bob had a lot on his mind, which was clear to you when he came home to you each night. He was a numbers guy; he’d calculated the odds of this mission in his head, and he had a feeling that someone wasn’t making it back alive. Of course, he didn’t tell you this, but you already knew.
In the days leading up to that mission, you were a pillar of strength for Bob. He leaned on you for support, and you gave it all to him. He cherished every moment with you, no matter how scarce they were. And the night before he was to ship out, as you lay together in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, he whispered a promise against your skin.
“I’ll fight to make it back to you.”
“I know you will.”
The goodbye that followed was tearful. But they always were. Whenever he left, you always cried. And so did your babies. Especially Henry, who was beginning to finally grasp the idea that his father was going to be gone for a period of time.
Bob held you close, trying his best to keep his own tears at bay, only because he knew that if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. “I love you, darlin’. Always have, always will.”
“I love you too, Bobby. You come back to me, you hear? Come back to your babies.”
He nodded before he leaned in, hands coming up to delicately hold your face as he kissed you deeply, fervently. When he broke away, he bent to leave a kiss against your pregnant belly, before he squeezed your hands and knelt to bid goodbye to Henry and Juliet.
“I love you, buddy,” he told Henry, kissing the boy’s forehead. “You take care of your momma and sister, okay?”
“I’ll miss you, Daddy,” the boy tearfully confessed.
It broke Bob’s heart right in two. “I’ll miss you too.”
Then, he moved to craddle little Juliet in his arms. She began to cry as well, because she saw the tears her brother was shedding. It took everything in Bob to force himself to stand. He knew if he remained here, he’d never get on that aircraft carrier.
“Love you,” he said again, kissing you on the temple before he slipped away like a whisper in the wind.
You watched him walk away, but when you caught sight of Natasha nearby, you were quick to call out to her. She turned, surprised to find you approaching, your children in tow. When you finally reached her, you touched her hand.
“I just wanted to tell you to be careful. Bring both of you back home safely.”
She paused, smiling sadly before she nodded. “I’ll do my best,” she whispered.
“That’s all I ask,” you replied, repeating your words from that day at the hospital.
She allowed you to hug her before she finally set off toward the carrier. You stood there with your children and watched until your husband, and his front seater, were out of sight. Then, you turned around, heading back to your car, silently praying that the love of your life would return home safely.
You knew he was in good hands. Natasha would look out for him. And he, her.
The next several days were agonizing. Bob was radio silent, and your anxiety was through the roof. You did what you could to stay busy, and to keep the kids occupied. You tried your best not to let your worry rub off on them, but inevitably, it still did.
They felt the absence of their father, and they were both restless and more fussy than usual. But the three of you weathered through it, and eventually, there was light at the end of the tunnel.
When they were close enough to shore, Bob was able to call you. When you saw his contact light up your phone, you lept up from your chair to grab it, interrupting your quiet dinner with the children to receive the call.
“Bobby?!” You exclaimed as soon as you pressed the phone to your ear.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” he greeted. You could hear the smile in his voice.
“Oh, thank God. I’ve missed you so much.”
“I missed you too. I’m just calling to let you know I’m coming home.”
Your eyes blurred with tears of happiness, and you couldn’t hide the overjoyed smile that spread across your face. “Let me put you on speaker so the babies can hear.”
You hit the speaker option and brought the phone over to the table. “Say hi to Daddy!” You exclaimed. Henry’s little face lit up, and he jumped up from his seat, rushing to stand beside you and put his face by the phone.
“Hi Daddy!” He all but shouted into the receiver.
“Hey, buddy. I missed you!”
Juliet giggled at the sound of her father’s voice through the phone. It was a sweet moment to witness the excitement of your children. Bob continued on to assure them that he would be home very soon, and that he couldn’t wait to hold them in his arms and tell them bedtime stories.
Finally, you stepped away to finish the call privately. You found yourself in the hallway, listening to Bob speak. “I can’t talk for much longer, but I just want you to know that everybody’s okay. We all made it back in one piece.”
“That’s really, really good to hear,” you whispered in reply, relief evident in your voice.
He took in a breath before he continued. “I…I’ve gotta go, darlin’. But I’ll see you real soon, alright? I love you more than anything.”
“And I love you, Bobby.”
The line beeped, signaling that the call had ended, and you pulled your phone away from your ear, breathing out a sigh of utter relief. Your Bobby was coming home.
Sure enough, not long after that you were standing amidst a sea of people, eagerly awaiting your husband’s arrival. You were bouncing with happiness, unable to wipe your smile off your face. Around you, other sailors were reuniting with their loved ones, but you hardly cared about that. You just needed to find Bob.
It took a few moments, but finally, there he was. He looked a little worse for wear, but he was handsome as ever, and when his eyes landed on you, his face lit up into the most beautiful smile you’d ever seen. He took off at a jog, wanting to reach you as quickly as possible.
Once he did, his arms were around you, and you laughed with joy as he rocked you back and forth. “Oh, I missed you,” he gasped as he pulled back to kiss you. His eyes were shining with tears.
Abruptly, he dipped down, opening his arms to welcome his babies into a bear hug. He held them close to his chest, kissing the tops of their heads and whispering how much he’d missed them. You couldn’t stop your tears if you tried.
But while he was talking to Henry and Juliet, you spotted Natasha not too far away. Though you didn’t want to leave your family, you also knew you needed to speak with her. So you began to wave, calling her name.
She heard you over the hum of the crowd, and when she saw you, her face broke into a smile. She wasted no time in weaving through those around her, reaching you quickly.
“Welcome back!” You exclaimed. You reached out, pulling her into a hug, which she gratefully accepted.
While you stood there, arms around one another, she leaned close to your ear, and whispered, “I brought him back to you.”
You pulled back to look her fully in the face. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart,” you told her, your voice raw.
She nodded, too overwhelmed to say anything more. But she didn’t have to. The silence spoke volumes.
“Would…would you like to join us for dinner tonight?”
She wiped at her eyes and shook her head. “I wouldn’t wan to impose on your family time.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing. Please, come have a home-cooked meal. The kids would love to have you, and so would Bob.”
She relented, her shoulders dropping in surrender. “Okay. I’d like that.”
You looped your arm through hers. “Let’s go then, yeah?”
She smiled. “Yeah.”
And so, off you went, back toward your little family, with Natasha in tow. When Bob learned she was joining you for dinner, he beamed. And as she followed you out to the parking area, she couldn’t help the warm feeling that bloomed within her chest.
Bob, the unassuming WSO, had managed to change her life in just the short time she’d known him. He’d introduced her to his wife and children, who’d welcomed her with open arms, even after she’d been terrified you wouldn’t.
The kindness you’d shown to her had made a world of difference in her life. In the end, she was grateful you’d insisted upon talking to her in the hospital that day. It had helped change her perspective, and now that she’d brought your husband home safely, she could look you in the eyes with confidence, knowing she’d done all she could, and succeeded. Just like you’d believed she would.
After all that she’d endured in the last few weeks, she realized that she’d found a family along the way, and that made it all worth it in the end.
i need yall to stop focusing on the white tragedy this episode and focus on the fact that jesse was detained by ice and pranita will be severely injured and will get no further care and will most likely never be seen again.
(don't piss me off on how some of you are only mentioning Jesse getting hurt and feeling bad for him and how dare ICE hurt your little golden white man- and completely ignoring Pranita. If you are, you missed the whole point)
A Lovely View of Heaven, But I'd Rather Be With You
Don’t go where I can’t follow…
John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader
Epilogue for Are You Going My Way? [complete]
Words: 2k | Warnings: mentions of death, grief
Sitting in the diner, you stare at the steaming cup of coffee in front of you. Listlessly, you play with the ring on your finger. Buck is sitting across from you, looking drawn. You know that look — you see it in the mirror every morning.
“How are the kids?” He finally asks quietly. You shake your head.
“I’m not sure they understand yet,” You force out. “They are still waiting for Daddy to come home.”
The silence stretches.
“I think — I think I’m still waiting for him to come home,” You admit with difficulty, eyes fixed on your wedding band. “Like he’ll walk through the door at any moment,” You shake your head harder like you’re trying to shake off the thought physically, finally looking at Buck. He meets your gaze for a second before looking back at his coffee. He’s suffering. But it’s like a stone is rolling over your soul, forcing the words out.
“It’s been months, Buck. My heart is in my throat in anticipation every time I hear someone at the front door; I dream that I feel the mattress move as he lays down next to me — I can deal with the girls asking where Daddy is,” No, you can’t. “But… it’s those tiny moments of hope that break me.”
“I understand,” Buck is even quieter than he usually is. “I suppose everyone tells you it will get easier.”
You scoff, stirring your coffee a little too forcefully, the metal spoon clumsily clanging against the sides of the cup.
“It won’t.” He sounds uncharacteristically cold. You stop and frown, letting his words sink in. “It just hurts less often.”
Buck takes a sip of his coffee. Your spoon clatters on the table harder than you intended.
You haven’t seen Buck since the funeral. You weren’t sure what to say to him. He is the only one who could possibly understand, articulate, your loss. But you don’t feel like you should intrude on Buck’s pain with your own because you are keenly aware of how crushing it is. You can see it in his face, the way he looks off to the side in silence, how he avoids your gaze. An odd empty space is left between you, a silence that can’t be filled, a note that doesn’t hit. You are incomplete since Bucky passed, a part of you dying with him. You’re in a permanent state of disrepair. You can see it on Buck’s face. He feels it too.
Bucky was larger than life, intense, to the point of being overwhelming. The emptiness he left behind echoes all the louder. The night feels all that much colder.
“Can I ask you something?” You purse your lips as you consider your next words. Buck simply nods. You wait for the waitress to pass with the coffee — your cups barely touched. “Do you ever – do you ever think that you’ve missed something in Bucky?”
“How do you mean?”
“In that… did he ever say anything? About feeling sick?” You wring your hands. “Did you ever notice something… about…” You trail off, biting your lip nervously.
“No, he never mentioned anything,” Buck replies after a moment, gazing off through the dirty window like he’s been trying to remember. “But, you knew Bucky as well as I did — he wouldn’t. He would die before admitting anything was ailing him.”
