sometimes, simon feels like he doesn't belong here. (18+, f!reader, a continuation of this but can be read standalone)
the mornings are rushed, and he doesn't see them very often. when he's on leave, you let him sleep in, so when he does finally wake up, the baby is usually having tummy time, and joe is already at school.
today, simon gets up with you. he wants to help⏤he wants to be useful.
joe's morning screams are just as powerful as his nighttime ones. simon is knelt down on one knee in front of him, his little foot propped on his thigh. he screams at simon for the fifth time that he hasn't tied his shoe right⏤that you're ruining it, only mummy knows how, stop it, stop it, stop it!
he's half-dressed, blonde curls a mess, and simon is slumped there, no reaction, internalizing how useless he is as he hears you rustling downstairs as you try to get breakfast off the stove and the baby to stop crying.
simon tries to swap joe's shoes with ones that are velcro, but that causes more hysterics.
those aren't the ones, it's not right! it's not right!
"something wrong?"
your voice is soft and gentle in the morning. you look visibly flustered—your hair is falling out of the style you had thrown it into when you woke up, and the hair around your face sticks to you with sweat. the baby is on your hip, little eyes watery and red as she tugs and pulls on your shirt to get your attention. simon clears his throat, shaking his head.
"'s fine, i got it—"
"my shoes! my shoes! my shoes!"
simon doesn't have time to explain himself as you shove the baby into his arms and kneel down in front of joe. you immediately cup his chubby cheeks and stroke them gently, wiping the tears away as you shush him. you sweep a hand under the bed before you produce his favorite blue shoes.
simon watches as you tie them as he tucks the baby girl into the crook of his arm. she settles there perfectly; her little body contorts to the fat and muscle there in the space between his forearm and chest, and when she sticks her little thumb in her mouth, her eyes already begin to flutter closed. she hiccups and stops crying, and the quiet that comes over the room immediately soothes both you and joe.
"can daddy take you to school, joe?"
"i want you to take me."
you sigh, running a hand over your face. you stand up on wobbly legs as joe waddles towards his backpack, and you look over your shoulder at simon as he steps back awkwardly to give you space.
"can you stay here with her? shouldn't be more than an hour."
simon just nods. he adjusts the fabric of his mask, his shoulders finally relaxing, and you contain the wobble of your bottom lip before disappearing back downstairs to finish making joe's lunch.
the insecurity that bleeds into simon's bones aches. simon watches from the kitchen window as you buckle joe into the backseat of your car and back out with a tired wave.
the baby is sleeping when the sound of your tires gets farther and farther away. she's settled against his warm chest, sucking on her thumb still, breathing softly in the safest place in the world. he settles on the couch with her, adjusting his grip so that he can lift his finger and trace her perfect nose with it and watch her carefully.
she's so beautiful. his eyes, your hair texture. his cheeks, your nose. she's perfection, and simon is content knowing that she's only inherited the good parts of himself and none of the terrible. he knows it is because you made her; all that time in your pretty belly means she only could come out as nothing but pure goodness and innocence.
when you come home, simon is still in the same place, watching the baby sleep. you drop your purse by the door and slump down onto one of the chairs at the table, and you stare too long at your hands that simon knows that something is wrong.
"i'm...sorry," simon mutters. "'bout this morning. don't know wot i'm doin'."
you shake your head.
"not your fault," you whisper. "he's in that...phase. last week, he wouldn't let me put any jeans on him, said they all felt funny. today, it was shoes. next week, it'll be something else." you seem to remember yourself, and you stand up to cross into the living room, gesturing to the baby. "i-i can take her now. thanks for watching her."
simon shakes his head slightly.
"oi—" he frowns under the mask, and with his free hand, he points to the spot next to him. you shuffle close before taking a seat beside him, and you squeak a little when grips you by the back of the neck and forces your forehead against his. "don't need ta thank me for lookin' after my own. they're mine, too, luv, y'hear me?" he shakes his head. "'s not a favor. 's my job."
"i-i know—"
"do you understand me, luv?" simon asks, firmer this time. you meet his eyes, eyes watery, and you nod. "say it."
"don't thank you for doing what you're supposed to be doing. i-i got it."
"thatta girl."
simon holds you in his lap when she wakes up hungry. your back against his chest, top pulled down, tits out as your baby feeds gently. his masked nose traces slow lines up and down the side of your neck, and he squeezes your soft middle as your baby hiccups and suckles from you.
"look at ya," simon hums, nose at your jaw. "there'll never be a better mum in this entire world besides you, swee'eart."
when you come down from putting her to sleep in her bedroom, simon appreciates the view. your shirt is still down, your breasts slick and nipples pebbled, and simon licks over his teeth under the mask as he tents his sweats almost immediately.
"fuckin' hell," simon mutters, and you move to pull your shirt back into place when you notice his hand slip under the waistband and let his cock slip out just enough.
you know simon "ghost"riley as a munch. a hungry, nasty bastard. he doesn't care where his next meal comes from, as long as it's some part of you, and with simon as your husband, he has lots of choices.
you caress the back of his neck as his lips wrap around your nipple. you're leaking, tender breasts sore from frequent feedings and pumping, and simon's tongue soft and gentle against the skin makes your entire body shake.
simon could eat you from anywhere, and you'd be wet and waiting. your pussy soaks your panties. your mouth is filled with drool. there's sweat gathering at the base of your spine even, he could lick you anywhere, and there would be something for him to taste.
you close your eyes when you hear the gentle shlick, shlick, shlick of his hand around his cock. he's always so wet, too, always leaking everywhere and ruining his boxers with globs of precum that you always want on your tongue instead. simon and his big dick—when you first saw him naked, you thought he'd be big and stupid because surely he couldn't be the whole package, but fuck.
simon is so good at everything. a perfect soldier. a loving father. a doting husband. an incredible fuck. simon has always defied your expectations in the best way, and you're reminded of this when you smear his tip across the palm of your hand and lick up something thick and heady with a whine.
he lays you on your back once he has your nipples soft and dripping with his saliva. your cheek is smushed against the cushions as he slips your sweats off, and your knees fall open as he tears a hole into the gusset of your panties and dips his head to tongue at your cunt.
your thighs close around his head. your arms stretch up above your head, and you whimper as simon secures your legs over his shoulders and eats wet and slow. you haven't shaved yet still, tired and preoccupied with your babies, and it makes you leak even more onto his tongue when he uses his thumbs to push the hood back over your clit to get better access.
what a man. simon worships your pussy because it gave him heaven over hell. he found redemption in it. a second chance. life is discovered and made here, right between your thighs, and you reach down with both hands and scratch along the back of his head as he slides his tongue inside of you and swallows the mouthful of slick that he's rewarded with.
"simon..." you mumble, eyes watery. your back arches, and you grind up into his mouth, and he hums with relief as he opens his mouth and spits on your clit. "simon...i-i..."
"y'r so beautiful," he murmurs. "my pretty girl, look at you—" simon groans as he uses his thumbs to spread your folds, pushing the pubic hair out of view so he could admire your cunt. "wants my cock, doesn't she?"
"a-always," you whimper, hiccuping. you scramble to touch his chest, feeling over his pecs before digging your nails in and letting your mouth open to kiss him hotly. you lift your hands to push his mask up a little more, revealing more scar tissue, and you squeal with surprise when he flips you over onto your stomach and hikes you up by your hips. your legs kick a little as you scramble to get up onto your knees, but you sink back into the cushions when he taps his cock against your folds as a warning before sliding in until his hips are flush against your ass.
"oh, love," simon mutters. he secures a hand on your opposite hip, using it for leverage to fuck you back onto his cock at a steady, slow pace. you groan with relief, stretching your arms out in front of you, and he almost calls you a pretty kitty until your pussy clenching catches his voice with a moan. jesus fucking christ, simon has known you for years, and it always feels so good. he always feels like he's one wrong move from coming too fast inside of you, always feels too close to another plane of existence when he's got his cock in you. from that first night with you to your wedding night to now, he never gets used to how soft and warm and tight you can be. it's always been this good. it's always been not enough. it's always been everything he's ever wanted, and it's always making him feel like a lesser man when realizes he won't last because you're too fucking pretty, bloody hell—
you're barely lucid as you lay there. you're on your back again, thighs trembling, knees bend as simon hunches over your cunt and continues to eat. he doesn't like to leave messes behind, and all you can do is cry from overstimulation as he keeps his tongue moving and his voice low.
when you kiss, it tastes strange. it's so odd to taste yourself in his mouth, but at the same time, you feel your libido kick in all over again, fueled by the way simon never seems to get enough of you. you think you'd go again probably, you think you'd toss your leg over him and ride him all lazy and hot, but the baby monitor crackles, and you hear your little girl whimpering on the other end of it.
simon pulls away from you with a thick string of saliva lingering between your mouths. he licks his lips to break it, wiping his face with the back of his hand before pulling the mask back down.
he gets up with a grunt, shrugging his sweats back up, and your eyes flutter shut as you watch him make his way upstairs where your daughter whines.
simon's only been home on leave for a week, and you can't keep your hands off of him. you're going to lose your mind.
no...i won't. i'm just gonna fuck him again.
when you come through the door later that afternoon, joe is in hysterics. as you got closer and closer to home, he got increasingly more agitated, wailing in the backseat of the car and begging you for home, home, home.
joe is running once the door is open. simon is in the living room, lounging with the television on, the baby cradled in one arm as she sucks down a bottle eagerly. simon looks fondly at the sight, a brow raising as he watches his son going as fast as his little legs will take him. joe flings himself onto the couch, climbing up with that face full of tears, and simon opens his free arm just fast enough to catch your son as he buries himself in simon's chest.
you shut the door behind you and lock it, and as you hang your bag up, you watch with sparkly eyes as simon cradles his son against his side and closes his eyes as they hug. your son isn't used to simon being home so much, and you realize now, that's why he's been throwing these fits. he loves having his father home so much, he doesn't know how to handle his big feelings. feeling overwhelmed, excited, frustrated, eager—he just wants his father, that's all his tantrums have ever been about. he misses simon.
you miss him, too.
it takes a little more effort to kick your shoes off, and you bite your lip as you stare down at your toes, wiggling them as you realize your feet are starting to swell a little. that tell-tale sign. that tickle in your lower belly.
you look up again, and simon is staring at you, all lidded and warm. you smile, face hot, because simon will never not be the most attractive man in any room you're in. he looks even better right now, both of your babies cradled in those big arms of his.
hmm. well. there's definitely room there for another.
you always knew this day would come—when someone would finally come looking for you. (ghost x f!reader, 18+, cw graphic violence)
he's always reminding you about consequences. there are deliberate choices that you make that set off chain reactions, whether or not you intended to.
one of your choices was choosing simon riley. terrible, horrifying, brute simon riley, who on paper was supposed to be dead, but in reality was still on the SAS payroll.
there were a lot of reasons not to let simon into your life. there were a lot of reasons to let him go.
he never answers his phone—the relic that it is. he comes and goes as the job demands; sometimes he's home for supper when he says, and sometimes you don't see him until three weeks too late. his entire family is dead because of the same job he leaves for, and he's never let you see his face.
yeah. definitely reasons to walk away; but there were too many other reasons to stay.
"oi—eyes 'ere, love."
your lashes flutter when his gloved fingers hit under your chin, angling your face up. he kisses you, masked lips pressing against your mouth, and you sigh as he runs his other hand down the back of your head, clutching the nape of your neck.
"come back soon," you whisper. "i-i...i know you can't promise—"
"'s olright," he murmurs. "heart's beatin' out of y'r chest, baby." he runs his nose along yours, shaking his head. "won't be long. this one's recon, nothin' else."
you close your eyes, reaching for his jacket. you clutch the front of it, standing on your toes, and he chuckles lowly. your mouth falls open when his hands cup you under your thighs, squeezing your ass as he drags you even closer and breathes out slowly.
"can you say it?" you ask.
"even though you know it?"
"just say it, simon."
"mmm." he grips your jaw tight with one hand, and it forces your eyes open. you look at him, trying not to smile, and you feel warmth spread in your belly when you see his eyes crinkle, indicating his own smile. "i love you."
you can't stop the giggle that leaves you. it feels so stupid sometimes, to feel this way. you never understood the metaphor of butterflies in your stomach, but fuck, what else could it be? how else do you describe it?
it's quiet when he's away. it's nothing but monotonous chores and waiting for him to come home. you go to work, you come home, and then you try to distract yourself from doing anything except think about simon.
simon in the field. simon in hostile territory. simon having to fire that gun. it follows you into your nightmares, and you think about it when you close your eyes.
it's why you can't sleep. it's why you hear footsteps on the ground floor of your house, and it's why you're awake when you know someone is here.
your hand reaches for the knife simon keeps under his side of the mattress. you slide out of bed, slipping your socks on, and you use them to keep your steps quiet as you go to hide by the doorway to your bedroom.
you peek around the edge, looking over the railing towards downstairs. you can't see much from this angle, but you do see a shadow pass by, and you know just from the shadow of it that it isn't simon.
you hug the wall again, closing your eyes. you squeeze the hilt of the blade in your hand tight, taking a deep breath.
keep your head on. you know what to do.