It’s so dark it makes you chuckle. A wistful smile plays over Buck’s face. You sit in that memory together for a moment, smiling. It’s ridiculous, but you feel like you haven’t smiled in so long; it feels like a relief now. Bucky was splendidly stubborn; you never once heard him complain about pains or aches. And he was healthy — sure, he indulged in alcohol and cigarettes, as did you and everyone else — he never had as much as a cold.
“And if he didn’t tell you, he wouldn’t have told me either,” Buck concludes soberly.
“Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder,” You start hesitantly before angry words suddenly spill out. “I missed something. Something that I should have seen — should have recognized. Fuck, as his wife, as a nurse. Me. Of all people.” You grapple at the collar of your dress angrily, the mounting guilt leaving you so numb that the fabric cutting into your skin feels strangely grounding. “Bucky didn’t just keel over and die one day; there had to be signs —”
“Except that he did,” Buck interrupts you firmly, although not unkindly, sitting up a bit more, leaning his elbows on that table as if to steady himself. “You can’t think that way, no matter how tempting it is. You won’t find absolution down that path.” He sighs sadly. “I asked myself the same thing many times — I’ve lost a lot of friends — what if I had, what if I said… but, you know this. It won't change the outcome even if you could find the answer.”
You blink back tears, dropping your hands back on the table gracelessly. Buck reaches out across the table, touching your hand lightly. Seeing Buck makes you feel less alone. But in the same breath, you’re all the more acutely aware of the void Bucky has left behind in both of you. It’s cruel. It’s unfair.
You still have a whole life to live. And Bucky promised he’d be there.
***
It’s been a long day. You know that the tiredness you’ve been feeling creeping up your bones is not the kind you can sleep off. It’s been a long life. A hard life at times. The arthritis in your hands has bent your fingers into painful stillness. You walk slowly, unsteady at times, but feel too proud to use a cane. Aches and pains come more often and linger for longer. However, you cannot say that you are unhappy. You've found peace when surrounded by family — your children, grandchildren, and even the first great-grandbaby.
You never remarried, dedicating yourself to your children and work. You retired a major and spent your twilight years traveling and with friends. The world has changed so quickly and in so many ways. Buck still came to visit. He was the only one who could truly understand. Tragically, you were the only one who could understand his loss. And he had many, too.
It was a full and fulfilling life, and every regret you had disappeared in the pile of experiences and happy memories. Except Bucky. You only had him so briefly; it was just the blink of an eye in hindsight.
Of course you remember how stubborn he was, how he could draw the blood from under your nails with a single well-placed verbal jab, how both your tempers flared. He could get so moody, and your bitterness was acerbic at times. But now, you don’t even really remember the reasons why you fought. They seemed so important then.
But you still feel it in your heart and see it with such clarity: the moments that truly mattered, that stood every test of time. Those early days in that tiny bachelor flat, dancing in the kitchen to the radio, Bucky singing as he shaved in the morning. The soft kisses on his temple as you came home from night shift, the sleepy look of confusion on his face before breaking out a smile as he realized it was you. How he banged your ankle against the doorpost as he carried you over the threshold after you got married – you had tears in your eyes from the pain but couldn’t stop laughing – and you never let him live that down. How you dragged him to bed in that Tokyo hotel, drunk on plum wine, and within a year, your first baby girl was born.
When Bucky would bring you flowers, he made sure he had a single flower for each of the girls. He would stand in the doorway, listening as you read their bedtime story. Theatrically, as only he could do so well, and to the girls’ endless delight, he’d produce a torch from his pocket and check for monsters under the bed.
Soft kisses, wandering hands, sweet little nothings – constantly pushing the envelope in small ways, anything to make your head spin. The smell of his aftershave, leather, and smokey whiskey.
You had so much, and yet it could never be enough. He gave you a home, your girls; he gave you every part of himself. And nothing, no one, could ever even hope to parallel your love for Bucky. You poured every part of yourself into the life you built together, into him.
Because somewhere, you knew from the start: nothing would ever feel like that little spark of electricity between you, from every look, every touch, meeting those bright blue eyes across the room for the first time. Some days you felt damned by that. But you’ve come to peace in never feeling it again. No one could love you as well as he did.
You miss him. Oh, how you missed him. When you finally stopped crying, the grief turned into guilt, and then anger overtook you — how dare he leave you so suddenly? — when that anger dissipated, it left a hole. A wound that would never heal, it just hurt less often. Exactly how Buck told you it would.
You grew around it; it became a part of you.
Where the reminders of Bucky were once like a stab in the heart, they slowly became a comfort. Reflections of him are everywhere; they always were; you just had to grow to see and accept them. From his letters still on your nightstand to his clothes still in the closet. The ring you never took off and the taste of smokey whiskey. From your youngest daughter's dark curls to your grandson’s piercing blue eyes.
Bucky wasn’t there to see it as you had wished he’d be, but he was always with you.
It’s spring. The rain is relentlessly beating down on the lawn – you can smell the wet wood, flowers, and mud. The sky is gray, but the colors of the garden are vibrant, alive. Shuffling out of the house, you sit on the rocking chair on the covered porch, a woolen blanket draped over your shoulders. From inside the house, you can hear the children playing, music on the radio, and your eldest daughter singing along. There are voices, the clanging of dishes, feet running over the hardwood floor. The house is full of life, as you had always wished to be.
You feel so content. You feel so tired. Life goes on.
Closing your eyes, rocking in your chair, everything fades into the background but the sound of rain, the wind rustling the leaves, and the smell of petrichor.
As you doze off, you smile as you finally hear it again.
The happy ringing of a bicycle bell.
note: It took me almost a year to finish this, which is funny since it was supposed to be a one-shot. In the year that I worked on this on and off, I got sick and struggled with my mental and physical health, was threatened with getting fired while on sick leave, hired a lawyer to throw the book at my boss, left the toxic job, got therapy, started running again, found a new job and time and energy to write again.
When I started this, I was actually in a phase of not fully accepting how ill I was, and just kind of kept pushing at it as the wheels were coming off the wagon in just about every aspect of my life. Ironically, it was one of those Mota text memes “turns out the bad vibes I was feeling was actually severe psychological distress” that made me laugh so hard until I completely broke down crying. Full on from cackling to inconsolable bawling. It actually made me realize that… yeah, this wasn’t just a passing mood. Sooo, thanks for helping me accept how ill I was and finally getting help, I guess? I can laugh about how absurd it /all/ was in hindsight (my borderline comically toxic boss, the whole lawyer saga, the self-realization through a meme and trying to explain that to my therapist), and it’s cathartic to finish this story. Because no matter how much I can laugh about it now, it also legit sucked. A lot.
I love you for sticking with it, and with me, for being patient while I found my way back to doing what I love, and I hope you enjoyed the story 💖
hi pisupsala! i really enjoyed going on this journey with you and bucky and our lovely nurse! i love your writing so much and your characterization is so lovely! i love this! <3
going to one of those celebratory parties at the base when the 100th boys make it home safe from another mission. you’re gale’s girl and of course had to be at the party to celebrate their success. gale being gale kinda hangs back while everyone else gets drunk and rowdy and has fun, and bucky being bucky has tried over and over to get him to actually join in. that’s not to say gale hasn’t gotten up and danced with you for the songs “boogie woogie bugle boy” and “just one more chance”, but he’s quiet and thoughtful so he just sits and watches mostly. but then frank sinatra’s song “people will say we’re in love comes on and gale is immediately up and guiding you to the dance floor. it’s sweet and slow and gentle and you have your head on his shoulder and he’s got one hand on your waist and the other holding your own hand. and you’re just swaying softly around the other couples. and then gale speaks quietly and with care.
“so whatdya say; you wanna get married?”
and you pause for just a second before looking up at him with a gentle smile and saying “sounds good to me.” and you both return to your positions and keep dancing :(((
:'( oh i will actually start sobbing.
this life is a strange one and the age is peculiar, but you have found tender joy in the flicker of gale's smile. these parties are deliriously fun, but a bittersweet sorrow lingers like wayward ghosts. to celebrate the homecoming of a few serves as a reminder of those who were not as fortunate and it's not lost on you how easily you could lose the man whose fingertips delicately drum against your hip. he is so here, so present it is hard to imagine that ever not being the case because my oh my, how you love him. your sweet gale with the kindest eyes and gentle spirit. your darling gale who asks the question you've wanted to hear since you met and it's then you know that he will always come back to you. gale doesn't make promises he can't keep.
"sounds good to me,"
gale's smile is so serene - so fond - that your heart lurches into your throat. how is it that you found such beauty amid ruin? your mother raised you under the constant reminder that princes were fictitious and that storybook love was unattainable but she had no idea that gale cleven existed. gee, even you have a hard time believing he exists sometimes, but he's there. right there. his solid chest pressed to your ear as he sings ella fitzgerald's words into your hair.
your hand feels so grand in mine, people will say we are in love.
As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death
Or how hell could not keep you away from each other.
John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader
Part 3 of Are You Going My Way?
Words: 10.5k
Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+
He didn’t make it back.
The first time you see Bucky’s name on the list of missing, it’s like time freezes. You must have misstepped between dimensions, plummeting from the high heavens into a nightmare.
You blink, and it’s three days later. Your friends look at you, worried, whispering. Another blink and another day has passed.
Scrubbing the floor, folding sheets, assisting in the OR, night shift, day shifts, breakfast, study, the sun on your face, the raindrops in your hair, dinner with your friends, sleep, wake up, dream, scrubbing the floor again, medication rounds, changing bandages, crying in the shower, lumpy gravy for lunch, disinfecting instruments, again that dirty fucking floor, your fingers pruning from the soapy water, making beds, doing inventory, burning your tongue on hot coffee, ironing your uniform, debriding wounds, whispers of comfort, last rites, writing reports and a letter from home.
You don’t remember what happened; you’re just there, and it's gone again in the blink of an eye. But when you look up from the crumpled envelope in your hand, nothing has changed except the date on the calendar.
It’s shocking how quickly daily life around you settles back into the same patterns — new faces replace the old, a new tragedy every day. There are so many to mourn in the Bloody 100th.