"negative. nothing downstairs. heading up-top."
you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. you hear a step creak, and you know that he's halfway up the stairs now. american accent. you grit your teeth, trying to commit all the little details to memory.
the clock reads 3 in the morning. there's a full moon tonight. it's cool outside. there's someone in your house—
you see the toe of his boot just before he comes into the bedroom. you wait until his gun has made it past the doorway before you make your move.
incapacitate. incapacitate. incapacitate.
you go for the thigh first. you swipe with all of your weight, catching him off-guard. you go for the warm spots that his gear doesn't protect, and you cut deep on his inner thigh. he stumbles forward, screaming, and you use his moment of weakness and shove the blade right up into his armpit. the gun skids across the floor as he screams again in agony, and you shove him hard into the dresser behind him before you run.
"you fucking bitch! i'm gonna kill you!"
not before i kill you.
you make your way downstairs, skipping the creaky step before making your way into the den. you pat a hand under the coffee table, mentally giving your assassin boyfriend a big, wet kiss when you find a gun secured to the underside. you slide it out of its holster, checking the chamber, where you see one loaded in already. you switch the safety off, the weight of it heavy, and you hurry to duck around a corner as you hear him limp downstairs.
"i'm gonna find you, you fucking cunt. i'm gonna find you and fucking bury you!"
you keep circling behind the walls as he makes his way further into the living room. he's stalking, swinging his gun around sloppily as he kicks the couch and flips chairs looking for you.
"i'm gonna make sure he sees what i do to you. he's gonna pay!"
when you see him sway on his feet, you know you have the upper hand.
you circle back into the kitchen, ducking to use the counters as cover. you tuck the gun under the sink before reaching for the skillet sitting there. stainless steel; the weight feels good as you hold it in front of you, and you creep to where he still is checking under the dining table.
he never hears you coming. he turns around for a split second, but you're already swinging.
"fucking bitch—"
something cracks under the pressure as he crumples to the floor. you kick the gun out of his way, and you lick over your teeth as you inspect the damage. the lip of the pan caught the edge of his mouth, and a couple of his teeth lay on the floor behind him. he coughs, blood splattering, and you drop the pan as you go for the duck tape in one of the kitchen drawers.
it takes a considerable amount of effort to hoist him up onto a dining chair. he's all bulk and gear, but you manage to sit him there, and you carefully tape each wrist and leg to the chair before securing him with zip-ties and spare rope. you use the remaining bit of rope to fasten it around his mouth, not even stopping when he howls from the broken teeth he's still spitting out.
you go for the bookshelf in the living room, keeping an eye on him the entire time. you feel for the right book, pulling it off the shelf before reaching for the satellite phone hidden inside.
you dial the only number on it.
it only rings a few times before you hear someone pick up on the other line.
"this is price."
you swallow hard, toes curling as your hands tremble just a little.
"uhm—" you close your eyes for a second as you rack your brain. "we're geronimo."
the other line is quiet for a few moments before you hear a deep sigh.
"i read you, love. how many?"
you squeeze the phone to your ear, sniffling.
"just one. i think."
"you think?"
"just...just one."
you hear some interference, and then he grunts.
"stay low. stay quiet."
"wait—" your voice shakes. "he...he knew. he knew who was supposed to be here."
"mmm," price curses under his breath. "roger tha'. you stay put. don't answer the door for anyone, and don't leave. do not open the bloody door unless i call this phone, do you read me?"
"y-yes."
you flinch as the phone call gets cut. you wobble on shaky legs as you take a seat on the couch. your eyes are wet and watery as you keep staring at the back of the man's head, not willing to look away in fear that he'll get loose.
you wait hours. you're still in your pajamas; just a big shirt to sleep in and fuzzy socks, your hair in all directions and on the cusp of totally freaking out as you guard the intruder to your house. he can't talk; he tried for awhile, screaming and spitting over the rope, but he gave up after awhile, and now he sits with his head slumped over and his chin to his chest.
when the satellite phone rings, you count to three before answering it. the sun is high now; it must be close to noon.
"hello?"
"open the door, baby."
as soon as he crosses the threshold, you're in his arms. forearm hooked around the small of your back, masked face buried in your neck as he hoists you up onto your toes and hugs you to his chest. you bite back a sob as you wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him back tight as you let all of the tension melt off your body.
all the fear. all the worry. all the guilt—he takes it all.
"i...i-i did what you said, simon, i—"
"did so well, baby," simon mutters. "y'r perfect. you 'ear tha'? perfect."
he pulls away, cupping both of your cheeks and making you look at him. you sniffle, letting some tears fall finally, and he catches them on his gloved thumbs and brushes them away.
"oi," simon shakes his head. "i'm proud o' you. y'r mine, yeah? oll mine."
you nod, stepping forward, and he wraps and arm around your shoulders as you bury your face in his chest. you cling to him, digging your nails in, and he stands up straight before opening the door wider.
three men file into your home. you've never met any of them, but you recognize the mohawked one from a picture simon showed you once. when the three of them make it into the kitchen, you hear a low whistle and a few curses.
"bleedin' christ," one laughs. "ye look like right shite!"
you're holding simon's hand when you follow him into the kitchen. simon sighs, narrowing his eyes as he gets a good look at your trophy. he's bleeding in your kitchen, eyes watery as he looks around the room. he's terrified; he doesn't try to fight, and he averts his gaze as quickly as he looked up.
"bloody hell," simon mutters.
the one in the beanie is definitely in charge. he looks much older, a few greys sprinkled throughout his hair, and when he speaks, you recognize his voice.
"this your work, simon?" he asks, nodding towards where you stand. you squeeze simon's hand, and he squeezes back.
"it's mine," you say.
"is that right?" he raises a brow. "simon didn't teach you how to subdue a bloody target this way, is that it?"
"well, not exactly," you hide a little behind simon's arm. "i took some...creative liberties."
"i can see that."
simon ushers you upstairs, kissing the back of your head through the mask as he watches you climb them. he gave you the go-ahead to start packing your things, and you just nodded and made your way up. simon lingers at the bottom of the steps as gaz sticks a bag over the guy's head.
"price," simon says lowly, and his captain turns his head to look at him.
"got somethin' to say?"
simon looks back to where you just disappeared into the bedroom.
"do wot you will with the bloke." simon's grip on the railing nearly splits the wood. "but you leave the last of 'im to me."
when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.
type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3
cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+
There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.
You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.
You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.
You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.
A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.
The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.
It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.
There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.
That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.
You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.
"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"
He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.
"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."
His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."
"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."
The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.
"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"
"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"
He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.
"Suppose."
"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"
He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.
"Wot's tha' include?"
"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."
"Tha's my specialty, love."
"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."
"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."
"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."
A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.
"'m Simon."
The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.
You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.
"Olright, love. Lead the way."
Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.
"This wot he stole?"
You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.
"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."
The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.
You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.
"What the fuck is this?"
You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.
"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."
"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."
"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."
Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.
"Who the bloody hell is that?"
You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.
"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"
Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.
"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"
Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.
"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."
Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—
Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.
He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.
"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."
"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"
"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"
"Please…"
"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.
"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"
"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.
"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."
He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.
"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.
"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.
"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—
Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.
"Ahh—fuck."
You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.
You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.
"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"
It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.
"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"
"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."
You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.
"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.
"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.
"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"
"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."
"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"
Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.
The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.
Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.
Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.
Nothing at all.
He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.
"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.
"Never better."
Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.
Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.
It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.
She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.
"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
the sunshine of the night shift, all cookies and lavender, loves to make the grumpy, sassy, silver fox attending smile through attempts at flirting and baked goods. but what happens when he asks a certain replacement attending for drinks and the sunshine dims?
—angst. hurt/comfort. fluff ending. reader can be described as plus size but no specified race. age gap (reader is in her late 20s, early 30s, our grumpy man in his late 40s, early 50s). medical inaccuracy.
part two coming soon !
thank you to @cafekitsune for the lovely divider!
"Are those croissants?"
"Better yet, they are vanilla cream stuffed croissants."
The unsubtle smell of your new croissants wafted through the air, alerting almost everyone of your presence that came with new baked goods like a package deal. All the pittlings, as you so dearly called them, looked up as Dana playfully scoffed at the obscenely mouthwatering croissants which you brought in.
"Trin, wait—"
"Nope!"
"No, no, no! You stole all of the cookies last week!" Matteo came running, hands already up to defend the desserts as Trinity opened up the lid of your container before you could even reach the nurses' station.
"What about me—I'm literally her favourite—"
Dennis almost tripped trying to catch up as you gave custody of your beloved croissants to one of the hands trying to poach them away. You walked up to the nurses station handing a secret stash to dana and lena, your mama nurses, before grinning at the scene in front of you.
"You're spoiling them." Dana scolded, without any bite. She also knew how much they deserved it, and how you were too sweet to actually stop treating the youngest of the pitt.
You gave her a side hug. "They deserve something after busting their asses here, especially under Robby. God knows what's up his ass these days. How many times did he yell at Samira today?"
Dana and Lena scoffed, "Almost told her she didn't belong here again."
You rolled your eyes. This wasn't new at all. You made a mental note to check up on the girl yourself.
You looked at them in front of you. Matteo, Trinity and Dennis were already battling against each other and somehow Langdon had already gotten away with two pieces—one for Mel, obviously—and then Shen's invading hands also won the match.
Your heart warmed at all of them.
"You done distracting my staff, nurse?"
A buzz of electricity shot through your spine at the deep, gravelly voice. You turned around on your heels, a sly grin adorning your face, cheeks bumped up to meet his almost smirk and beautiful hazel eyes.
Dr. Jack Abbot. Your grumpy, sassy, hot attending. Your personal mission.
"So you agree that i'm distracting?"
Javadi made a choked noise that sounded almost like chortle while covering her mouth.
He huffed at you, crossing his arms on his chest. You had to keep your eyes from drifting to the muscles on his big arms taut against his broad chest.
"Bribing my students with baked goods? That's distracting."
"You know, its crazy—all i keep hearing is that you find me a.k.a my cooking is distracting, doc."
"Yeah? Well that's medically compromising—you should get your ears checked."
You rolled your eyes, your grin unwavering by his dry quips. "Well, what's medically compromising is your appetite, Abbot. Say, when was the last time you tried any of my distracting goods?"
He raised his eyebrows, "Why? You want me distracted too, nurse?" His voice dropped a decibel, as if the whisper was a secret meant to only rile you up. Your cheeks immediately turned pink, dusting the tips of your ears as well.
Your grin faltered. His almost came into view.
"Very subtle—" Shen coughed up, very unsubtly as your intimate moment with the attending came crashing. Jack took a quick look at your face; pink cheeks and ears and the confidence of the sunshine he managed to falter. A prideful feeling almost bloomed in his chest—only he could affect you like this. Fluster you like this. A small smile was about to make to his face, but was he about to let you win?
"Okay, back to work everyone! santos, you still have to finish those charts!"
He moved away from your space, the warmth lingering in your heart. But you saw it—he almost gave in.
"Well, sunshine—you almost made it. take the win, will ya?" Dana's voice rang out in the back. but you shook your head, your lower lip getting caught between your teeth, leaning back onto the counter, watching your grumpy attending order around. "Never giving up on this, Dana. Not until he actually smiles, or even laughs."
"God, when will you both stop?"
—
It all started during a particularly, mercifully uneventful night at the pitt.
You, including almost everyone at the pitt, had their eyes glued on the screen with dollars on stake. Will the stupid teenagers who stole their professor's car, with a brake fail, be caught by the unwitting police? Or will they crash? In who's vicinity? Presby or will they have to save lives in the pitt, yet again?
You had put 40$ on presby and he had snorted. "You're optimistic."
"You should try it sometimes—might just make your grumpy face prettier, old man."
Whittaker's eyes widened, Trinity side eyed Perlah and Princess who were looking like they just found gold, Jesse and Donnie stopped incessantly organising the crash cart in case the car did crash in the pitt's vicinity and Dana and Robby smirked at each other.
Amusement etched onto the attending's face and it was a thrill you never stopped chasing. "C'mon, even the grumpy dwarf in snow white smiled, doc—what's stopping you?"
He just shook his head at you, huffing at the comment and walked off. You watched him walk away with his back towards you and accepted the challenge. "One day or the other, I'm gonna make you smile, Abbot—maybe even laugh—you'll see!"
He raised his eyebrows at you and leaned back onto a wall with his arms crossed on his chest, making something thunder inside your body. "We'll see about that, nurse. But first, you might want to look at the screen."
The police had caught them.
—
After that day, you brought in your best food and your best lines. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about seeing him smile. I mean, obviously you wanted to see him smile, almost concerned it would make your heart stop, but Jack Abbot started to mean something more.
Seeing him everyday, looking into his soulful eyes, his stupid soft voice while talking to patients and the almost smile he gives you during your shenanigans bloomed a deep, warm, ridiculously fuzzy feeling which had set itself somewhere behind your sternum.
Even if it got a huff out of him, a scoff, a smirk that burned its way through the small space in between you both to between your legs or just raised eyebrows.
So, you never stopped flirting. Never stopped baking. Never stopped chasing his smile. It became your dream. Because you knew it would be breathtaking to see it, feel it and know that you were the cause of it.
So, you were here, with a hop in your step, making your way towards the man.
"And i thought these dull hospital lights could never make anyone look good, but here you are, proving me wrong, mr. grouch."
He didn't even look up from the chart he was assessing. "Don't you have patients to check up on?"
"Don't you have some smiling to do?"
He turned to look at you and the warm feeling started to spread through your body, unwarranted. He was about to quip back, his mouth opening slightly when—
"19 year old, GSW to the chest, head trauma, pulse is thready—"
Jack's shoulders and jaw set itself tight, as if bracing for whatever was about to come next. he kept the chart back with a thud, going around you, hand brushing on your lower back. "You're with me. smiling later." He said, lowly, breath fanning your ear.
"Promise?" Your voice had gone heavy.
You gulped as you both walked towards the gurney, his hand still on your lower back, a small comfort before heading into the storm. He glanced back at you, before getting to the boy after you gave him a nod of readiness.
"Trauma 2 is open!" You heard princess yell.
You took a deep breath before going in, hoping this one will turn around. everyone is here. Jack is here.
It was going to be okay.
—
Your hands trembled.
Your breath was stoic. It didn't dare to move the air between you or the resident still doing cpr.
Jack glanced at his watch. "stop."
His voice had lost its sharpness but it still held authority. It honeyed through the trauma room, reaching you. But it didn't warm you up like it usually did. His concerned face was focused at the year 2 resident who was starting to hyperventilate. She still kept going.
He glanced at you. You understood what he needed. You moved forward, Your body numb. "Sweetheart, you need to let go. Its okay, its going to be alright—"
"No!" She shrieked. You heard Jack calling her name. "He was younger than me—" She whispered.
Jack stepped forward and gripped her shoulders. "Its okay, doctor. Let go. Look at me—I need you to breathe."
Her hands went slack. The machine beeped mercilessly. "Time of death, 5.57 am."
You circled your arms around her as she fell, weeping into your chest.
"shh, I know. C'mon let's get you out." You whispered, your voice sweet as sugar, your soul numbing as the machine beeped.
Jack looked at you but you avoided his gaze. Your hands were trembling, your vision was blurring and your heart was trying to punch its way through your body. Your brain couldn't take it. But you still took care of the people around you. You squeezed donnie's hand on the way out because you knew his kid was also a teenager. You promised princess a treat because you knew she was not going to eat after this. You took care of the resident in your arms because you knew she wont be able to sleep after this.
His gaze burned on your back as it followed your figure through the overbearing walls of the pitt.
After, you got the resident settled, you were about go off to take a breather when Ellis called your name. "Hey! The kid in trauma 2, do you mind calling his parents and informing them?" Your heart ached and flashbacks of another trauma, another death, another set of parents losing their whole world burned in your mind. But you nodded.
"Hello? am I speaking to Mrs Shah?" You introduced yourself, "I'm speaking from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center—"
Immediately the questions started, the panic, the desperation, the devastation. You sighed, your exhaustion and anguish slipping out. You tried to explain the urgency, that they needed to come immediately. Your hands shook as you hung up and closed your eyes.
You tried to busy yourself, checking up on other patients, but your mind still wandered away to the boy. The sorrow of another soul departing, another young life you couldn't save, another injustice was too heavy. The grief set in your bones.
It was a reminder of how this job got harder. These walls sometimes seemed too hollow, too empty, with the losses all of the doctors had faced. This department wrung people out with its cruelty. You were expected to move on with no time to process everything.
That's where Jack came.
Being with him, bantering, flirting, joking—it gave you joy—something that the E.D could never steal. He made working and just being there easier, as if the air got much more breathable around him. You were almost addicted to the giddiness you felt around him. his salt and pepper curls, his teasing voice with you, his dry sarcasm, the way his black tee stretched around the muscles on his back and biceps—
"Excuse me? We were called in urgently? We are looking for our son? Neil Shah?"
The grief crashed down on you. Your eyes turned glassy again and tried to look for any other nurse or even Jack so that you wouldn't be in this position. Not again. Not where you have to inform the parents that their beloved child has passed away. Not where you have to hear the wails of the mother and denial of the father.
You sighed in defeat and led them to an empty room. slowly, you explained what had happened. How their son had passed away. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs Shah. Truly."
They had started crying, asking you questions, Demanding answers to truths you didn't know. Until one question. "How did he get shot?"
"He—" Your voice broke, but that's when you felt a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Your beacon of comfort. You immediately recognized it. "I'm Doctor Abbot—I performed the surgery on your son. Nurse, could you please assist Dr. Kwan with a consult in south eight?"
Your heart filled with gratitude. He gave you an out. and you took it. You nodded but not before mouthing a thank you to the man in front of you. He squeezed your shoulder before holding the door open for you and your heart squeezed. Why did he have to be so kind?
You took a quick glance towards him before getting out. You felt you could breathe.
That did not long last.
"Can you believe he did that? I mean, if I was in his place, I would never put my life on the line—for a girl i just met? That was so stupid—"
You took a sharp inhale and jerked your head to the voice. "How dare you? Just because you don't even have an ounce of the bravery, the courage and the empathy that he had, doesn't mean you get to call it stupid, you—"
Before you could go up to him and slap him, strong hands grabbed you, wrapping around your torso, with no harshness but just comfort coursing through.
"Ogilvie, if you don't have even 1% basic empathy or haven't heard the phrase 'dont talk ill of the dead' I suggest you drop out of medical school and go back to 3rd grade."
You shoulders visibly relax at the voice and at his fingers which softly caressed your chubby love handles—this man was not helping you keep cool. Heat travelled up your neck when you felt his chest rumble with some instructions he gave to the resident in front of him.
Jack called your name and his hands travelled to your shoulders. "Come on, let's go—"
"What? what about the consult—"
"That was a lie—"
"You dog—"
"Come on, you nuisance. let's get you a breather."
—
"The roof?"
"You'll see."
The door busted open and strong gust of wind hit you in the face. And there it was.
You gasped and your hands went to Jack's forearm. "oh my god."
"Oh my god."
"Come on, you wanna see the sunrise?"
"Well, at least ask me for a cup of coffee first, old man. you losing your touch already?" He gave you a deadpan look. "But of course, if you insist."
He took you to the railing. "I've heard you go even beyond the railing..."
Jack gave you a side eye. "Oh come on, you really believe anything really stays in the box at this hole?" He still did not entertain you. "Please, Jack?" You gazed up at him, with your best puppy eyes.
"Alright. But only this time."
He ducked and got across first, holding out his hand for you, fingers gently taking your palm and helping you cross the railing. "Thank you," You softly murmured, the touch growing the warmth in your chest. the sunrise had only taken its footing—the soft blue of the sky was slowly lighting up. "So," You took a deep breath, "why did you bring me to your sacred space?"
"Sacred space? Really?" Jack scoffed.
"Everybody knows its where you and robby come to make heart eyes at each other—" He grunted and you let out a soft laugh. "Come on, tell me." You whined.
"I saw you." He spoke. "After–after you realized he was gone, after we declared the time of death. your hands were trembling," Your breath hitched. "Your breaths were small, your voice was—" You looked away. His gaze bore deep into your eyes, trying to probe out the vulnerability gently, and his voice was too tender, too warm, almost wrapping you up in their saccharine like blanket. "The point is, you still took care of everyone. Donnie, Princess, the resident—"
"Someone has to. I just choose to. Nobody forces me to, Jack." Your voice gets small.
"And when will you let yourself take care? When will you take a breath?" Your breath hitched. "You're the sunshine of the dark side, sweetheart. We don't want you fading out while you take care of others." He syruped.
You hoped it would stay dark so that he couldn't see the red on your cheeks, the heat crawling up your neck and how you couldn't trust your own voice anymore. But you braved on.
"um, I dont know if you know this, doc, but i shifted to nights for a reason other than one grumpy teddy bear," You let out a giggle when jack let out an annoyed huff, "there was a girl, 19, just like today's kid. She was abducted and tried escaping, but the abductor shot her. She was brought in, I was a part of the surgery and despite everything, despite Robby busting his ass—she–" Your voice broke and you gripped the railing. "She almost escaped it, but...her parents were angry more than heartbroken. Her mother threw things at the father, he yelled back and I tried to calm them down, but h-he pulled me in, threw me in the wall and said i was too incompetent, I couldn’t save his daughter's life."
You inhaled sharply. "He killed himself 2 months later."
"Look at me."
"Jack—"
He pleaded your name. "Tyat was not your fault. It will never get easy, I know that...too well. But you learn to live around it, but I need you to understand that it was not your fault."
You nodded. "How do you live with it?"
"Before returning to pittsburgh, before my...leg, in Afghanistan—we used to get this street food. It used to be sold at nights and we used to switch routes and trade fucking mattresses and anything just to have a chance to get it. its called kolcha. It used to be heaven in the hell we were put in.
I used to see my brothers get blown up, losing their lives, civilians losing a sense of humanity after the way everyone treated them. But there are soft joys that help the grief. that helped me live. stopped me from..." He trailed off, a pensive look forming on his face.
Your hand clasped around his on the railing. He gazed up at you, your eyes already on him, so honeyed, filled with care and admiration, with so much compassion, he didn't know what to do with it.
You both just gaped at each other. your hearts filled to the brim. Getting lost in time.
Suddenly, a ray of sunlight reflected in Jack's hazel eyes and you broke your contact, a gasp forming on your lips as you tore your eyes away to marvel at the jawdropping sunrise.
The sun was officially peeking up. Its rays bounced off skyscrapers made of glass, lighting up the small alleys of the street. The orange and yellow shades painted the horizon and you almost died right there. "Its so beautiful..."
The sunlight was colouring your skin, your giddiness coming out with the sun.
"Will you take care of yourself, sunny?"
You let out a sweet giggle. "Sunny?"
"The sun clearly loves you." He murmured softly before tucking in a strand of hair fallen haphazardly on your eyes, blocking him from the view.
"Hmm, you're going soft on me, old man. or are you just manipulating me so that I won't tell anyone that your grumpy attitude is a hoax and you're just a big ol' teddy bear?"
He snorted and let out a soft smile.
Your heart jumped.
"Oh my god!" you gasped and pointed. "Oh my god! You smiled!"
"Come on, sunny. Let's get you inside before you tragically die due to slipping while celebrating something that never happened—"
"Excuse me—" You scoffed but let him lead you onto the safer side of the railing, his hands on your shoulders, sliding down to your hands to steady you as you come over.
"Try convincing Robby that you did it—"
"Oh fuck off, you are just a big, fuzzy, loving teddy bear inside—"
His smile burned through you, in your heart.
And as you predicted, you could never forget it.
—
The next day, there was a new skip to your walk as you entered the pitt. You had spent your day trying to calm down your heart every time you reminisced what happened on the roof. Your skin would jump with goosebumps and your cheeks would immediately redden. So you distracted yourself in the best way.
You walked in with a box in your hand. The aroma of the newly tried recipe made everyone turn their heads. But this time you refrained from giving in to your beloved pittlings' puppy eyes.
Lena and Dana raised their eyebrows. "What's got our sunshine happier than before?"
"Nothing." You squealed softly.
"Mhm." Lena hummed. But mama nurse knew you too well. She knew all of you too well. "You know, you spent an awful lotta time on the roof yesterday. And what's that in the box you're tryin' so hard to keep away?"
"Its for Jack." You murmured. "He mentioned this food he had when he was in Afghanistan—"
"Didn't Dr. Abbot take you up on the roof yesterday?" Joy chimed in.
"What!?" Trinity yelped.
"Excuse me?" Dana took her glasses off and left them on the counter with a thud.
"Are you serious?" Matteo asked you, with her eyes wide open as Princess squealed to Perlah. "i knew it! may utang ka sa akin ng 50 bucks!"
Donnie gave you a pat on the back, like he was proud of you. "W–wait—guys—"
"What's going on here?"