Once, you could shroud the harsh reality of war in a warm light, a semblance of normalcy on the dance floor, drinks with friends, card games, the way your heart beat faster when you looked into his eyes.
The intensity of being around Bucky, the persistence of his attention, his astounding presence—they fit so perfectly in that puzzle of insanity that you are suddenly and completely lost without him. In the mere hours you had together, over the days and weeks, somewhere between the flirtatious jokes, heated kisses, and sincere confessions, he altered something in you. Drastically. Permanently.
Nothing was normal, but it was the life you had come to accept, the mission you had chosen. It was a necessary delusion.
But it’s like a power surge popped every rose-colored bulb, and in the half-shadows cast by reality's bleak daylight, there’s nowhere to hide. This is what it always was; you lied just enough to yourself not to have to see it.
The flow of time stabilizes eventually — were days always this long? Did nights drag this much through fitful sleep? There is no news. No news is good news, they whisper, that means there’s still hope. But holding out hope hurts relentlessly. It’s like a stone in your shoe, a paper cut on your finger. You feel it over and over and over, with every breath, and each time, it hurts a little bit more.
When you look around the dance hall, it could be an evening like any other, but there are no blue eyes to meet yours from across the room. When you walk back to your quarters, you slow your step, listening for the sound of a bicycle bell. It never comes. The hollow feeling remains.
Sip your drink. It doesn’t taste good. Kick a stone from the path. Smile. Gossip. Read a book. Smokey whiskey doesn’t dull the pain; it just tastes acrid. Work. Work, work, work. Write home. Lie. Lie awake at night. Live your days in a daze. Wait. Keep waiting.
Never lose hope.
It’s sometime in the fall, with long gray days and even longer cold nights, when you start your day shift by preparing medication for the doctor’s morning round around the ward. The small, windowless room always smells of a strange mixture of chemicals and chalk emanating from the boxes and bottles stacked floor to ceiling — you always keep the door open to get at least some fresh air in. The stool at the small table is rickety; it’s a little bit too low, forcing you to painfully lean your forearms against the table's edge to keep your balance.
The sharp rap of knuckles on the door ruses you from the daze of your task. As you stand up, wiping your hands on the skirt of your dress, you expect to see Doctor Stover.
“Major Kidd.” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. You have seen him around, of course, but you’ve never spoken. He looks tired, leaning against the doorpost with his shoulder. “What can I do for you?” You add automatically, politely.
Major Kidd doesn’t reply immediately, glancing around the hallway. There’s the soft echo of footsteps, voices carrying from the ward.
“I have news about Major Egan,” He announces with little fanfare. Your mouth is dry instantly, and you involuntarily step back as if to brace yourself for whatever Major Kidd will say next. The stool scrapes over the floor noisily as your left shin connects with it. Your heart is beating so loudly now, making your chest hurt.
“Is he alive?” Your vocal cords strain to get the sound out, but you need to know, to rip the band-aid off. Major Kidd nods affirmatively. You release a breath, exhaling from your soul almost as much as your lungs.
“We received word last night that he’s been taken prisoner and held at Stalag Luft III,” he supplies. You exhale deeply. The heavy weight that suddenly fell from your shoulders is making you lightheaded. Blinking heavily, you try to focus on what Major Kidd is saying—you catch that Buck and several others from Thorpe Abbots are at the same prison.
He’s alive; he’s not alone.
Thank god.
“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Nurse,” Major Kidd glances around the hallway again, more nervously this time. “But Bucky - ehm, Major Egan always spoke fondly of you.”
You’re dying to ask what Bucky said about you, just how fondly he spoke about you, but you press your lips together to keep the words from pouring out. Not the place, not the time and not the person to ask, you remind yourself.
“Would you write to him?”
You find that you actually appreciate Major Kidd’s no-frills approach. He doesn’t waste words by dancing around the subject.
“It’s -” He hesitates for a few seconds, the tiredness in his face so much more apparent. “These camps are not nice places, as you can imagine, Nurse. A kind word from home can do a lot for a man.”
“Of course,” You croak out as if you haven’t used your voice in years, clearing your throat quickly and conjuring a smile onto your face. “I’d be happy to, Major.”
“The information you’ll need,” Major Kidd nods as he hands you a folded-up piece of paper. “And Nurse, choose your words carefully. Your letters will be read.” His tone is neither threatening nor warning, simply reminding you of wartime procedure.
“Thank you,” You nod earnestly. “Thank you for thinking of me—err—for Major Egan’s sake. I—I…”
I thought he was dead, and it was crushing me.
“Thank you for this, Major Kidd.” You conclude calmly, wrangling your emotions to prevent them from spilling out.
“Thank you, Major Kidd, for what?” Matron’s voice sounds exceptionally shrill as her sour face peeks out from behind Major Kidd. You stumble back again, nearly tripping over the stool. Major Kidd looks like the blood drained from his face as Matron muscles her way into the door opening. You crush the paper in your fist, demurely folding your hands to hide it.
She looks back and forth between you, her eyes so wide they almost bulge out of her skull.
Out of context, the situation looks odd; you have to admit that. Major Kidd has no reason to be in the infirmary, especially in the medicine stockroom. And there’s only you here, which makes it obvious he sought you out.
You know there were plenty of whispers about another Major popping up around you in places he shouldn’t be. Matron never confronted you about it because she didn’t have evidence, but you really don’t need the additional scrutiny.
“Well?” Matron zeroes in on you — of course, she can hardly confront a higher-ranking officer. You press your lips together, feverishly trying to think of an excuse.
“It’s a private matter, Captain,” Major Kidd speaks up in that same calm, almost dry tone.
“In the infirmary, my nurses don’t have private matters, Major,” Matron retorts — you can hear how much she holds back by how she wrenches out the words. You are really in for it now.
“My private matter.”
You blink. Major Kidd didn’t have to do that, but you appreciate it nonetheless. The paper crinkles softly in your folded hands. You’re not listening to Matron’s hurried apology, the way Major Kidd waves it away frostily — you can hardly keep the smile off your face at the sudden realization.
Even now, without being here, after all this time — Bucky is still getting you into trouble.
And by god, how you’ve missed it.
***
“Egan!”
In his lethargy, Bucky doesn’t react the first time his name is called. Only when Buck taps his shoulder he finally looks up from his place on the bed.
“Egan?”
“Here.”
Unceremoniously, the young man in the too-big overcoat lobs an envelope at Bucky. Bucky plucks it out of the air just by virtue of his reflexes because his brain —which seems to move at the speeds of goddam molasses on a winter day—sure hasn’t caught up on what is happening.
Hesitantly, he turns the envelope between his cold fingers. Buck cranes his neck to peek at the return address.
“Guess you set it better than you thought.” Buck grins, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky doesn’t reply, unsure if the envelope in his hands is about to burst into flames, like it’ll go up in smoke before his eyes, and with it, another shred of sanity he’s been clawing onto.
He carefully peels the envelope open—clearly, he’s not the first one to do so, as the glue barely sticks to the paper. Your careful print fills the pages—two whole pages front and back—and it fills Bucky with a warmth he hasn’t felt in so long. You still thought about him. You cared about him enough to write these pages, even when you hadn’t heard from him in months.
In exceptionally dark moments, like demons clawing at Bucky, the thought would creep up that everyone had already forgotten him — that only that trail of chaos he left behind was some evidence of his existence.
His eyes fly over the lines; he rereads the letter two, three times in a row. It’s like a drug, a few minutes where he can forget he’s stuck in a crowded room in a shitty, drafty building, the bleak midwinter in Germany, the hunger and the cold.
You write openly and unabashedly that you miss him—how you look over your shoulder on the way home because you hope he’ll suddenly appear, search for him in every crowd, and your heart sinks a little when the band plays Blue Skies. You joke about how England has ruined your favorite season. Where the forests of your native Vermont are a sea of warm colors, in England, you’re drowning in monochrome gray. You apologize for copying the results from the World Series games from the newspaper, flippantly claiming you can’t make your roommates sit through another game on the radio (but then admitting you fell asleep during the broadcast).
You write in the way you speak. When Bucky closes his eyes, he can imagine exactly how you would look telling him all this: the emotions playing out on your face, the laughter in your voice as you joke, the calm steadfastness of your confession. He can see so clearly the way you would roll your eyes at the overwhelming lack of color around you as if it’s an offense aimed at you personally, the way your nose would crinkle at the prospect of sitting through another sports broadcast, or how your tongue would wet your lips as you whisper sweetly to him, your fingers lacing through his, rocking up onto your tiptoes to kiss him.
Of all the things you write about, you never mention any names. You don’t say anything about your work, the 100th, or even mention Thorpe Abbots explicitly. Any and all information you divulge is ultimately useless to anyone but Bucky.
Clever girl.
Bucky’s pencil often hovers over the paper, scratching the surface, but no word has made it to paper so far. He’s never really been at a loss for words, especially around you — if anything, you’ve become quite effective at shutting him up. But now that he desperately wants to tell you something, anything, he has nothing to say.
Bucky was never good at writing letters, considering it a tedious occupation. He never really cared that he wasn’t getting many letters; it saved him the trouble of writing back. And there was always enough distraction locally not to have to care.
You appear an accomplished writer, effortlessly and genuinely putting everything to paper —he doesn’t even know where to begin. Bucky doesn’t want to talk about his circumstances; he doesn’t want to fill your head with worry as much as he doesn’t want to commit his reality to paper, in some way preserving his darkest times. But just “thank you and I miss you” won’t cut it. Buck, like a good friend, would try to counsel him.
“Have you considered telling her just that?” Buck is sitting across the table from him with a faint grin on his face, hands deep into his coat pockets, and small puffs of condensation coming out of his mouth as he speaks. “That writing letters is not one of your many apparent talents, but you are grateful for her efforts?”
“I’d like her to write me more,” Bucky grumbles, starting at the empty paper. “Not torpedo the only chance I have at contact with the outside world.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“Shut up.”
Buck sits up straighter in his chair, looking at his friend struggling in a way he hasn’t seen before. Bucky is the kind of person who can make everything seem effortless because he is confident enough—some would say arrogant enough—in his innate abilities to pull everything off on the first try. Just that puts him miles ahead of everyone else on a good day because, by the time they catch up with Bucky, he has the experience to back up his boasting.