You closed your eyes and sighed in defeat. The voice, the man, the mchottie who had you in trouble. Ellis leaned up on the counter with a dangerously smug look on her face. "Well, we were just talking about sunshine here and yo—"
Your eyes widened and embarrassment crawled up your veins in your neck, swirling anxiety in your brain with all the ways this could go wrong. "Okay! Everybody go back to work, now! Trinity, go home. Ellis, your labs for the 33 year old lady in north five are here and Matteo—"
She peered at Matteo with her glasses slid down till her nose, staring at his phone dreamily, who straightened up, as if he was caught with a scandal. "—do us all a favour, keep the yearning for Dr. Javadi aside and get. back. to. work!"
Everyone scrambled off. You gaped at her with a grateful look in your eyes. "You are amazing."
You turned around to look at the man you've been—shamefully or shamelessly you didn't know—thinking about the whole night and your jaw almost dropped. The sight was marvelous.
Jack abbot in gear.
Camouflage pants and a tight black tee.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer." He dryly quipped at you.
Before you could reply, a gurney came bursting through the bay. "55 year old man, cardiac arrest—"
You felt his whole body reset and bracing like it always did. "Sunny, you're with me—"
"Sunny?" Shen asked, a knowing, smug look adorned his face as his eyes jumped from him to you. Your whole body flushed. He was going to be your ruin. Jack ignored Shen's absolutely valid inquiry with the excuse of the patient in front of him. But you're frozen.
He still remembered your conversation.
Did he think about it again and again and again like you did?
Your heart did not stop pumping blood but your brain stopped producing logic it seems.
"Sunny? You still with me?" Hus rough yet gentle voice coaxed you out of your thoughts and reminded you of the situation at hand. You cleared your throat and just nodded wordlessly, hoping no one would notice the red on you face.
How will you survive this man?
After sending him off to surgery, Crus looked between the both of you, as if he could sense the electricity between you, the tension, the undying sense of something happened here and just these two are in denial. "That was smooth."
Jack raised one eyebrow at him, amusement etched onto his face. "What was?"
Crus cleared his throat. You stilled. You knew what was coming. Crus did not stop. "You two make a good team."
You shot him a glare that seemed somewhere between 'i will kill you' and 'please don't make my life hell'. He saw it, noted it, considered it.
And threw it in the trash apparently. "Just saying. Everyone saw it inside. Its like you both were in sync. Unstoppable. Inevitable—"
Don't say it.
"—made for each other."
Shen made a choked sound and Ellis pursed her lips, trying to contain her giggle. Beside you, Jack stilled.
"Sunny makes it easier. Made for the night shift." He grunted out.
"Don't make it sound dramatic." He signed on some discharge papers and handed them to Lena. His hand brushed against yours. "Bye, sunny." he murmured softly against your cheek and left you. All by yourself. To process what just happened.
"So, sunny?"
"Shut up, guys."
You turned around and walked towards the supply closet, nothing but an excuse to ditch the conversation that you are about to face.
They followed you like little ducklings.
"What happened to you guys on the roof?" Crus asked.
"Nothing happened—and how do you know?"
Ellis scoffed as if the notion of anything staying a secret in this hospital was absurdly ridiculous. "Come on! tell us—"
"Nothing happened guys and shush!" You glared at them. They peered on you with curiosity as your body shook with embarrassment? Humiliation? Adrenaline? The mere thought of Jack abbot and you on the roof?
Shen slurped on his stupid watered down coffee. "You should go for it."
"I will stab you—"
"No, he's right! At least then your sexual tension in between emergency traumas will not traumatise us."
"Excuse me?"
"Please—even the unconscious patient can sense it!"
You huffed and crossed your arms as if it could save you from this conversation and put on a mask of denial. "That's not even remotely true. besides—I don't like him!"
The three of them stared at you. "Yes, and Shen doesn't live on caffeine." Ellis deadpanned. "You cant deny something we see literally everyday. You banter, flirt, tease and even cook for him! Didn't you make something specially for him today?"
Crus gasped dramatically. "Whaaaat?"
You rolled your eyes. "Its not that big of a deal."
"Yes, it is." The three of them chimed in unison. Your eyes fell on their faces, their relentless questions and sighed in defeat. You scrunched your face, closing your eyes for just a second and then squinting at them. "Am I that obvious?"
"Yes—"
"No—"
You pursed your lips and raised your eyebrows at them. "Seriously?"
They gave you wordless looks almost meant to serve with pity, empathy, hope. You don't know. "Listen, you just made this afghan food for him which I know you've never even heard of before. You try to make him smile everyday and there is this embarrassingly obvious sexual tension in between you. Don't think that the ED is half blind to miss the looks you give him."
You sharply inhaled.
"Hey, there's no harm in going for it—he will say yes. If he doesn't, that's his loss. some other person will get your perfectly baked goods." Ellis assured you.
That's when your brain imagined it—wildly. Not in the unsaid, shy and restrained ways it has been doing for the past months. The vivid image of you and the attending you made smile, together, in each other's arms, happy. Holding hands, requited secret glances, soft kisses, stolen touches, his eyes with a gentleness and passion just saved for you and a love that's not a secret—its known, its seen and understood—but its just for both of you.
Your heart skipped a beat.
Your cheeks blushed furiously.
The three of them smirked, knowingly.
"I—" You gulped and stammered on your words. "I need to be somewhere." Your hands shook and your brain didn't comprehend what you needed, nor did your body and it all was about to go crashing when—
"What are you all doing there? Don't you have jobs?"
Jack.
You didn't whether to sigh in relief or wring your hair out in frustration. This man was going to end you. "You know, sunny also has patients to attend to, rather than hearing you guys bicker or gossip about whatever it is."
You felt heat and humiliation hiking up your neck as you notice the smug looks they give each other before wandering off. "Yes boss."
But not before Ellis winked at you, Crus gave you a smug salute, and Shen slurped away loudly, obnoxiously, knowingly, looking back and forth between you and Jack.
Speaking of the man, he just leaned against a counter, gazing at you, with an unpredictable and unreadable look on his face. "Well, since you're done organising that supply closet for the 4th time, some patients are getting starved of your sunshine. Unless, of course, the supply room is in dire need of your attention, sunny."
Sudden confidence flared in your chest. "Well, cap'n grumps, you could just say you are in dire need of attention. No need to shame my perfect supply room."
Your mouth spoke before your brain you could stop it. His mouth twitched, just slightly, his amusement not hiding under a curtain and a glimmer in his pretty eyes which made you weak in the knees. "Get back to work, sunny." He murmured, head shaking and his shoulders lighter than before.
You almost giggled. "Of course, boss."
You walked away. every sense in your body was tingling, goosebumps on your skin and a fire somewhere in the pit of your stomach and a familiar fuzzy feeling growing stronger beneath your chest.
You didn't know if you were going to survive this man. You didn't know if you wanted to.
—
The next hours of the shift were determined to drain the soul out of you.
There were 4 traumas at the same time and a statewide insufficiency of nurses. So that meant you had to jump back and forth. Chairs was filled and actually overflowing while you had a scarcity of beds so all the nurses were charged with scheduling, organising and moving beds according to the level of emergency and pain patients were facing. Plus, you had multiple patients and a family who had declared that dr. google was more knowledgeable than a nurse.
Amazing.
And you hadn't gotten a chance to even eat.
When you finally got a chance to eat in the breakroom, that's when you saw it. The kolcha. Untouched. Because you wanted him to have the first bite. First taste. Just to see that Heartwarming smile again.
You bit your lip and took a peek outside. Everything had slowed down. Just for bit, you were sure, before another trauma, another emergency, another goddamn patient too obnoxious and blind to only believe what google says pulls you in.
This was the time, you decided.
So, you picked up the box, an extra hop to your walk, as you looked for him.
Jack abbot.
Ellis' words rang in your ears and your heartbeat sped up. Should I do it?
Take the chance, the risk?
"Hey, Lena, do you know where Jack is?" You asked softly, almost bashfully, as she narrowed her eyes at you but then flashed you a knowing look before pointing at a room.
The buzz in your heart and brain intensified as you walked towards him. You were so giddy, it hurt. Your soft smile had turn into a beam. The anticipation had turned to you nervous and exhilarated. You wanted to see his smile, the one he'll give after you give him a kolcha. Will it be a soft and dedicated one, reserved just for you? Will it be a joyous and unwithdrawn one, not shying away from showing his beautiful wrinkles?
Everything made your heart soar.
Your feet slowed down as you got there and you heard voices. His and... Dr. Al-hashimi. She was laughing before Jack spoke.
"So, you want get that beer we talked about?"
You heard Jack chuckle. A vibration that rumbled through his lungs in his chest to the ground that you apparently walked on. You felt as if it had just been pulled underneath you. It was lighthearted, casual—directed at someone else.
The ringing of elation in your ears stopped. Replaced with a haunting stillness.
"Yeah, of course. I would love to."
Your breath stopped in your lungs.
It was casual without any audible or visible awkwardness. You glanced inside only to see Jack smiling, a sly and playful grin, lighting up his whole face. Directed towards her. Not you.
Never you.
You wondered if she made it easy for him. Like you probably never did. His whole body was turned towards her, a casual openness to him that was never reciprocated with you. Your chest tightened. Throat strained. Something in your temples felt like it was being pulled.
Jack asking Dr. Al Hashimi out for beers. Your breathing felt shallow. Why wouldn't he? She was brilliant, kind almost dazzling with every step she took. She carried herself with maturity that only comes with facing warzones and fighting injustice. She never had to take constant efforts to make someone smile. He did it instantly for her.
Your hold on the box full of kolchas loosened.
Your legs moved before your brain processed everything. Your eyes looked into the distance, your thoughts melding, twisting your heart, a suffocating hurt settling deep in your bones.
You just kept walking.
"Hey, hon—you okay?" You heard someone say, but your mouth didn't move, your voice had gone numb. So, you just gave tight smile and gave a wordless nod and moved ahead.
Get back to work. You have patients.
Your body moved, on instinct, but without any soul in it.
He didn't owe you anything, you realized. He never reciprocated your efforts, nor did he respond. He just grunted, shook his head, raised his eyebrows, scoffed. It was meaningless. Fruitless. It was just amusement to him. You felt your heart hitting the pit of your stomach. He probably never even considered it. You were his nurse. He was your attending. You tried too hard it was almost entertaining. The sunshine of the night shift. Overbearing. aAways shining. Never needed anything back.
You were nothing like her.
She was everything he could want.
You never even understood where you left the box of kolchas meant for him. It was discarded somewhere like it never included unconditional efforts, hope and love. Like you didn't just stay up the hours you were supposed to put in for sleep to make something you had never made from scratch, just for him. It was not like he ever tried anything you made.
You just walked to a patient, and gave them a smile.
But it felt foreign on your face.
You asked them what was wrong, checked their pulse, gave necessary meds and equipment to the resident in front of you. It felt mechanical. Your eyes were vacant. Too preoccupied with trying to see the things your heart missed. the hope that you harboured over time, the anticipation and giddiness on seeing him, the fuzzy feeling inside your sternum.
Now replaced with a sudden anxiety. A hollowness.
"There she is." You almost jumped, startled by the intrusion of the voice you were now dreading to listen to. "I was looking for you."
Flashes of his soft smile, the wonderful sound of his chuckle, the casual openness—never meant for you—shattered you. You stood there still, unresponsive.
"Sunny?" Jack asked, oh-so-gently, but it just pricked your skin like needles. Even his soft words had become a sign of betrayal. Was he just dragging you along?
A shaky exhale escaped you but your face remained stoic. Your movements were calculated.
"Lena wants you to talk to this patient, he doesn't agree with any of the nurses, says he wants a 'real, qualified doctor'."
"Okay—"
"—and ortho has your results ready for north five, just sign on those." You said in a clipped tone. Tou couldn’t even look at him anymore. You had to get out of there.
But you could still feel him. His furrowed eyebrows, tensed shoulders, concerned eyes—searching for answers, searching for you. All confused. But you didn't have answers. Not anymore.
So, you left, wordlessly, with your broken heart.
Him, with confusion etched onto his features.
Because you realized that while you looked for him in every room before even entering it, he probably never did.
Series Summary: A secret relationship with Steve Rogers begins to fracture when he starts pulling away, unable to face what he feels. As the silence between you turns into hurt, humiliation, and reckless self-destruction, the cracks spread through every mission, every glance, and every choice - until everything comes to a head in the worst possible way.
Wordcount: 9.6k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Series Warnings: heavy angst, no happy ending, major character death, secret relationship, emotional repression, miscommunication, grief, guilt, jealousy, emotional self-destruction, reckless behavior during missions, injury, blood, graphic wound description, femoral artery injury, panic, near-death scene, death scene, funeral aftermath, complicated Steve/Reader/Bucky dynamic, one-night stand with Bucky, non-romantic rebound/comfort sex, emotional distress, implied poor sleep and loss of appetite.
A/N: Please read the warnings before continuing. This fic contains heavy angst, emotional self-destruction, a secret relationship falling apart, reckless behavior, jealousy, a one-time sexual encounter used as emotional escape, graphic injury, major character death, and a grief-heavy ending. This is not a fix-it and does not have a happy ending. Beta read by Cassie.
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It happened on a night that had already gone wrong long before you reached him.
Later, if you forced yourself to trace it back with any honesty, you would not have been able to name the exact moment the evening tipped from merely bad into dangerous. There had been no single catastrophe. No dramatic explosion, no blood-soaked disaster large enough to justify the shape of what came after.
Only accumulation.
The mission had been ugly in the particular way smaller operations often were – no spectacle, no heroics, just a long extraction through narrow halls and bad intel and too many civilians packed into too little space. The sort of job that left your nerves skinned raw rather than gloriously spent. Everything had gone technically well. Everyone came home. The objective had been met. There would be reports filed and signatures attached and some dry line somewhere about successful recovery with manageable resistance.
None of that changed how frayed you felt by the time the quinjet touched down.
You had been running on too little sleep for too long. Your shoulder ached from where someone twice your size had driven you into a steel support beam. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper because you had bitten your cheek during the last fight and only noticed when the adrenaline started to ebb. Your patience had worn itself thin days ago, and the mission had scraped it down to the nerve.
Steve had spent most of the flight back three seats away, speaking in low tones with Sam over the tactical review.
Not avoiding you exactly.
That would have required intention visible enough to name.
He simply did not look at you unless the mission demanded it, and the mission, apparently, had found ways not to.
That should not have mattered anymore. You hated that it still did.
By the time the team filed out into the Tower, you felt held together by discipline and spite and very little else. Clint peeled off first with some muttered complaint about protein deprivation. Sam said something to Natasha that almost made her smile. Steve stopped at the end of the corridor when FRIDAY informed him Fury had sent updated directives for the morning debrief.
He turned slightly, half toward the others, half toward the bank of elevators.
For one stupid, reflexive second, your body still reacted.
As if some old part of you expected him to glance your way.
As if your chest had not yet learned that hope could be humiliating long after it stopped being rational.
He did not.
He went with Sam and Natasha toward the conference level, already pulling himself back into leader mode, already occupied by the next problem, the next report, the next useful thing that would let him avoid standing still inside anything private.
You kept walking without a word.
That should have been the worst of it.
It was not.
The second blow came an hour later, when you made the mistake of passing the common room on your way back from the locker level.
Voices drifted out before the room itself came into view. Sam’s, warm and easy. Clint’s, louder than necessary. Steve’s, lower, quieter, but unmistakably there among them. Not strained. Not broken. Not absent.
Present.
You did not stop this time. You had learned what that sight did to you. You kept moving, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the hallway ahead, but the sound followed anyway – the low rhythm of people who could still stand together after a bad day and let it become just another story, another shared piece of strain absorbed by the team.
Your world had not recovered that privilege.
By the time you reached your room, anger had curdled into something colder.
You changed out of your gear. Showered too quickly. Stood under water that went from hot to lukewarm without noticing. Put on a clean shirt and sleep shorts and then sat on the edge of your bed, unable to imagine lying down and being left alone with your own head.
Sleep was impossible.
Stillness was worse.
So, eventually, you left.
The Tower had settled into its late-night version by then. The brighter lights had dimmed. The hallways looked longer at that hour, emptier, all soft amber and shadow. Somewhere below, machinery thrummed through the bones of the building. Rain pressed lightly against the windows, not a storm, just enough to make the city outside look blurred and untouchable.
You found Bucky in the kitchen.
Of course you did.
He stood by the counter with one hand braced against the edge and the other wrapped around a glass of water gone mostly untouched. The overhead lights were off. Only the under-cabinet strip near the sink cast a low pale glow across the room, leaving the rest in half-darkness. He turned his head when you came in, and for a second the look he gave you was so immediate and so unadorned that you felt seen before a word had been spoken.
“You look worse than usual,” he said.
Normally the line might have earned him the ghost of a smile.
Tonight it only made something in your chest tighten.
“Good evening to you too.”
Bucky’s gaze stayed on your face a second longer. “Bad mission?”
You crossed to the other side of the counter and opened the refrigerator without wanting anything from it. Cold light spilled over your hands and bare legs and the polished floor tiles below. You stared at shelves full of food you had no appetite for.
“Bad night,” you said.
Behind you, the room stayed quiet.
No soft follow-up.
No insistence.
No advice.
That, more than anything, undid you.
You closed the fridge and leaned both hands against the counter with your head bowed for a moment longer than dignity allowed.
Bucky did not move.
“Do you ever get tired,” you asked after a while, “of feeling like everyone else can just... keep going?”
The question came out thinner than you intended. Too close to the center.
Silence stretched just long enough for you to regret speaking at all.
Then Bucky said, “Yes.”
Only that.
Not I know. Not I’m sorry. Not some polished thing about healing or time or endurance.
Yes.
You let out a breath that shuddered on the way out.
The kitchen lights hummed softly. Rain tapped against the glass wall of the common room beyond. Somewhere deep in the Tower, an elevator moved and was gone.
You stayed like that, palms flat to the counter, and said nothing more.
When Bucky spoke again, his voice had gone even quieter.
“You want me to leave?”
The question should have been simple. Practical. A clean line offered with no pressure behind it.
Instead it struck you with absurd force.
Because he meant it.
Because if you said yes, he would go.
Because if you said no, he would stay without mistaking the answer for invitation to fix what was wrong.
You laughed once under your breath, but there was nothing like humor in it. “No.”
A chair scraped softly against the floor a second later. Not closer. Just enough to tell you he had sat down.
He gave you space to remain standing if you wanted to. Space to breathe. Space to fall apart by degrees rather than all at once.
That should have been enough.
It almost was.
You stayed in the kitchen for several minutes without speaking, your back half turned to him, your fingers curled against cool stone. When you finally straightened, your face felt wrong on your bones – too tight, too tired, too close to betraying more than you could afford.
You turned and found him watching you from one of the stools near the island.
Not intently.
Not in the invasive way concern sometimes became when people thought they had earned access to your pain.
He looked at you the way one might look at a storm through a window – aware of it, respectful of its force, and unwilling to pretend it was anything gentle.
That should not have made your throat burn.
“Don’t,” you said quietly.
His brow furrowed faintly. “Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?”
You swallowed. “Like you can tell.”
Bucky was silent for a beat.
Then he said, with brutal simplicity, “I can.”
The truth of it hit harder because he made no attempt to soften it.
You looked away first.
A laugh pressed against the back of your teeth and died there. “Congratulations.”
“Wasn’t trying for a prize.”
That, somehow, almost made you smile.
Almost.
Instead you crossed to the cabinet, took down a glass, and filled it with water you did not want. Your hand shook once around the bottle. Just once. But Bucky saw it. Of course he did.
He did not mention it.
That was the mercy.
You set the bottle down too hard. “I’m fine.”
The lie sounded frayed even to you.
Bucky took a drink from his own glass and said, “No, you’re not.”
Not unkindly.
Not accusingly.
Just as a fact too obvious to waste performance on.
The room seemed to shift under your feet.
For weeks now you had been living among people who saw symptoms and offered solutions, who noticed sharpness and sleeplessness and appetite gone strange and carelessness in the field and responded with concern, correction, or silence. No one had said it like that.
No one had looked directly at the wound and simply named it.
Your fingers tightened around the rim of the glass until they hurt.
“I know,” you said.
It came out before you could decide whether to allow it.
Bucky nodded once.
Still nothing else.
Still no movement toward you.
Still no attempt to make the moment cleaner than it was.
That should have let the feeling pass.
Instead it made the pressure in your chest go suddenly unbearable.
You put the glass down before you dropped it. “I’m so tired.”
The words surprised you with their nakedness.
Bucky’s expression changed by almost nothing. A slight shift in his jaw. A loosening around the eyes.
“Yeah,” he said.
Something in you cracked.
Not dramatically. You did not burst into tears or fold in half or do anything so cinematic as to grant your pain a dignity it had not earned. It happened smaller than that. Your face turned away. Your shoulders bowed once under a weight too familiar to shock you anymore. Your hand came up hard against your mouth as if that could hold the fracture shut.
For a second, for just a second, you hated yourself for doing even that much in front of him.
Then Bucky was there.
Not suddenly.
Not with the force of rescue.
He only moved from the stool to stand a few feet away, close enough that you could feel the shift in the air but not so close it became pressure.
“You don’t have to talk,” he said.
That was what did it.
Not tenderness.
Permission.
Your eyes burned. You laughed once, and the sound came broken.
“I don’t even know where I’d start.”
“You don’t have to start anywhere.”
The simplicity of it stripped the room bare.
You dropped your hand from your mouth and looked at him properly then. The kitchen remained mostly dark, the city outside reduced to wet streaks of light beyond the glass, the whole Tower hushed around the two of you as if the hour had removed every witness but one.
Bucky stood in front of you with tired eyes and his hair falling badly where he had pushed a hand through it too many times and no expectation in his face except honesty.
He did not know about Steve.
He did not know what exactly had been taken apart inside you.
He did not know that the wreckage he was looking at had a name and a history and a pair of blue eyes that now slid over you in briefings as if your body had once meant nothing different from anyone else’s.
He only knew that you were breaking by inches.
And he stayed.
You should have protected the line better than you did.
You did not.
Maybe because you were exhausted.
Maybe because the Tower felt too large and too hollow and Steve’s absence had become a constant humiliation inside it.
Maybe because Bucky’s refusal to demand coherence from you had begun to feel less like neutrality and more like shelter.
Whatever the reason, when he reached for your glass and set it safely aside, your pulse stumbled.
The motion was practical.
Nothing more.
But when his hand withdrew, your fingers brushed his knuckles by accident.
Neither of you moved for one strange suspended second.
Then Bucky’s gaze lifted to yours.
The room did not turn romantic.
Nothing softened.
That was the frightening part.
There was no sweetness in the look. No invitation wrapped in charm. Only the stark awareness of two exhausted people standing too close in the half-dark with pain making the edges of every decision less reliable.
You should have stepped back.
Instead you stayed.
Bucky said your name once, low and uncertain, as if testing whether you were still inside yourself enough to hear it.
You were.
That made what happened next worse, not better.
You shook your head very slightly – not refusal, exactly. More like disbelief at yourself, at the room, at the strange gravity of the moment.
“This is a bad idea,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth tightened. “Probably.”
He still did not move toward you.
That mattered.
You looked at him and thought, with a kind of numb clarity, that this was not desire in the clean sense. Not the bright pull of wanting someone because they set your body alight or because your heart had chosen them in some soft and hopeful way.
This was fatigue.
This was hurt.
This was the sick wish to disappear into something physical enough to drown out the rest for an hour.
You knew it.
He knew it too, perhaps not in all its specifics, but enough.
And still neither of you stepped away.
Your voice came rough. “You don’t know what this is.”
Bucky’s eyes stayed on yours. “No.”
The honesty of the answer almost stopped you.
Almost.
Then he added, “I know it’s not simple.”
Something ugly and exhausted in you gave way at that.
Because no, it was not simple.
Because you had become so tired of being handled like a tactical problem, a fragile thing, a teammate in decline, a woman fraying for reasons no one could safely ask after.
Because Bucky stood there and made no claim on the hurt except to recognize that it existed and that it was bigger than the room.
You closed the space first.
Not by much. Just enough that your breath touched his before anything else did.
His stillness deepened, but he did not take the choice from you. He waited.
That mattered too.
When you kissed him, it felt less like reaching and more like falling.
There was no flourish to it. No cinematic hunger. No slow build of hidden tension finally released into certainty.
Only impact.
His mouth was warm and unfamiliar and the contact jolted through you hard enough to make your hands clutch uselessly at the front of his shirt. Bucky made a low sound – not encouragement, not surprise exactly, something in between – and one of his hands came to your waist with visible care, as if he were still leaving you room to stop.
You should have.
Instead you kissed him again, harder this time, because the first shock had not erased enough.
He answered with equal desperation but no greater force. That was the terrible thing about it. He did not overwhelm you. Did not turn it into conquest or comfort or any lie easier to survive later. He only met you where you stood: raw, half-broken, asking for oblivion in the only language that still felt immediate.
You backed into the counter and he caught himself with one hand against the stone beside you, metal fingers curling and relaxing once as if reminding themselves not to hold too tightly.
The kiss broke.
Your breathing came fast.