So, it’s rare to see him fail at anything. Painfully, Bucky himself is usually the cause of his failures. While others would argue that Bucky hated being Air Exec and that his deliberate sabotage to get rid of the job wasn’t a failure, Buck would disagree. It’s just exactly what he does. Faced with something that he hates and unable to shape reality to his desire through bluster and cleverness, Bucky will sooner self-destruct and take down everything with him than admit defeat.
The fact that Bucky is agonizing about something as simple as replying to a letter, to Buck, just makes it abundantly clear it’s not about the letter. It’s about you. He doesn’t want to fail you, and it’s paralyzing him into place. Because he might actually irrevocably fuck this up.
Bucky is his own worst enemy, as well as the only one who can talk himself out of that spiral. But that doesn’t mean he can’t use a push in the right direction.
“She’s put up with you so far, hasn’t she?”
Bucky stares at him with sullen annoyance, tapping the tip of his pencil against the paper in an erratic rhythm. Everyone in the room pretends the best they can that they are not listening in on the conversation.
“I’m sure she’ll gladly overlook your shoddy penmanship and poor prose as part of your many faults for the joy of receiving word from you in the first place.” Buck chuckles as he gets up from the table, the floorboards creaking under his shifting weight. On his way to the door, he stops next to Bucky. The page before him is littered with messy lines and dots where the pencil's tip has hit the paper in uncertainty and irritation.
“Just write her what you want to tell her, man.” Buck imparts on him calmly before he saunters out the door.
***
She is magnificent.
That pearly smile, those red lips, the carefully tailored dress uniform — with pants! — the shining oak leaves: Major Baker oozes charm. She is the picture-perfect nurse and officer, like she walked right out of a recruitment poster.
She’s not even looking at you as she passes you to the podium, but you pull up the sleeves of your too-large standard-issue cardigan anyway. Nervously, you tuck some stay hairs behind your ear. Being in Major Baker’s vicinity makes you feel like you should be better at… everything.
The moment she opens her mouth, the room full of chatty, gossiping nurses falls quiet.
“I am here today to talk to you about the 13th Field Hospital and your opportunity to join our outfit,” Major Baker says with a smile. “But let me warn you: the 13th is not for everyone. Actually, I’ll be honest with you ladies. It’s not for most.”
You are listening with rapt attention. You heard the Army was building field hospitals for the European theater, but you never really thought much about it. When you told your parents you joined the army as a nurse and were going to be stationed in England, they weren’t happy, to say the least. Up until the moment you were standing at the front door in your uniform, bag packed, your mother tried to convince you to forfeit your deployment. The first time you called home, your mother wouldn’t even come to the phone, leaving your younger sister to relay the latest to the home front. Your father still ends every letter with: Are you ready to come home now?
Major Baker served in the Pacific, following the front as part of an evacuation hospital. She speaks candidly about the harsh conditions, the lack of equipment, the bugs, and the rampant tropical disease.
“This was the best experience of my life and the worst. I hated it, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.” She’s not smiling when she says it, but you can see the fondness in her eyes, even from your spot in the middle of the room.
You are not ready to go home. How could you be? The war is nowhere near its end, and you know, you feel it in your bones, you are not done with your part. It’s your duty.
And you couldn’t leave Bucky behind—the thought springs up so raw and quick it almost hurts physically.
Your hands shook as you received that envelope weeks ago. It was bent, the edges crumpled, and the seal had a muddy streak. The letter was short, barely spanning two paragraphs on the small page, and your heart soared at Bucky referring to you as his beloved Dove. You laughed at his clearly sulky apology for not being much of a writer, but within a few sentences, tears rolled down your face — by the end, you were sobbing.
Please keep writing me.
In all its simplicity and sincerity, it’s seared into your soul.
“I am not looking for good nurses—I want great, brave nurses.” Major Baker suddenly picks up in volume, like she’s challenging you personally to pay attention to her, to challenge you. Clenching your jaw, you put the bandage back over your heart.
“I want committed nurses who are not afraid to take a spill in the mud and who won’t lose their heads under pressure. I’m looking for girls who have gotten their hands dirty in triage, the operating room, and emergency response and still look for the next challenge. Combat nursing is that challenge.”
She looks around the room pointedly. You want to shrink away under her scrutinizing gaze, acutely aware of every part of your uniform that’s not strictly complying with regulation. Your wandering thoughts are a mess, and you feel distinctly frumpy compared to Major Baker's flawless appearance and charm.
“If you have the experience, the references, and the attitude, I invite you to apply.” She smiles sweetly again. “And who knows, I might see you on the mainland.”
But you also want to jump out of your seat and hand in your application right now.
It’s late afternoon, and the fall sun is already dipping behind the horizon when you knock on Doctor Stover’s office door. The distinct smell of his ever-present pipe hangs around the room.
“I was expecting you,” he jokes when you enter. You try to look innocent, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you greet him. “And I know what you’re going to ask —sit down, Nurse.”
“And will you, doctor?” The words leave your mouth before you’re even fully seated.
“The War Department sure trained Baker well,” Doctor Stover grumbles as he leafs through the papers on his desk. “You’re the fifth to come in today.”
You sit up straight, your shoulders relaxed, and your hands neatly folded in your lap. Calm and poised, just like you’ve been trained.
“You’re the only one who has a real shot at this,” he looks up at you. Even though he’s paying you a compliment, Doctor Stover looks mildly irritated by this.
“Thank you, doctor.” You reply serenely.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” he retorts. Your eyes narrow, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the indignation from washing over you—you can’t help it. “You’re the one I’m most worried about precisely because of that.”
“You don’t want me to go.” It’s a sobering statement. You didn’t expect this. You have the experience and the attitude—you just need the reference.
“I’d be losing one of my best, but I’d rather lose you to another outfit than ship you off home.” He leans back in his chair, puffs of smoke billowing from his pipe. “You, however, must be sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.”
“I wan-”
“Major Baker has been trained, scripted, to make combat medicine sound like the ultimate challenge of your nursing career. The greatest call you could answer.” Doctor Stover doesn’t even acknowledge that he interrupted you. You’re biting your lip, trying to keep yourself from talking over him. “She fails to mention that once you’re in the field, there’s no way back unless you physically can’t do your job anymore, or you’re dead. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it all. Flying bullets kill nurses the same as soldiers.”
He leans forward. The look of determination on your face hasn’t wavered, but he knows how stubborn you are. Your stubbornness and diligence have served you well so far, making you an excellent nurse. He hopes you are stubborn enough to make it through the hell you’re volunteering for. “The field will grind away at everything that isn’t strong enough, so be very sure about why you’re doing this. For what. For whom.”
You wrinkle your nose as you move back a fraction, offended at the implication, offended that Doctor Stover deduced who’s been on your mind all this time. You tell yourself that wanting to go to mainland Europe has nothing to do with Bucky being there, that volunteering to join the front is not in part because you might find him and bring him back.
Only when the war ends will you be ready to go home.
“I have my reasons clear, Doctor.” You reply evenly, clenching your hands stubbornly.
“Sleep on it.”
“Doc-”
“That’s an order, nurse.” Doctor Stover waves his hand, dismissing you. He notices your look as you get up, noisily pushing your chair back—the flare in your nostrils, the narrowed eyes, and your mouth set into a stern line. It makes him smile, even though that will anger you further.
You will need every bit of that anger, every bit of that drive to prove yourself, every sliver of pure pigheaded stubbornness to arm you once you set foot on the European mainland.
Within weeks, you find yourself at the local train station waiting for the train to London. You only have what you can carry in your pack —besides the issued essentials, there is scarily little room for anything else. Just small comforts like an extra pair of socks, mittens, and a notebook for writing letters. There is no great fanfare to your goodbye, Matron—and you wish it had been anyone else, really—hurried you out of the barracks this morning before dropping you off.
It’s misting, and Matron is hurrying through the polite formalities. You thank her nicely, shake her hand, and nod along.
“I hope he is worth it,” It’s not kind, erring on the side of snide, but not overt enough to call out. You don’t flinch, simply staring her down. Matron doesn’t say anything else, whether she’s waiting for you to start defending yourself or it’s simply one final jab to let you know that nothing gets past her.
“Maybe he’s not,” you shrug, finally. She raises an eyebrow skeptically. It’ll make no difference.” You don’t really believe those words, but you’ll never give her that satisfaction. Me doing my job will.”
***
You set foot on the European mainland on June 7th, 1944, disembarking at Omaha Beach with your unit. There is not enough equipment or medicine, not enough people, not enough time. You’ve been stranded with the drab fatigues you’ve been issued, a too-big helmet, and whatever you have in your pack.
What you don’t realize yet in the chaos and bloodshed of those first days is that it will only get worse. Whenever you think the inferno has finally galvanized you, a new, deeper ring of hell is beckoning you.
Despite the drills, despite all the training, you are ill-equipped. You’ve seen air raids from a distance — but you’ve never experienced how mortars make the ground shake, the wave of sand they kick up, how tanks make your very bones tremble as they bulldozer past you. You’ve seen terrible burns, frozen flesh, torn by bullets, you’ve lost patients on the operating table — but the desperation of men dragging their buddy through the helm grass and sand, screaming, blown apart by mines, sliced to pieces on razor wire, and there is nothing you can do for them. What you have against the pain, you can’t give them because they are beyond saving.
They call it meatball surgery. Quick, hack, stitch, and out. The rate of operations is murderous, the surgeon’s hands shaking from exhaustion, bleary-eyed in the bright operating light, staring at the pooling blood. It makes you sick to your stomach.
On the first night, huddled in a foxhole with another nurse, watching Allied planes fly over, you try to remember why you signed up for this. You are so scared, you are sure you’ll sleep again.
You keep writing to Bucky because you promised him that. And for him, you will hold on out of sheer sense of duty and profound stubbornness. Even when there is so much you cannot tell him. You can’t share that you’ve left the 100th or are not even in England anymore — when you write about having the first sip of champagne you’ve had in years, you don’t mention that it was in Paris. You describe the pure joy at having cherries straight from the tree, but you leave out that it was on the side of the road outside Amiens. When you apologize that you haven’t written in a while because you fell ill, you don’t share it’s because you got pneumonia in the harsh Ardennes winter.