So did his.
For one wrecked second you thought that might be the end of it – that the reality of what you were doing would settle over both of you and push you apart.
Bucky looked at you, chest rising and falling, and said very quietly, “You sure?”
It should have offended some part of you that he asked.
Instead it nearly hurt.
Because even here, in this ruinous half-choice, he still gave you the dignity of it being yours.
You nodded.
Not because you were certain.
Because you could not bear to feel anything this clearly for another hour.
That was enough.
You did not remember crossing to the bedroom with clean sequence afterward. Only fragments remained sharp: his hand at your back, not guiding so much as staying there in case you changed your mind; the darkness of your room broken by the low city glow through rain-streaked glass; your own fingers shaking once as they caught at his shirt; Bucky pausing every time you did, never asking questions, never pretending the room held anything softer than it did.
It was not tender.
It was not rough.
It was not a romance waiting to happen, not some secret wish revealed at last under the right lighting and enough loneliness.
It was desperate.
Two people worn thin enough to mistake physical closeness for silence.
He touched you like someone handling a wound he had no business naming. You kissed him like you were trying to outrun your own mind. Clothes landed where they landed. The bed dipped under your combined weight. Your breath caught on his shoulder once in a way that might have become a sob if you had allowed it more room.
He did not ask.
You did not explain.
That, perhaps, was the only kindness either of you had left for the moment.
For a little while, your body took over where thought failed.
There was relief in that, ugly and temporary and real.
Not joy.
Not pleasure untouched by everything underneath it.
Just the merciful reduction of the world to sensation – skin, heat, pressure, the weight of another person close enough to quiet the interior noise by force of immediacy. Bucky’s hands stayed careful even when the rest of him did not. Your own urgency had nothing graceful in it. It came from exhaustion and the need not to be left alone in yourself for one more hour.
When it was over, the silence returned too quickly.
That was how you knew it had changed nothing.
Bucky lay on his back beside you, one arm bent under his head, breathing slowed but not softened. You stared at the ceiling with your pulse still uneven and the sheets twisted around your legs and an emptiness already opening up where numbness had briefly held.
Rain moved against the windows in soft unsteady lines.
Neither of you spoke at first.
There was no afterglow to reach for. No easy laughter. No illusion that you had crossed into something gentler simply because your bodies had been honest in the dark.
Eventually Bucky turned his head slightly toward you.
“You okay?”
The question should have annoyed you.
Instead it hollowed you out a little more.
You looked at the ceiling and answered with the only honesty you could still manage. “No.”
Bucky was quiet for a long time after that.
Then he said, “Yeah.”
Not agreement exactly.
Recognition.
You closed your eyes.
At some point in the night he pulled the blanket up because the room had gone cold. At some other point you must have slept, though not deeply enough to call it rest. Dreams came and went without shape. Once you woke in the dark with the disorienting certainty that you had made some terrible and irreversible error, only to realize with dull delayed understanding that you had known that before the night ever started.
Morning came grey.
Rain still clung to the windows, though lighter now, turning the skyline outside into a watercolor smear of steel and white. The room felt too bright in all the wrong ways. Your body ached with the ordinary aftermath of too little sleep and too much strain, but none of it mattered compared to the emptiness.
You lay still for a few seconds before memory settled fully into place.
Then you turned your head and found Bucky already awake.
He sat on the edge of the bed, shirt back on, elbows resting on his knees, one hand loosely clasped between the fingers of the other. He looked toward the window rather than at you, as if giving you the dignity of orienting yourself before forcing the room into words.
The restraint of it made shame burn under your skin.
Not because you regretted him, exactly.
Because regret had too much clarity to belong to what this was.
What you felt was hollowness. The sinking recognition that nothing had been fixed, that whatever had driven you into his arms last night remained exactly where it had been, only now with one more layer of complication draped over it.
You sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around yourself more from instinct than modesty.
Bucky glanced over then.
His face held no triumph. No softness that would mistake this for the beginning of something. No resentment either. Only a kind of tired understanding, and beneath it the unmistakable knowledge that he had seen enough now to understand the damage ran deeper than one bad night.
“I can go,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
Of course that was what he offered first. Exit. Space. No demand to process, no claim on what had happened, no attempt to turn the room into a conversation you had not consented to.
“That’s not–” You stopped because you did not know how to finish it.
That’s not necessary?
That’s not why this feels awful?
That’s not the part that hurts?
Bucky waited without helping.
You let the unfinished sentence die.
After a moment he looked down at his hands and said, “I’m not gonna make this into something it isn’t.”
The relief that moved through you was so immediate it was almost cruel.
It should have hurt more than it did.
Maybe that was its own indictment.
You swallowed. “Thank you.”
Bucky nodded once.
He stood, picked up his boots from the floor, and sat back down to lace them with the efficient quiet of someone who had learned long ago how to leave rooms without making extra noise. You watched his hands move because looking at his face felt harder.
When he spoke again, his voice stayed even.
“You don’t have to explain anything.”
That almost broke something in you all over again.
Because explanation would have meant saying Steve’s name.
It would have meant putting language to the private ruin you had carried alone for weeks.
It would have meant confessing that last night had not been about Bucky except in the cruelest possible sense – that he had simply been there when your pain needed a body to crash into.
He deserved better than that truth.
Perhaps he knew enough of it anyway.
You looked down at the sheet in your hands. “I’m sorry.”
There.
Small. Insufficient. Useless.
Bucky finished lacing one boot and looked up at you. “Don’t.”
The answer came flat but not unkind.
“It happened,” he said. “No one lied.”
The sentence lodged in you because it was true and because it was the only dignity available.
No one lied.
He had not promised tenderness.
You had not promised meaning.
Neither of you had reached for romance and called it salvation.
You had both, in your own exhausted way, reached for oblivion.
That did not make it good.
It only made it honest.
Still, Bucky’s gaze rested on your face a second too long, and when he spoke next there was something heavier beneath the words.
“This thing that’s got you this wrecked,” he said quietly, “it’s bigger than last night.”
You went completely still.
The morning light turned everything mercilessly clear – the rumpled sheets, the clothes scattered where urgency had dropped them, the exhausted angle of his shoulders, the fact that he understood enough now to know he had not touched the center of it.
He did not ask what the thing was.
He only named its size.
Your eyes burned suddenly. You looked away before he could see too much.
“Yeah,” you said.
Bucky did not move closer.
He stood, pulled on his jacket, and paused at the foot of the bed with one hand braced briefly against the post.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I don’t think this was about me.”
A broken laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“No,” you said. “It wasn’t.”
He nodded once, as if that confirmed only what he had known already.
There should have been humiliation in admitting it aloud.
Instead there was only fatigue.
Bucky picked up the last of his things from the floor. At the door, he stopped and looked back once. The expression on his face was difficult to read in the grey morning light – something like regret, though not for himself exactly. More for the fact of finding another person damaged in a way he could recognize but not repair.
“Eat something today,” he said.
The practicality of it, after everything, almost made your throat close.
You managed a small nod.
Then he left.
The click of the door sounded too final for such a quiet departure.
You sat motionless for several seconds after he was gone, the sheet gathered around you, the room still holding the shape of another body without offering any comfort in it. Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. The city looked washed out and distant, as if the whole world had stepped half a pace away during the night.
Slowly, you let the sheet fall and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes.
You felt empty.
Not cleansed.
Not soothed.
Not even properly guilty in the sharp moral sense, because guilt implied a betrayal of something whole and noble, and what had happened last night had come from a much uglier place than infidelity to a love story.
It had not been a romantic betrayal.
It had been a mistake made out of pain.
A beautiful one, perhaps, only in the worst possible definition of the word: brief, intense, and doomed to collapse the moment daylight touched it.
You stood eventually and gathered your clothes from the floor one piece at a time. Every movement felt mechanical. Your body remembered the night with inconvenient accuracy; your mind refused to assign it meaning.
At the bathroom sink, your own reflection looked back at you with bruised shadows under the eyes and an expression so flat it startled you.
This had not fixed anything.
That was the plain truth of it.
Steve still existed.
The wound he left still existed.
The humiliation, the sleeplessness, the slow private unmaking of you inside the Tower’s bright halls still existed.
And now, folded into all of it, there was Bucky – kind enough not to ask for more, decent enough not to mistake desperation for devotion, perceptive enough to know he had only touched the outer edge of something much worse.
You gripped the sink until your knuckles whitened.
For one suspended moment, all you could think was that this was what rock bottom looked like when it arrived without spectacle: not a dramatic collapse, not some cinematic self-destruction everyone would finally be forced to witness, but a grey morning, a rumpled bed, and the cold certainty that you had reached for another person not because you wanted them, but because you could not bear your own pain unaccompanied for one more night.
When you finally left the bathroom, Bucky was gone, the room restored as much as it could be to ordinary shape.
Only the emptiness remained.
And somehow, that was worse.
Steve noticed the first change in the field.
It was small enough that anyone else might have missed it.
The mission had been clean by your recent standards, which meant ugly by every standard that mattered: an extraction on the edge of Queens, half-industrial and half-residential, too many civilians nearby, too many corners that turned a simple sweep into layered risk. By some miracle, the intel had not been entirely worthless. By another, no one had ended up in the hospital by the end of it.
You moved through the operation with the same sharpened recklessness that had become your new language – faster than before, crueler at the edges, too willing to absorb impact if it gave you momentum. Steve saw it. Of course he did. He saw everything where you were concerned and kept pretending the seeing stopped at command.
The difference was Bucky.
Halfway through the mission, you came through a side corridor with one hostile still on his feet and another weapon coming up from your blind right. You would have handled it. You knew you would have. You had already shifted your weight for the turn and your hand was halfway to the knife at your thigh when Bucky cut across the opening and put the first man down before the shot ever cleared.
It was too fast to look deliberate to anyone not watching closely.
Steve was watching closely.
Bucky did not look at you after. He only muttered, “Right side,” over comms and kept moving.
A little later, on the way to extraction, you slipped on loose concrete dust where the floor dropped unexpectedly near a support beam. You caught yourself before the stumble became a fall, but Bucky’s hand closed around your elbow almost instantly – too quickly, perhaps, for pure team reflex. Not intimate. Not overt. Just there before anyone else had time to react.
You pulled free at once.
Still, Steve saw.
You knew he saw because of the silence that followed in the quinjet afterward.
Not from Bucky. Bucky sat near the back with his metal hand braced on one knee and his gaze on nothing, as unreadable as ever. Not from you either. You had become very good at saying nothing.
From Steve.
He was quieter than usual, and with Steve, that always meant something had gone wrong in a place no one else could identify.
By itself, maybe it would not have been enough.
A quick cover.
A hand too fast at your elbow.
The sort of details a man could dismiss if he wanted to.
The problem was that Steve did want to dismiss them, and found that he could not.
That was the beginning.
The second thing happened four nights later at the Tower.
Tony called it a morale event, which in practice meant he pushed music through the common floors, had someone stock the bar and kitchen, and declared that if the team insisted on acting like half-feral government assets all month, he was at least going to make the collapse more expensive. People came and went in loose clusters. Bruce stayed near the quieter end of the room with one beer in hand and the expression of a man already planning his exit. Sam seemed determined to keep the atmosphere alive by sheer force of personality. Clint had found the food within ninety seconds and settled there like a raccoon at a campsite. Natasha stood near the far window in black silk and dry amusement, watching everyone with the detached patience of someone who trusted no social event not to turn into a minor tactical exercise.
You had not wanted to go.
That should have been enough reason to stay away, but avoiding it would only have drawn questions, and you were too exhausted to invent convincing answers. So you dressed, showed up, accepted a drink you did not particularly want, and stood near the bar trying to look like a woman attending a party rather than surviving one.
The music was louder than you liked – modern, bass-heavy, built for movement more than listening. Someone had dimmed the lights just enough to make the city beyond the glass walls glow blue and silver around the room. People talked in overlapping pockets. Laughter rose and fell. Glasses caught light. Every now and then Tony’s voice cut through from somewhere off to the side, too animated to mean anything good.
Steve was there.
You knew that before you saw him.
Some injuries trained the body faster than the mind. You felt his presence in a room now the way one might feel a draft through a cracked window – subtle, pervasive, impossible to unknow once learned. When you did look, you found him near the kitchen island in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He stood with Sam and Rhodey, one hand around a glass he had barely touched, posture loose only by comparison to the discipline he wore everywhere else.
He looked good.
That irritated you on a cellular level.
Not because he was beautiful. That would have been too simple. Steve Rogers had always been beautiful in a way that became inconvenient the second one noticed he was also kind. No, what angered you was the composure of him. The ease. Not complete ease, never that, but enough. Enough to stand in the middle of light and music and friendly noise and appear, at least from a distance, like a man still capable of belonging to the scene.