The stubborn cough and burn in your lungs linger, and with pain in your heart, you wait for the mail truck to come in, clutching your latest letter to Bucky. You haven’t heard from him since August last year—it’s February. In desperation, before Christmas, you wrote to Doctor Stover to ask if anyone back at the 100th had heard from him. He replied in a short chicken scratch note that there was no change in status.
Finally, your name is called. Wrapped up in a blanket that made it to you in exchange for some cigarettes, you accept the small stack of letters. Sitting down on a piece of concrete from a partially collapsed house, you close your eyes in silent prayer.
Please let one of these be from Bucky.Nothing. It’s the kind of disappointment you cannot take anymore. Every day without word from him, you are forced to accept a little bit more that you are too late: something happened to Bucky, he is wounded, dead, and the enemy is in no particular hurry to report it. And why would they? A ranking officer like Bucky is more valuable as leverage alive than dead, so of course, they would stretch the truth.
A darker thought strikes you. What if he just simply doesn’t want to write you anymore? Bucky is smart. Either he figured out that you’ve been lying — lying by omission is still lying — or he is simply bored, and your letters are just good for kindle.
It would probably hurt less if something happened to him, and it would be easier to accept than his ignoring you.
The blood drains from your face at the realization of what you just wished for — you can feel it draw from your flesh in a hasty retreat. How much of a horrible, selfish, and undeserving person are you turning out to be? You feel lightheaded. Have you been ground down so deeply that only the ugliest parts of you remain?
Bucky would be better off without you.
Bending forward, you put your head between your knees, breathing in short, panicked bursts. The ground is spinning. Has this all been for nothing? When Matron asked if he was worth it, was it really because you were unworthy of him?
Someone is calling your name — but you can only reply with a whimpering sob. You can’t breathe, your lungs are burning — the world around you is swaying so violently now that you drop your letters on the frozen ground, desperately grasping at the jagged stone to stop yourself from pivoting off it.
Someone touches your shoulder, suddenly grinding everything to a halt. The content of your stomach covers your boots and letters in a vile splatter, the sour smell of the bile mixed in with this morning’s watery porridge making you feel even sicker. You sob pathetically, desperately clawing for breath, and for the first time, you realize something. It hits you so profoundly you feel it in your bones: you want to go home. You want your mom. You want your bed and your own room, your sisters, and your dad. You want the beautiful forests, not a cratered alien landscape that smells like death. You want chocolate milkshakes and coke floats, go dancing on Saturday night. You want socks without holes, feet without blisters, and you don’t want to feel fucking cold all the time.
You want Bucky to kiss you on the forehead and tell you everything will be okay.
Even if you don’t deserve any of it.
Time drags you, kicking and screaming, into spring and with the advancing front into southern Germany. The Lucky 13th has seen it all. You’ve been scared for so long you don’t feel it anymore — you sleep again. Whenever and wherever you can, really. On the back of the truck, the small hard cot when the hospital is in operation, on the side of the road waiting for orders, in a foxhole feeling the ground shake from the mortar fire.
Getting shut-eye is a luxury, like many things you’ve taken for granted. Warm showers, for one. Thorpe Abbots was far from the comforts you were used to at home, but the field has cured you of any prissiness. Scrubbing in for surgery has sometimes been the only hot water and soap you would touch in days.
Today is a good day. At least as good as any day in a field hospital can be. Your unit has set up shop in a doctor’s office in a small town south of Nuremberg — you have running water, warm water, real bathrooms, and a kitchen with a stove. You splash water on your face before you start scrubbing in. God, it feels divine. And that stove is going to make you a hot meal, coffee you can burn your tongue on — you can’t wait.
Casualties tend to come in waves, chaos erupting in seconds, hallways suddenly full of people, screaming, yelling, the ticking clock. Medics are wheeling the patient into your makeshift OR. As they push the curtain away, out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of blonde hair, a familiar movement. You want to call out when you’re called to attention. Urgent. Heavy casualties. Immediate surgery.
You forget about it, like you forget a dream after waking up — a glimpse into a crack between the realities of a life that had once been.
The sun is high in the sky. Yawning, you roll your head, stretching your sore neck muscles. No amount of coffee will keep you awake anymore. The instant mashed potatoes are heavy on your stomach like a weighted blanket, lulling you to sleep. You have seven hours of blissful sleep ahead of you. Blinking against the bright light, your eyes prickling, you see it again.
A misplaced memory, casually walking down the street in front of you.
“Cl- Cleven!” Your voice hikes up in volume between syllables as you pick up speed. “Buck!”
He turns slowly, confusion etched on his face. Buck looks at you like he can’t quite place you here, like you are just as misplaced in his eyes as he is in yours. He looks tired. Worn.
He regards you carefully as you approach. You’re a far cry from the reserved nurse his friend once introduced him to, now dressed in the standard army green field uniform of tough woven cotton, scuffed and washed out in places, timeworn boots, and pants instead of the much more elegant wrap dress nurse uniform you used to wear. He smiles and calls out back to you. You wave at him as you start running.
You skid to a halt in front of him, beaming. It feels like you should hug him, but you’re not that close. He is Bucky’s friend, and you know him by proxy. He is also a very senior officer to you.
“I’m so glad to see you, Major.” You try to sound respectful, catching your breath, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. If Buck is here, that means… You don’t dare finish that thought.
“I am surprised to see you, nurse,” He replies, not unkindly. “But glad nonetheless.”
“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?” You rattle off the questions in a frenzy because they’re not the questions you want to ask. Not really. Buck knows the question that is burning on your tongue—it is so apparent in your face—your jaw is tight, the slight frown on your forehead even as you smile—you are physically trying to stop yourself from the words just spilling out of you. You are too polite to let it.
It is strange seeing you here. It doesn’t quite fit.
“I’m fine. I’ve gotten the all-clear from the doctor,” Buck replies calmly, his tone conversational. “I have a few days of debriefing to go, and then I’m hopefully back on a plane out of here,” he adds with a wistful laugh.
“Back to Thorpe Abbots?”
“Maybe,” He shrugs. “We’ll see where they want me.”
A tense silence falls. You need to ask. Buck doesn’t really want to answer.
“Bucky…” It comes out tinged by uncertainty, and you look scared saying his name. Speaking it will make it real.
Buck shakes his head. Your stomach drops.
“He — he didn’t make it out with us,” Buck hesitates, trying to come up with a way to explain the horror of leaving his best friend behind. “We cooked up a plan, Bucky, George Neithammer, Aring, and I. We were going to make a run for it in the night. Down the street, over the wall, into the forest. Neithammer and Aring went first; I followed. A guard clocked us before we could make it over the wall.”
You think your heart just stopped beating as Buck draws in a slow breath.
“Bucky drew his attention, stopped him from firing, and gave us a chance. We made it over.” He recounts the events without flourish.
“And Bucky stayed behind,” you whisper—there’s little emotion to your voice; it’s just a statement of fact. You sound so calm, but the way your hands are clenching, and your eyebrows are knitted together in sorrow betrays just how much you are trying to keep it together.
“He did,” Buck affirms, pain evident in his eyes. He wants to explain and lay out the argument that Bucky knew what he was doing and that it was a testament to him as a man and a leader, but he doesn’t know if he can put it into words. Why him? Why is he standing before you instead of Bucky?
“That sounds like something he would do.” There is no accusation in your words, but it’s rather a heartfelt affirmation. An understanding between the two of you.
It was a strange infatuation, an altered state of the mind, a disbalance in your brain chemistry brought on by the force of nature that was John Egan. You never gave it a name; it was never really mutually acknowledged how deep it went; there was never time to explore it — you just followed the path, pulled by a string.
You are in love with him.
It started when you witnessed that the man who drove you to insanity with his overt attentions truly cared for the men under his command, the man who carried the burden of his responsibility sincerely. You know you are in love with the man who can’t resist a joke, thrives on antics that put him in the center of attention, and then selflessly, unquestionably, and without hesitation saves his best friend.
The realization is freeing; it makes your heart flutter — it fills your stomach with lead.
“You know what’s funny?” The irony in Buck’s voice seeps in bitterly as he chuckles humorlessly. It’s horrible to admit, and guilt burns in his gut. “Bucky had been the one talking about escaping all this time. I kept pushing back, saying we should ride this out.”
Teardrops drip onto your crumpled collar. You want to say something, but the sound that makes it out of your mouth is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You clamp a hand over your mouth, screwing your eyes shut, you try to get your breathing under control. Buck reaches out, carefully consoling you, resting his hand on your shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” You whisper, roughly running the sleeve of your jacket over your face, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry too,” Buck admits quietly, hand falling back to his side again. “I didn’t want — it should have turned out like this.”
You vaguely gesture at the crumbling houses around you, ten-ton trucks thundering past, kicking up clouds of dust, rattling the windows. Nothing should have turned out like this. Neither of you should be here.
“Bucky is going to be okay, isn’t he?” You hate how unsure you sound, traitorous in your lack of faith.
“If anyone would be, it would be him,” Buck looks sad, but a small, fond smile plays over his face. “Bucky would survive just to spite his captors, just because he can. He will survive because his men still depend on him.”
“And he promised he’d come back,” Melancholy echoes in your voice. It’s sort of a joke, wrapped up in the admission that you couldn’t accept a reality where Bucky wouldn’t make true on his promise.
“He owes us both that, I suppose,” Buck chuckles. You grin. There is a particular mercy in meeting Buck here and now, the only one who understands the emptiness, the cold of the shadow cast by Bucky’s absence. You’ve kept it close to your heart all this time, your little pet pain, carefully shielded from prying eyes and inquisition.
“I’ll remind him when I find him,” you quip dryly. Buck laughs, momentarily shedding the weariness that had been weighing him down. The sudden levity reminds you of that night at the pub, squabbling over cards, when everything seemed so very normal for a moment.
“I have to admit, I think I had you wrong, nurse,” Buck tells you soberly, although his grin remains. He casually puts his hands in his pockets, stance relaxed.
“How so?”
“You are just as insane and stubborn as Bucky is,” he states plainly. “You just hide it better.”
You open your mouth to protest. Surely, you are nothing like him. You wish you were. You wish you had that kind of confidence; if only you were that steadfast and always have an answer for everything. Instead, you find yourself increasingly and tragically falling short.
Buck raises his hand, stopping you as you start spluttering a reply.
“He needs someone like that.”
You purse your lips. It doesn’t feel like your place to correct Buck, who has known Bucky for much longer than you and is possibly just trying to be nice to you. Because whatever, or whomever Bucky needs — it’s not you, you think bitterly. If he did, if he truly did, he would have written. You’ve run out of excuses for him long ago, but you are still too embarrassed to ask if Buck knows why Bucky hasn’t sent you any letters. It feels too intimate, too personal, too raw.
You are simply too scared to hear the answer.
And ultimately, it doesn’t matter. The fact that you are here anyway, that you are still holding out for a glimmer of hope, that you are still discovering the depth of your feelings for Bucky— well, yes, that is a testament to your apparent insanity and stubbornness. Buck is right about that. The lack of letters broke your heart but never stopped you.
So you just smile, reeling the pain, wrapping it up close to your heart again.
***
Bucky is sitting on a beam wedged in the mud, leaning against the wall of one of the compound's overly full buildings. His eyes are closed, and the sun is on his face. He’s trying to remember how to relax as his crew around him is chatting. They are all waiting.
It’s been less than 48 hours since the tanks rolled in and the camp was secured — it doesn’t mean anyone gets to leave. Large trucks are thundering into the camp now. Engineers, quickly followed by the supply line with food and water, a detachment of military police, and a whole field hospital — everything is being set up at breakneck speed to get the thousands of POWs processed, checked, and sent back to their units.
Medics checked in on them, and since none of them is seriously hurt, they’ve been instructed to wait. In short, they’re going to be here for a while.
His thoughts wander, and when he allows them far enough, he can almost feel your hand in his. You are just at his fingertips.
“What about you, Major?” Hambone pipes up.
“What about me?” He replies, eyes still closed.
“What are you looking forward to most when you get out of here?”
“Many things.” He shrugs. “Decent food, a hot shower, a mattress on my bed, seeing my girl again. In that order, preferably.”
“Are you going back to Thorpe Abbots?” Crank asks.
“That’s where my Dove is.”
“Are you sure?” The way Crank phrases the question doesn’t sound like a joke, but it’s a cruel remark, even for light ribbing. Bucky cracks open an eye, irritated.
“Shut the fuck up, Crank.”
“No, I mean—” he points into the distance. “Isn’t that her?”
Bucky's line of sight follows where Crank is pointing, his heart suddenly thundering in his ears even though it cannot possibly, rationally, be you. It must be someone with a similar stature, just that shade of hair, and an eerily similar side profile to yours.
But it surely cannot be you.
You strain under the man's weight — his leg is in such bad shape he can’t put any weight on it, the wound weeping angrily in sickening shades of green, yellow, and black, which you’ve never seen coming out of a human body. He is fully leaning on you to keep upright, groaning and whimpering in pain. Pulling your mask down over your chin as you gasp for air, you grimace. You try to flag down medics with a stretcher, but everyone is so busy they don’t see you.
This place is a nightmare. You thought you had seen it all by now, but hell has many steps on its steep descent. Hungry, sick, and injured men stuck in the mud in half-built, half-burnt shelters. There is a stench of sickness and death that hangs around the perimeter of the sickeningly overcrowded camp. You don’t have the beds for the number of terribly wounded, days, weeks, months into suffering — and you don’t have the manpower to do effective triage. It’s monstrous.
“You’re okay,” you assure your patient calmly, fighting to keep your voice even under the physical effort. He looks pale, looking at you with panicked eyes, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“We are going to walk, slowly,” you continue evenly—if you don’t panic, he won’t either. “Then the medics will take over and get you to the doctor.”
He nods, his breath now coming out in short bursts. “Just focus on this now, okay?” You encourage him as you start moving, every step an awkward hobble, your boots sinking into the mud, the arm around your neck weighing you down. You don’t get very far when someone suddenly appears on the other side of your patient, taking the weight literally off your shoulders. Your face relaxes, and you take a deep breath, now that your lungs aren’t getting crushed anymore.
Your skin is prickling, like little bursts of static electricity dance over every inch of your body in excitement.
In foreboding.
You turn to thank whomever kindly came to help. Your eyes meet the stormy blue for a mere second, knocking the wind out of you, his name dying on your dry lips — but he turns away, not acknowledging you beyond the fleeting look, mouth set in a hard line.
Bucky looks worn.
He looks angry.
You avert your gaze, your frozen smile melting into a grimace — that once playful static electricity now feels like a lightning bolt to the heart, stunning you.
“You’re doing great.” You comfort your patient in the kindest tone you can muster under the loom of Bucky’s palpable anger. The smile feels awkward on your face. Still, you are grateful for his help; the muddy path toward the field hospital doesn’t seem that long anymore. It’s what comes after that scares you.
“We’re almost there.” The words of assurance come naturally, despite it leaving you feeling anxious.
Patient finally on a stretcher, your hand is — steady, keep it steady, damnit — as you make notes on the patient's card before smiling as you put it around his neck. He thanks you shakily. He’s going to lose that leg, you think sadly, but you keep a kind smile on your face. If you don’t panic, he won’t. Panic won’t do him any good right now. It sure won’t do anything for you.
Bucky is not standing close; he is just at that awkward distance where it’s clear he’s impatiently waiting for you to be done, and you are expected to follow him. You can feel his eyes boring into your back, but when you glance over your shoulder, he turns his head away from you. It hurts. It’s annoying.
“The doctor will come look you at you, okay?” You tell your patient kindly.
He nods, face still etched in terror.
“Deep breaths,” You remind him gently as you get up. Deep breaths, you remind yourself.
The feeling of impending doom is not wholly unfamiliar; it makes you feel like a child about to be scolded. When you were younger, you could always immediately tell if you were going to be in trouble as you walked through the front door. It was something in the air. Heavy, oppressive almost. It was how your mother put down her coffee cup a little too forcefully, and your father peered over the top of his newspaper as you crossed the room. You remember the suffocating feeling of panic, the powerlessness, desperately wishing you could hide while trying to figure out what upset them, what kind of fib your siblings might have told, if your teacher might have called, or if you simply forgot a chore.
You always tried hard to stay out of trouble so you’d never have to feel like that again.
This feels exactly the same, you think angrily. Nothing — no one — is worth feeling like this for. The thought flashes white-hot through your mind, making you ball your fists in anger at your sides.
You will face this head-on, confidently walking toward Bucky. He’s doing a great job of looking disinterested. It’s infuriating.
When you get close, he grabs you by the upper arm none-too-gently before you can say anything. He is so much taller than you; his grip hitches your entire shoulder up awkwardly.
You stumble after him as he pulls you away around the building. Sure, you weren’t exactly expecting a heartfelt confession from John Egan. The man barely wrote you. He always demonstrated his affection rather than verbalizing it, except for those rare times, in the heat of the moment, when his sudden candid admissions of vulnerability and tender words touched you where his hands couldn’t. But you also didn’t expect Bucky to grab you like he’s leading you to the gallows. He’s still not looking at you, simply glancing around for a place, somewhere, anywhere, with some privacy.
“Bucky—” you try gently. He ignores you, pulling you along. People are looking at you now, gawking at the spectacle of the Major hauling a nurse across camp. Under the curious stares, you feel horrendously embarrassed and uncomfortable in your own skin. Gallows actually sound kind of good now; otherwise, sinking into the mud and disappearing would be acceptable, too.
“John!” You dig your heels in forcefully, frowning. He stops, not because you have so much leverage against him, but if he pulls you any harder, the momentum will pivot you off your feet, most likely face-first into the mud.
The silence is tense.
I hope he’s worth it.
“Why are you here?” He bites out, finally looking at you — feet planted, hand at his hip, fingers still tightly wrapped around your arm, towering over you menacingly. You refuse to shrink into yourself under his intense gaze.
“Why the fuck are you here?” He seethes.
“I’m doing my job,” You reply calmly, nails digging into your palms, pulling yourself up a little higher.
“Your job is at Thorpe Abbots.”
“I asked to be reassigned.” Your lip curls into a snarl, betraying how angry you are getting, but your voice stays even. “I’m with the 13th Field Hospital now.”
“Why?” Bucky hisses at you in disbelief as much as frustration. “Why on earth would you request to be reassigned to the front — to this hell?”
You stare at him. Bucky's angry look and thinly veiled disgust are making you sick to your stomach. The words bubble up so strongly that you think you might yell them at him—that’s what you want to do. But when they finally roll off your tongue, it comes out like an admission of guilt.
“Because of you,” You swallow heavily, trying to stave off the tears suddenly pooling in your eyes. You don’t want to cry. You hate that Bucky is making you feel like this — so small, like your very presence is offensive to him. It’s so unfair after, well, everything. “Because I wanted to find you and bring you back.”
Before he can react, you jerk your arm from his grasp, taking a step back, desperate to create some space between you. Bucky doesn’t do anything to stop you.
You dreamed about his touch, you dreamed about this moment, but all you want right now is to get away from this, from him. You can’t look at Bucky right now. You don’t want his hands on you; you want him to stop you from leaving.
Out of all the ways you thought seeing him again would go, you just never thought that… well, he wouldn’t be happy to see you.
In the end, you could just never conceive of that possibility.
You could never convince yourself that he might not be worth it.
Blinking rapidly, you shake your head, wrenching your face into a neutral look. “Forget it, Bucky,” It’s taking every ounce of your strength to keep your voice even. You look him right in the eye. He regards you coolly — it’s like a stab in the gut to realize that this is how you’ll remember him.
“I’m glad to see you — glad to see you’re okay,” You take a shuddering breath, but your voice doesn’t waver, so calm it’s clinical. You blink against the tears pressing at the back of your eyes. “I assume you didn’t get my last letter. I saw Buck a few weeks back near Nuremberg. George Aring was with him. He’s okay and en route to England.”
He deserves to know his best friend is alive and well—after all, it was Bucky’s self-sacrifice that let them escape. It has nothing to do with you. You’re going for a clean cut: You don’t want to owe him anything, and you don’t want to carry any guilt or have a grudge poison you.