You looked away before he could catch you looking.
Or perhaps he already had. It no longer mattered.
You stayed only because leaving too quickly would have looked like retreat.
Sam dragged Bruce into one conversation. Clint nearly spilled a drink over an expensive rug and blamed gravity. Tony argued with someone about playlists. Natasha drifted past you once, gave your untouched glass a meaningful glance, and said nothing.
You might have made it through the night with nothing worse than a tightened jaw and a headache.
Then Bucky appeared at your side.
“You look miserable,” he said.
You glanced up at him. “You say the sweetest things.”
He wore dark jeans too, a grey Henley, and the expression of a man who had already regretted attending this social event for a full twenty minutes. The low light turned the metal of his left hand dull at the edges. There was no particular warmth in his face, but there was familiarity there now – earned not through romance, never that, but through too many late-night conversations in half-dark rooms where neither of you had asked the other to pretend.
“You dancing?” he asked.
You nearly laughed. “With who?”
He tilted his head slightly toward the crowd gathering near the open floor in front of the speakers. “Anyone unfortunate enough to accept.”
“I didn’t know you danced.”
“I don’t anymore.”
“Then why are you asking?”
His mouth moved by half a degree. “Because you look like you need a distraction.”
The line should have sounded flippant.
It did not.
It sounded honest.
You looked toward the floor where the music had shifted into something with more heat in it, more rhythm than melody, the sort of song Tony probably thought counted as universally charming because it had made it into every bar and rooftop party on the planet for years. Latin beat, slow hips, modern pulse. The kind of track that made even bad dancers believe they could fake confidence if they stayed close enough to their partner.
“Absolutely not,” you said.
Bucky shrugged once. “Then stand here and keep looking like you want to kill the room.”
“You make a compelling case.”
“I know.”
He should have left it there.
Instead, when the next chorus started and Sam whooped somewhere behind you like the entire party existed to embarrass every introvert in the room, Bucky set his drink down and held out his hand.
Not grandly.
Not with any teasing flourish.
Just simply.
It took you one full second to understand that he was serious.
You stared at his hand.
Then at his face.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“You said you don’t dance anymore.”
“I don’t.”
“This seems like contradictory behavior.”
Bucky’s expression remained almost perfectly straight. “You coming or not?”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Small. Disbelieving. Real.
The sound surprised both of you.
Something eased at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, exactly, but the near relative of one.
And because the room was loud and your thoughts were too loud and Steve existed somewhere in your peripheral awareness like an old wound under weather, and because saying yes to Bucky felt less dangerous in that moment than standing still inside yourself another minute, you put your hand in his.
The floor was warmer than the rest of the room.
Or perhaps that was only the way bodies and sound and too many lights gathered heat in one place. Either way, once Bucky guided you into the loose center of the crowd, the rest of the party blurred slightly at the edges. Music took over what thinking usually did. The bass moved through the floor and up your legs. Around you, people laughed, turned, leaned close to be heard over the song.
You faced him with one hand still in his, the other settling awkwardly at first against his shoulder.
“This is a terrible idea,” you said.
“Probably.”
He put one hand lightly at your waist.
Not possessive.
Not tentative either.
Only enough to lead.
And then, because the rhythm demanded less self-consciousness than conversation and because Bucky, to your startled disbelief, was not actually terrible at this, you moved.
Not elegantly.
Not at first.
But the song did most of the work, all beat and sway and closeness disguised as choreography. Bucky followed the pulse more than the formal steps, which made it easier. There was nothing polished about the way he danced, no performer’s instinct, no attempt to impress. He moved the way he fought – economically, with a body too aware of itself to waste motion, and a surprising natural command of space once he committed to occupying it.
You should have found the whole thing absurd.
Instead, a few moments in, you realized you had almost forgotten to be angry.
That was what shook you.
The music rolled into the chorus again, familiar and shamelessly sensual in the way those songs always were, and Bucky leaned closer to say something because the room had grown too loud for ordinary distance.
“This is awful,” he murmured near your ear.
The warmth of his breath brushed your skin.
You laughed – actually laughed this time – and the movement of it pulled your bodies a fraction closer before either of you thought better of it.
“Then why are you still doing it?”
“Because now you’re smiling.”
The line should have embarrassed you.
Instead it landed somewhere soft and strange.
You looked up at him. In the low light, with the city burning silver behind the glass and the room moving around you in fragments of bodies and music, his face had relaxed into something you almost never saw there: the faint, reluctant beginning of enjoyment. Not flirtation. Not triumph. Just a brief suspension of whatever usually kept him braced.
You hated how much you needed that.
So you stayed through one song.
Then half of another.
And because modern music had no respect for dignity and the next track only deepened the rhythm instead of easing it, you ended up closer than you ever would have admitted you could tolerate – his hand low at your waist, your fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulder, the distance between you narrowed by the sheer mechanics of the dance.
Somewhere beyond the edge of the crowd, Steve saw.
You felt it before you looked.
That old instinct again. That dreadful bodily certainty. Your spine prickled, not from fear exactly, but from awareness turned physical. When your eyes finally shifted past Bucky’s shoulder, you found Steve near the kitchen side of the room, no longer speaking to anyone.
He was watching.
Not openly enough for anyone else to call him on it. His face remained controlled at a distance. But control only mattered when one did not know what lay under it, and you knew Steve too well for that.
His jaw had gone tight.
His shoulders were too still.
The hand around his glass looked one degree from crushing it.
And his eyes – God.
His eyes were fixed on you and Bucky with a look so sharp and nakedly wrong that anger hit you almost instantly on the heels of vindication.
Because he had no right.
No right to stand there and look gutted by the sight of Bucky’s hand at your waist.
No right to watch your body in someone else’s space and react as if anything had been stolen from him.
No right to look wounded when he had been the one to bury what you were and then smooth the ground above it with military precision.
Bucky must have felt the subtle change in you, because he glanced toward your face.
“What?” he said, low enough for only you to hear.
You should have lied.
Instead you said, “Rogers.”
He followed the line of your gaze.
His body did not tense dramatically. He was too controlled for that. But something shifted in his expression when he found Steve at the far side of the room.
Recognition, perhaps.
Or only calculation.
A soldier’s instinct noting a new variable.
Then, to your surprise, Bucky looked back at you rather than at Steve, and whatever he might have guessed, he did not ask. He only leaned in enough to murmur, “You can stop if you want.”
The care in the offer almost undid you.
It also made you angrier.
Because he was being decent.
Because Steve was not.
Because the man now holding you lightly enough to let go at any moment had somehow given you more room than the man who once held your face in both hands and made you think secrecy might still contain tenderness without destroying it.
You lifted your chin slightly. “Keep going.”
Bucky watched you for one beat too long.
Then he nodded.
And kept going.
If Steve had looked bad before, he looked worse after that.
It was subtle to everyone else. You knew it. Sam, if he noticed anything, probably only registered that Steve had gone quiet. Natasha, perhaps, saw far more and filed it away behind those unreadable eyes of hers. Clint was too busy trying to teach Bruce a dance step no one wanted him to know. Tony shouted something approving in your direction and immediately got ignored by the entire room.
But you saw Steve’s mask crack by degrees.
Not enough for anyone to call it a scene.
Enough for you to watch it happen.
He stopped trying to appear at ease.
His gaze strayed too often.
His responses to the people around him grew shorter, flatter.
Once, when Rhodey said something that should have earned at least a polite smile, Steve answered half a second too late, like a man speaking through distraction he no longer fully controlled.
And all the while, every time your eyes met across the room, he looked away too slowly.
The song ended eventually.
You stepped back first, pulse uneven for reasons that had very little to do with dancing.
“Thanks,” you said.
Bucky released your waist at once. “For what?”
“You know.”
“No,” he said. “I really don’t.”
That might have made you smile under other circumstances.
Tonight it only made your throat tighten.
Before you could answer, Sam appeared out of nowhere, grinning too broadly to be trusted. “Barnes,” he said, “where exactly did you learn that?”
Bucky looked at him with deadpan contempt. “None of your business.”
“It is absolutely my business. That was–”
“Wilson,” Bucky said.
Sam’s grin widened.
You escaped before the conversation could widen around you.
The party suddenly felt too hot, too close, too full of mirrors you did not want held up. You crossed through the edge of the common room toward the quieter balcony door, needing air, distance, darkness – anything that did not smell like perfume and alcohol and old humiliation suddenly sharpened into something else.
The balcony was cold.
The city wind hit your bare arms immediately, carrying traces of rain and metal and the endless electric breath of New York at night. Music still leaked faintly through the glass behind you, muted now, reduced to bass and rhythm. Below, the city glittered with ruthless indifference.
You stood with both hands braced on the railing and tried to regulate your breathing.
It did not work.
The door slid open behind you.
You knew before you turned.
Steve.
Of course.
He stepped out onto the balcony and let the door shut behind him, cutting the music down to a muffled pulse. In the colder light outside, his face looked sharper. Paler. The strain you had only glimpsed across the room was visible now in the rigid line of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself as if restraint had become a physical effort.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The city moved below.
The wind lifted a strand of your hair across your cheek.
Inside, through the glass, the party continued in soft fragments of light.
Steve’s gaze went to your face, then away, then back again.
“You should go inside,” he said.
You stared at him in disbelief so pure it almost reached laughter.
“That’s what you came out here with?”
His jaw tightened. “It’s cold.”
“Funny. I barely noticed.”
He took a measured breath, visibly trying to regain control of something already slipping. “You’ve had enough for one night.”
Something hot flashed under your skin.
Enough.
The word sat wrong immediately, loaded in ways he should have had enough self-awareness not to use.
You pushed away from the railing and faced him fully. “Excuse me?”
Steve’s eyes flickered past you toward the window and back again, as if making sure no one inside could read the shape of this from his posture alone. “You heard me.”
“Oh, I heard you.” Your laugh came sharp and ugly. “I’m just trying to understand how exactly this became your call.”
His expression hardened. “I’m not saying it is.”
“No?” You took one step closer. “Then why do you sound like you think you get one?”
The wind caught the edge of his shirt, flattening it briefly against his frame. He did not move.
“You were making a scene.”
That actually did make you laugh.
Not softly.
Not kindly.
“A scene.”
Steve’s face tightened further. “People were watching.”
“And that bothers you now?”
The question landed.
You saw it in the flicker behind his eyes, the instant recognition followed by the immediate attempt to bury it. Too late. You had already seen.
He looked away toward the city, jaw working once before he answered. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No,” you said. “Of course not. It never is with you.”
His attention snapped back to you.
For one terrible second neither of you blinked.
The cold had done nothing to calm you. If anything, it had sharpened every edge.
“You don’t get to come out here acting offended,” you said. “Not after all this.”
Steve’s voice dropped lower, more dangerous for being quiet. “I’m not offended.”
“Then what are you?”
That did it.
Whatever fragile control had held him through the party gave way by a fraction – not enough to make him loud, never that, but enough to strip the polish from his answers.
“I’m trying to understand what the hell that was.”
There it was.
You felt the fury rise clean and immediate.
“What that was?” you repeated. “You really want to ask me that?”
“Yes.”
The single word came too fast, too raw.
You stared at him.
Then something in you turned cold.
“No,” you said. “You don’t get to do that.”
Steve took one step toward you. “Don’t tell me what I do and don’t–”
“No.” You cut across him so sharply he actually stopped. “You do not get to stand here and look at me like that.”
His face changed. “Like what?”
“Like you’re hurt.”
The words cracked through the cold air between you.
Steve’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
That was answer enough.
You took another step closer, fury burning bright enough now to hold you upright all by itself. “You hid me when you wanted me. You erased me when you got scared. And now you want to come out here because seeing me with someone else suddenly bothers you?”
His expression sharpened with something that might have been anger if it had not looked so much like pain.
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
The wind cut across the balcony hard enough to sting your eyes. Or perhaps that was only the rage finally overheating into something more dangerous.
Steve looked at you as if there were ten different truths trapped behind his teeth and none of them could get out cleanly.
“I’m not doing this here,” he said.
Of course.
Of course that was the answer.
You laughed again, exhausted and vicious and beyond caring how cruel it sounded. “Right. Because God forbid anything private about me ever exist where someone could see.”
His face went still.
For a moment all you could hear was the city and the muffled music behind the glass.
Then Steve said, “You think this is funny?”
“No.” Your voice dropped low enough to cut. “I think it’s pathetic.”
He flinched.
Only slightly.
Only because you knew him well enough to see it.
Still, it happened.
“You don’t get to look at me like I betrayed you,” you said. “Not when you already made it very clear what I was.”
Steve’s eyes flashed. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“That’s not fair.”
That nearly made you choke on the irony.
“Fair?” The word came out like broken glass. “You want to talk to me about fair?”