If only you could school your features as coolly as Bucky does, but the harder you try, the more your face wants to crumple up in misery.
“I haven’t gotten a single letter from you in over a year.” Bucky scoffs in reply, purposefully not reacting to your news about Buck. He appreciates it, but right now, he doesn’t want to share that sentiment with you — your letters stopped coming when he needed them most, and now you appear with that same lovely and innocent look on your face and every syllable of his name so sweetly on your lips.
Suddenly seeing you cracks open the lingering hurt, the profound aggrievement, seeping from cuts so deep it’s staining what should be joy.
“Well, I’ve sent plenty of them despite the lack of reply.” You bite out so bitterly that your face suddenly morphs into an intense scowl, melting every trace of sadness away.
“Sure you did.” His words are like a knife, and you don’t want to hear the hurt and defensiveness edging out the vulnerability in his tone.
“I guess we’ll never know,” You conclude frostily, rage contorting your features. “My patients need me. Goodbye.”
Taking a deep breath, you turn. Tears are rolling down your face now, but you refuse to make a single sound, clenching your jaw determinedly. Bucky has no right to your pain and tears; he doesn’t care anyway.
Clean cut. Walk away.
Bucky has seen you angry before, annoyed, exasperated. Usually at him even. The range of emotions always plays openly on your face. But the acute hurt, the cold insulted fury, the definiteness of your farewell — it gives him pause. What if he needs you?
You barely reach three steps before Bucky snatches you back, hand firmly on your upper arm again. Stumbling backward, you angrily start pulling away again immediately, trying to wrench yourself from his grip.
“Please let me go, Major.” Your tone is harsh, louder than it needs to be, but your voice is so thick and cracking that it’s clear you are crying. You try to wipe your face with your sleeve in vain with your free hand, but Bucky easily pulls you back into him, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders. The knuckles of his other hand skim over your wet cheek in a loving gesture — you jerk your head away like you’ve been burned, evading his touch. Your tears splatter onto the sleeve of his worn leather jacket.
“Jesus Christ, Dove,” He sounds pained, grappling for words, backtracking hurridly. “I don’t care about the letters, I’m sorry,”
“Let me go,” You whisper sadly, trying to push away again, although there is no real conviction behind your struggle. “Please.”
“After you came all the way here for me?” He tries, attempting playfulness, a careful smile pulling the corner of his mouth, but he just gets an elbow in the stomach in reply. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry -” He groans.
Bucky hesitates. You don’t say anything or move besides the soft tremor in your shoulders as you are obviously still crying quietly — Christ, your muted heartbreak is somehow so much more devastating than if you had screamed at him. A slap across the face would hurt less than this.
“I just — I imagined you’d be safe back in England.” He admits softy. “Out of the rain, out of the cold. It -”
He had thought about it for so many hours, and it kept him company in the deepest, darkest times. Even when the letters stopped coming, the memories were always there.
You on that path from the infirmary at Thorpe Abbots, casually walking ahead of him, the alluring sway of your hips, sweet smile on your lips. The lush trees, the young green grass, and the warm sunlight. Your perfume carrying on the breeze. Bucky kept going. Every step was one closer to you — you would be waiting for him at the end of this path.
In England.
He didn’t want you to see him like this, dragged through hell, sweaty, muddy, dirty, hungry. He was going back to England, and he would sweep you off your feet when he looked and felt like himself again. He would never tell you of the night marches, the hunger, the slow creep of insanity of prisonerhood — instead, he would delight in that you never had to suffer like that, revel in that you were untouched by that particular horror. You would remember him how he was, and he could become that again with you.
Bucky feels like the biggest heel in the world right now. While everyone still only dreams of home, you came to him, looking for him. He should be the luckiest man alive—this is the second time you followed him where no one else would go. Letters be damned. Even your patience and forgiveness will have limits; for a terrifying second, Bucky thinks he might have crossed them.
“It brought me comfort when I had nothing else.” He swallows. All the things he had wanted to write to you kept putting off because he convinced himself it would be easier to tell you, but the words are not coming now. Ironically.
You can hear how he’s trying to steady his breathing. You know he’s sincere. You feel how difficult it is for him. But you know you can’t forgive him just because he’s trying; you can’t amend his anger for him and take on his burden of apologizing. It needs to come from him. You have to be worth at least that for him.
Bucky can hear the tiniest sob escape you—it shakes your body in the most heart-tearing way.
“And seeing the girl of my dreams appear in my waking nightmare — I panicked.” He adds quietly. “Forgive this poor kriegie, Dove.”
You can hear the urgency in his voice, and you know your heart isn’t strong enough. You don’t want it to be. You only wanted to see that it meant as much to him as it did to you—that he had been worth it all—that you were worthy just as much. Slowly, you turn, your arms sneaking around his waist, tucking inside his jacket. Bucky finally allows himself to relax, tightening his embrace and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck.
“Most drops miss,” you utter tearfully, hearing his laughter rumble in his chest. You missed feeling his laugh, the vibrations moving through you. It’s an odd thing to say, but Bucky understands that this is how you forgive him—on your terms.
“I’m glad to see you, Dove. I’ve missed you so much.” His voice sounds raw, and you feel his breath on your neck.
“Why didn’t you lead with that?” You gently needle him, blinking, hoping your face isn’t as puffy as it feels right now.
“Can a man be worried about his girl?” He croons in your ear.
“No—yes, but…” You stumble, finally looking at him as you wipe your sleeve over your wet cheeks. “I didn’t deserve that.” Your voice is calm as ever, with no tremor, starkly contrasting with your tear-stained face.
Bucky regards you for a moment. Your eyes are still wet, and he really shouldn’t be thinking how cute that determined frown on your face is. “You didn’t, Dove.” He agrees sincerely.
“And I’m sorry too,” You continue softly. “I need you -”
“Tell me how much you need me, Dove,” His urgent whisper cuts you off, mouth tantalizingly close to yours. He doesn’t want to argue — he wants that kiss he’s been dreaming about for over a year. Bucky knows that you want it just as much by the way you rock onto your tiptoes, reaching for him. Your tongue peeks out between your lips for a second, wetting them in anticipation, static suddenly, pleasantly, buzzing through every cell in your body, your hands fist his shirt at his ribs. He arms envelop you against him.
He is so warm. He is so close.
“Because I need you like I need oxygen right now.” He mouths the words against your lips but doesn’t kiss you. Bucky cut off your apology because he doesn’t really need to hear the words. He desperately needs to feel that the spark that once ignited between you, that he’d been so carefully guarding all this time, is still there—that you still feel it, too.
You don’t disappoint—you never could. Hungrily capturing his lips, you pull Bucky into you, and he follows you eagerly. You could be on that path again, bike forgotten in the grass, hiding in the shadows between buildings, sweet wine on your tongue, tangled up in his sheet in the twilight of morning — like time hasn’t passed at all from that last kiss; it was only a blink since you touched him, just fleeting moments from when he felt your skin against his, your soft sighs trilling in his ears.
It all comes back so overwhelmingly, so wholly; it pushes out the bitterness and balms old wounds. The kiss isn’t tender, but it soothes in its intensity.
You hear someone calling your name. Involuntarily, you giggle into the kiss, Bucky taking the opportunity to bite down on your bottom lip, drawing the laughter into a delicate moan.
Kaz Brekker was acquainted with different monsters. Those wrapped in expensive silk and bathed in sickening perfume. Those who spouted beautiful lies, enticing unwitting men into their dens. Those with hands stained crimson, preying on children and fools alike. His reflection on a mirror.
But the green-eyed beast proved to be a terrifying match.
Or, Kaz gets jealous.
✦ kaz brekker x gn!reader | grishaverse
✦ tags: jealous kaz, lieutenant!reader, (kind of?) enemies to lovers, set sometime after the events of crooked kingdom
"Brekker."
"Darling," KAZ drawled without looking up at your arrival, his tone more mocking than affectionate. "You're two bells late. Do you have the—"
A roll of parchment zipped through the air, landing in the middle of his desk with startling accuracy and ruining the neatly arranged blueprints spread atop it.
"I told you to quit calling me that," you muttered darkly. "One of these days, I'll really cut off your tongue."
He huffed, concealing his amusement. He enjoyed calling you all sorts of endearments after discovering how easily they riled you up.
There are times when Kaz allowed himself to feel, to act, like a boy again. Reconcile with a distant past, one that echoed Jordie's voice and carried the smell of fresh grass.
This was one of them. Similar to a child, Kaz reveled in your attention. Regardless if they came as threats, insults, or downright disdain.
He'd swallow a bullet first than ever admit it, though.
"How terrifying," he said, unfazed, and made swift work of straightening out the floor plan you brought him.
Silence fell, interrupted only by the soft shuffling of papers. From the corner of his eye, he noticed you shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
Normally, Kaz would come up with some sort of excuse to make you stay, but it seemed that something was on your mind.
And so, he waited.
You cleared your throat. "Do you need anything else?"
No, but thank you. You did well. Please, get some rest, his thoughts supplied. He ignored them. Instead, he simply settled on, "No."
His movements stilled. The question was unusual, especially coming from you.
"Nothing more, nothing less," you had once told him, seated on the ledge of a stadwatch tower that overlooked Ketterdam's shores. He'd nodded in agreement back then, mesmerized by the early sunlight that caressed your face.
You lived by the old saying for as long as Kaz has known you. After all, when you grew up in the Barrel, you'd learned early on that acting out of the goodness of one's heart only left a person broken. Penniless. Or worse, dead.
As such, you weren't the type to seek additional assignments without an offer beforehand. The fact that you had gone out of your way to ask was... suspicious.
His eyes finally flicked to yours. He could never afford to look at you for too long, as it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to stop once he started.
He cocked his head to the side and searched your gaze. "Why?"
You blinked, clearly caught off guard. He rarely indulged you in idle conversation or pried into your affairs.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Because despite everything you've been through together, this was the nature of your relationship too. Neither of you tried to change it, even after every scar he unraveled and laid at your feet.
Even after numerous nights spent confined in his office, shoulders almost, but never brushing one another as you pored over schemes for hours.
Even after repeatedly saving each other's necks and during the intimate silences that followed when the adrenaline wore off. Moments taut with charged tension, heaving breaths, and unspoken truths.
"I've got plans," you explained rather cryptically.
"Plans? Has someone else hired you for a job? I hope you don't forget that you belong to—"
"No, someone asked me out on a date."
Me, insisted the voice in his head, rich with desperation. You belong to me.
Kaz scoffed in disbelief. "A date? In Ketterdam?"
Fear clawed its way up his throat, determined to make itself known. It warred with another emotion he was too proud to name.
This... feeling was absurd. Sentimental. Kaz was no stranger to loss.
The seas granted Inej her freedom. A new chapter awaited Jesper and Wylan. Nina stumbled upon a second chance at love. Matthias found peace.
Yet, deep down, each farewell left him a little more empty than the last.
You were bound to Ketterdam only by virtue of being the Dreg's sole lieutenant. In truth, nothing else was preventing you from leaving.
Leaving him.
After promoting you, a tiny seed of guilt buried itself in his cold, wretched heart when he realized he held you back. That he never gave you the opportunity to pursue your dreams. Your position forced you to assume several roles, to fill in the shoes the others had given up.
But his greed outweighed his guilt and Kaz was a selfish man indeed.
The mere idea that someone could whisk you away from him brought forth a hateful bitterness from within.
"Where is the unfortunate fellow taking you?" he asked, keeping his voice deceptively calm.
You narrowed your eyes, ignoring the jibe. "It's a quaint little bar called 'none of your business.'"
Nothing more, nothing less. The phrase taunted him now. The green-eyed monster inside him rattled his ribcage ferociously, driving him to boast.
He curled his fingers around the desk's edge tightly. "Funny. I run the entirety of the Barrel, and I don't recall an establishment operating under that name."
"I'll have you know that he actually owns the place he's bringing me to," you snapped defensively.
Good, good. More information.
"And how long have you known each other?"
You shrugged. "A few weeks."
The answer relieved him somewhat. His possessiveness ebbs, its rhythm steady, before it swelled again, rising with the current of his emotions. One should always be more sure of everything. He'd learned that the hard way.
"And he's aware of who you truly are?" Kaz pressed on. "Of what you do?"
There were only a handful of possibilities. The person could have ulterior motives for approaching you. It wasn't unlikely, considering your power was only second to his.
Perhaps it was a spiteful soul he'd wronged, plotting to take advantage of you and get revenge on him.
On the other hand, there was also a chance that they weren't privy to your true identity. He couldn't blame anyone for wanting you but it was common knowledge whispered in the streets that Kaz Brekker was a man unwilling to share.
Anyone who didn't heed that advice and went against it anyway was just recklessly bold. Or stupid. The Barrel never seemed to run out of those.
This time, you broke away from his gaze. "It doesn't matter." You sniffed, feigning indifference.
The person didn't know then, he surmised. You probably met him during one of your undercover assignments, disguised and masquerading around with an alias.
Sensing his disapproval, you attempted to defend your date-to-be by adding, "He's kind. Sweet. Honest."
Everything he was not. The words, sharp as glass, ripped him apart. Crushed him with an overwhelming weight of sorrow.
"It seems naive of you to form an impression of him in such a short amount of time," he said through gritted teeth.
Pretending as if he didn't care should have been easy for him. Right now, all his years of experience in perfecting that charade were useless.
You rolled your eyes. "Not everyone is cynical and distrusting of the world like you. People can be good, Brekker."
And you deserved everything good and more. Better people could love you, he knew.
Someone who would not flinch every time you drew near. Someone who would freely kiss away your every fear.
Kaz had survived gunshots. Knife wounds. Sickness, nightmares, and grief. But the very thought of someone else soaking in your warmth was an ache he could not bear.
He felt the words scorching his tongue, his demons voicing them with unbridled cruelty. "There is a difference between being cautious and acting like a love-sick fool!"
Your eyes widened in shock, hardening in anger a second later; then they softened with disappointment, and all Kaz could see was the reflection of himself, a frenzied animal. A blown fuse. Inhumanely hollow.
He opened his mouth to speak, beg for your forgiveness, but you had already turned and walked away.
"I'll come back when you aren't hissing at me like a wet cat," you said, slamming the door behind you.
Kaz clenched his gloved hands into aching fists and hung his head, trying not to think of how jealous the idea of another man made him.
He wasn't too late. Dealing with his emotions was uncharted territory for him but scheming came as effortlessly as he breathed.
Kaz never lost a fight and he wasn't about to start now. Even if he needed to play dirty. His greed outweighed his guilt and he wasn't called Dirtyhands for nothing.
"Brekker!"
Kaz had just finished speaking with another gang member, Roeder, when he heard the heavy stomp of your footsteps, followed by the frustrated yell of his name. You appeared on the stairway landing soon after, rage thundering in your wake.
"You're dismissed." Kaz waved to Roeder. His eyes shifted to you momentarily and cast Kaz a wary glance. Not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, he scurried off, slipping past the both of you.
Kaz began to ascend the stairs, you trailing behind him. He could sense that you were shooting daggers at the back of his head, probably cursing him out silently.
"You're back early," he finally said once you entered his office. He circled back to the same place you'd left him hours earlier and sat in his chair. "How'd the date go?"
You stormed closer, wedging yourself between him and the desk, stopping him from hiding behind the pretense of work.
"You know exactly how it went," you snarled.
In spite of your anger, you remembered to maintain your distance. Not once have you commented on his aversion to skin-to-skin contact, though he was certain you harbored your own questions.
"I'm afraid I don't, darling." He raised his chin to hold your gaze, his expression carefully blank. A tailored mask. "I wasn't there."
"You had him taken by the Dregs." The hurt on your face was unmistakable, enough for Kaz to feel a tad remorseful.
It was hardly sufficient, though. Screw righteousness, old habits die hard. "Ah, I had no idea he was your date," he lied again.
"Bullshit."
"But, what I do know is that he laundered money from our coffers and forced children into building the same tavern you were just in."
Kaz went over records of the jobs you'd accomplished in the last two months. After connecting the dots, he successfully identified your date and paid Roeder to look into his background. It was pure luck that the man was a merchant who managed to con Kaz's old boss.
Pulling the strings for his capture was practically child's play. Not that he'd ever tell you that.
Your fury dissipated, replaced by defeat that slumped your shoulders. "You were right," you said quietly, avoiding his eye once more. "I'm sorry."
Kaz rose from his chair and stepped forward. Taken by surprise, you backed away instinctively, only to find yourself trapped by the desk now digging into your hip.
"Let me make it up to you," he spoke with an unfamiliar softness. It almost sounded wrong.
You furrowed your brows in confusion. "What?"
"I ruined your evening. I could have ordered the others to seize him after you finished dinner."
But I didn't want him to walk you home. Wrap his coat around your shoulders. Kiss you goodnight at the Slat's doorstep. Kaz would've probably loaded his pistol at the sight. Broken every limb that touched you with his cane.
You snorted. "Okay. Are you going to give me whatever we steal next? Increase my cut?"
"No, although we can discuss it another time. I'm inviting you out on a date."
You blinked once. Twice. Slowly, you said, "Brekker, you ask someone out when you like them."
His lips pulled into the slightest frown, mildly impatient. "I know."
"You don't like me."
"Whoever put that silly idea in your head?"
"You did. You don't like anyone."
"I may not be the best at showing it, but you know that there are exceptions to that rule," he argued. "Especially when it comes to you."
He continued to lean over you, ignoring the pressure of panic beating against the walls of his chest from the proximity.
"You called me an idiot," you countered. You refused to move a muscle, most likely out of consideration for him, but he closed the distance himself.
He dipped his head further. "Again, I never said that."
"Fine," you conceded, sounding fond. "You implied that I was an idiot."
"I'll be kinder from now on," he promised. "I can try to be sweet, if you give me time and chance to learn. And I'm being honest right now."
Nothing he could do would ever atone for his sins. But although he was renowned as the Bastard of the Barrel, he was prepared to do it right by you.
Hesitantly, you raised a hand. Every inch of his flesh wanted to turn itself inside out, but every bone in his body yearned for your touch.
A quivering sigh escaped his throat as you reached for his cheek, your fingers warm and gentle on his skin.
He braced himself for the familiar scent of death. The ocean. He willed himself to focus on the details that made your face. The line of your jaw to your ear. The slope of your nose. The curve of your lips, hanging onto them as if his life depended on it.
It did, in a way.
"Your answer?" he rasped, suppressing a shiver.
You dragged your thumb against his skin in a delicate but paralyzingly manner and whispered, "I accept."
He had never been held with such tenderness before. Your touch made him feel like he was somewhere else, far from the memories that haunted him.
Growing concerned, you attempted to withdraw your hand but Kaz grasped your wrist before you fully could. He steadied himself with your pulse, each beat, each hymn, anchoring him to the present.
He was here. With you. In his office. Nothing in the world could hurt him.
Eventually, he slid his own gloved hand so that your palms pressed together. Your lashes fluttered and you asked, "Is this really happening? Are we really going on a date?"
He hummed in affirmation. "And I'll do it properly."
Seriously, who in their right mind would bring you to that side of Ketterdam? He took the sealed envelope containing your dinner reservation from inside his coat and handed it to you.
"Thank you." Your mouth curved into a shy smile. "And for the record... you don't have to be anything else other than yourself."
"Ruthless, callous, and dishonest cheat?" His voice held a hint of insecurity, betraying his attempted nonchalance. It was a question hauled from the inner depths of his soul, the boy inside him who wondered if he could ever be worthy of love.
"You forgot insufferable," you teased, although your earnest gaze belied the lightness of your tone. He knew you could see right through him. "But, yes. Just you, Kaz. Nothing more. Nothing less."
At that moment, Kaz knew you would be his salvation and destruction. You could shatter his heart and every single piece would still cry out for your name.
He squeezed your hand. Soon, he'll make you, and everyone else in the Barrel, realize that he had no intentions of ever letting you go.
✦ byeol’s notes: new year, new fandom ?!
✦ reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated! thank you so, so much in advance! <3