He took another step closer, close enough now that you could see the strain in the blue of his eyes, the controlled fury in the set of his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast for calm.
“Bucky,” he said. “Was that–”
You cut him off before he could finish.
Before he could put language to it.
Before he could claim the right even to ask.
“You don’t get to say his name to me like that.”
Steve’s mouth shut hard.
The silence after that felt immense.
Then he said, quieter now, “Did you sleep with him?”
The question might have broken you if you had still been trying to protect either of you.
Instead it only made the anger cleaner.
You looked at him and understood, all at once, that he had come out onto the balcony not because he wanted truth, but because jealousy had finally done what love and guilt and command had not. It had split him open just enough for his real reaction to show.
And still, even now, he wanted answers before honesty.
You smiled without warmth. “Now you care.”
Steve’s face changed again – not with denial this time, but with the sickening awareness that you were right.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, one hand flexing at his side as though he needed something physical to do with the pressure building under his skin. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
You laughed once more, and now there was no humor left in it at all.
“That’s the whole problem, Steve. You keep meaning things you never say.”
His eyes locked on yours.
You could feel the pulse in your throat. In your wrists. Everywhere.
For a suspended second, the balcony shrank to nothing but the two of you and everything unsaid between you.
Then you gave him the one thing he had spent weeks refusing to give you.
Directness.
“Tell me you didn’t feel a thing,” you said.
The words landed hard enough to make him go completely still.
You stepped even closer, until there was barely any space left between your bodies, until you could see the exact second his breathing changed.
“Go on,” you said. “Tell me none of it meant anything. Tell me you looked at me tonight and felt nothing. At least that would be honest.”
Steve stared at you.
His face had gone almost frighteningly bare.
No command left in it.
No Captain America.
No careful professional distance.
Only a man standing too close in the cold with every piece of his restraint suddenly visible for the cage it was.
He tried.
You saw him try.
Tried to say it.
Tried to gather the lie.
Tried to reshape his mouth around some version of indifference he might survive.
He could not.
The silence told you first.
Then the tiny, involuntary shake of his head.
Then the look in his eyes – raw enough now to feel almost indecent, because this was what you had begged from him in softer ways and quieter rooms and he had denied you every time until pain cornered him hard enough to make denial impossible.
“No,” he said at last.
Just that.
No.
Not I didn’t.
Not you’re wrong.
Not it meant nothing.
Only no, rough and low and dragged out of him like something torn.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt.
For one impossible instant, vindication and grief collided with enough force to leave you almost dizzy. You had wanted this. Hadn’t you? The truth. Proof that you had not gone mad alone inside what had existed between you. Proof that he had felt it too.
But here, now, on a cold balcony after weeks of silence and humiliation and the sight of him finally breaking only because another man’s hand had touched your waist in public, the truth felt less like mercy and more like damage arriving too late to save anything.
You looked at him and saw that he knew it too.
His voice, when it came again, had lost all steadiness. “Don’t do this.”
The words ignited you all over again.
“Don’t do what?” you asked. “Ask you for the truth? Make you say it out loud? Watch you finally look as wrecked as you made me?”
Steve’s jaw tightened, but there was no anger left in it now. Only strain.
“You know that’s not what I–”
“No,” you said. “I know exactly what you did.”
He flinched again.
Good, some ugly part of you thought.
Good.
“You wanted me in the dark,” you said. “You wanted me when I was easy to keep and easier to hide. Then the second it got real enough to scare you, you called it a mistake and acted like I’d imagined the rest.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then say what is.”
He opened his mouth.
Stopped.
The old pattern.
Again and again and again.
You almost laughed from sheer exhaustion.
“Right,” you said softly. “That’s what I thought.”
Behind the glass, someone inside shouted with laughter at something none of this had anything to do with. The music had shifted again, another bass-heavy track rolling under the conversation and light. The ordinary life of the Tower continued ten feet away, bright and ignorant and intact.
Out here, Steve looked wrecked enough to make your own hurt feel briefly reflected back at you.
It should have helped.
Instead it only made you tired.
You stepped away from him at last.
The cold rushed into the space between you immediately.
Steve watched you with a look that might once have undone you completely.
Now it only hurt.
“You don’t get to be wounded by this,” you said. “Not now.”
His voice dropped to almost nothing. “You think I’m not already?”
The answer shook something deep inside you.
That was the problem with Steve. Even now, even furious, even gutted, he could still say one true thing in a tone low enough to make it ache.
You hated him for that.
You hated yourself more for hearing it.
When you answered, your voice came quiet too, and somehow that made it harsher.
“You should’ve been.”
Then you turned and went back inside.
The warmth of the party hit you immediately, artificial and suffocating after the night air. Music swelled. Light flashed over glass and faces. Someone had opened another bottle. Sam was saying something to Clint near the speakers. Natasha stood by the bar, one dark brow lifting the instant she saw your face.
You did not stop.
You crossed the room, set your untouched drink down on the nearest surface, and kept walking.
As you passed Bucky, he looked up from where he leaned against the wall near the edge of the crowd.
His eyes flicked once to your expression, then past you toward the still-closed balcony door.
He knew enough not to ask.
You were grateful for that in a way that almost hurt.
Behind you, after one long moment, the door opened again.
You did not turn.
You did not need to.
You could feel Steve reenter the room the same way you had once felt him approach your door at night – with your whole body first, your mind catching up too slowly to do anything useful.
Series Summary: A secret relationship with Steve Rogers begins to fracture when he starts pulling away, unable to face what he feels. As the silence between you turns into hurt, humiliation, and reckless self-destruction, the cracks spread through every mission, every glance, and every choice - until everything comes to a head in the worst possible way.
Wordcount: 12.6k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Series Warnings: heavy angst, no happy ending, major character death, secret relationship, emotional repression, miscommunication, grief, guilt, jealousy, emotional self-destruction, reckless behavior during missions, injury, blood, graphic wound description, femoral artery injury, panic, near-death scene, death scene, funeral aftermath, complicated Steve/Reader/Bucky dynamic, one-night stand with Bucky, non-romantic rebound/comfort sex, emotional distress, implied poor sleep and loss of appetite.
A/N: Please read the warnings before continuing. This fic contains heavy angst, emotional self-destruction, a secret relationship falling apart, reckless behavior, jealousy, a one-time sexual encounter used as emotional escape, graphic injury, major character death, and a grief-heavy ending. This is not a fix-it and does not have a happy ending. Beta read by Cassie.
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In the end, it was not the conversation itself that ruined you.
It was what came after.
If Steve had avoided you completely, if he had transferred out of the Tower for a while, if he had made his absence obvious enough to match the damage, perhaps you could have hated him properly. Hatred, at least, had shape. It gave pain edges. It made the world simpler by placing the wound outside you.
But Steve did none of that.
A few days later – perhaps a week; time had already begun to lose its clean outline – he returned to the rhythms of the team as though nothing irreparable had taken place in your room. He attended briefings. He ran drills. He corrected formation mistakes with the same level tone he always used. He nodded at jokes, listened to reports, stood by the windows with his coffee, bent over strategy maps with his sleeves rolled to his forearms and his brow set in concentration.
He acted normally.
That was the cruelty of it.
Not because he looked happy. He did not. Steve had carried too much weight for too long to look light very often. But he looked functional. Controlled. Intact. He moved through the Tower as Captain America again – reliable, composed, entirely capable of continuing as if one private wreckage should not interrupt the machinery of a team already too used to damage.
And you, because no one knew what had been buried between you, had no language with which to explain why his composure felt like humiliation.
The first morning it truly sank in, you stood in the conference room half awake and fully frayed, your tablet cold in your hand, while Steve reviewed a surveillance sweep of a dockyard in Brooklyn. The screen cast pale light over his face. Sam leaned back in his chair, one boot hooked on the table support, and interrupted twice with practical questions. Natasha sat near the end of the table with one elbow propped on the armrest, twirling a pen through her fingers without looking at it. Clint arrived late with an apology no one believed.
Steve glanced around the room and assigned sectors.
When he got to you, his eyes only touched yours long enough to confirm you were paying attention.
“You’ll take the south entrance with Romanoff.”
That was all.
No hesitation. No undercurrent. No sign at all that those same eyes had once gone soft in the dark of your room while your name sat warm in his mouth like something too tender to say any louder.
You heard yourself answer, “Understood,” in a voice so even that for one disorienting second you almost believed it, too.
The meeting moved on.
You stared at the route map on the screen and thought, absurdly, that it should have been harder for him.
That thought shamed you immediately.
Of course it was hard for him, some quieter and less charitable part of you answered. Just not in a way anyone else could see. Not in a way that touched his usefulness. Not in a way that made him look compromised.
The problem, you realized with a flash of ugly clarity, was not that Steve suffered less.
It was that he suffered better.
He had always known how to contain himself. He folded pain into discipline, regret into work, longing into silence. It was one of the things that had drawn you to him before you understood how dangerous it was – how much gentleness could hide beneath such restraint, how much feeling could survive in a man who refused to let it alter his posture in public.
Now that same quality turned against you.
You stood six feet from him while he discussed extraction routes with Sam and thought, with a sick kind of disbelief, that no one in the room would ever guess he had once kissed you with both hands framing your face as if he needed to memorize it.
No one would ever guess he had stood in your room and called it a mistake.
When the meeting ended, chairs scraped back, tablets shut, the usual low drift of conversation resumed. Clint said something to Sam that made him grin. Natasha rose in one fluid motion and tucked the pen into her pocket. Steve remained at the head of the table gathering reports into neat stacks, already moving on to the next part of the day.
You could not breathe in that room another second.
You left before anyone could speak to you.
After that, the days settled into a pattern you grew to hate.
You slept badly.
At first you told yourself it was temporary. A reaction. A difficult week. Too much adrenaline, not enough rest, the usual aftermath of a Tower schedule that mistook exhaustion for efficiency. But your body did not believe you. You lay awake for hours with the lights off and the city pressing cold through the glass, turning over conversations that had already ended and sentences Steve had not said and all the places where meaning had gone missing between you. When sleep did come, it came light and shallow, full of abrupt waking and dreams too close to memory to shake off easily.
Mornings became ugly.
You stopped making proper breakfast because the smell of food turned your stomach before sunrise. Coffee sat untouched long enough to go cold. Toast hardened on plates you forgot to clear. Sometimes you forced down a few bites because you knew Natasha noticed things like that, because Bruce would look at you with quiet concern if you skipped too many meals in a row, because weakness in the field had too many practical consequences to indulge. But eating became mechanical, a task rather than a relief.
You grew sharper without meaning to.
Not louder. Not openly cruel. That would have invited questions you could not answer.
Instead, your patience thinned. You responded too quickly. Cut conversations shorter than you meant to. Snapped once at Clint for mislabeling a file and felt bad about it only after his joking expression faltered for half a second. You corrected a junior analyst in a tone too cold to be justified by the mistake. You held yourself together through missions and briefings and training, then felt your nerves vibrating under your skin long after everyone else returned to baseline.
It did not take long for someone to notice.
Sam did first.
Of course he did. Sam noticed moods the way other people noticed weather. He paid attention to rooms, to silences, to the shape of tension before it turned into conflict. He knocked on your open door one evening with two cups of coffee in hand and leaned his shoulder against the frame like he had just happened to be passing.
“You look mean,” he said.
You glanced up from the report in your lap. “That’s flattering.”
“I mean more than usual.”
“I wasn’t aware I had a baseline.”
“Oh, you do.” He stepped inside without waiting for permission and set one of the cups on your desk. “This one’s getting alarming.”
You looked at the coffee, then at him. “Should I be touched?”
“You should maybe sleep.”
The words hit too close, which was probably why your answer came out sharper than intended. “Are you taking inventory now?”
Sam did not react beyond one slight lift of his eyebrows. “No. I’m checking on a teammate who looks like she’s trying to survive on caffeine and spite.”
You wanted to say something dismissive, something light enough to wave him off. But Sam stood there with concern plain in his face and no agenda beyond that, and suddenly the kindness of it made your chest ache.
You looked back down at the report. “I’m fine.”
He was quiet for a second.
Then he said, more gently, “You’re really not.”
That almost undid you.
Not because Sam knew anything. He did not. He could not. He saw effects without cause, symptoms without the hidden injury beneath them. But there was something unbearable in being looked at and found wanting by someone who had no idea why you were fraying.
You swallowed hard and forced your voice even. “Bad sleep. Too much work. It’ll pass.”
Sam studied you a moment longer. “You want me to believe that?”
“No,” you said before you could stop yourself.
That made him smile, faint and sad around the edges. “At least that part was honest.”
He did not push. That was his mercy. He only nodded toward the untouched coffee. “Drink that before you turn into a full-time menace.”
When he left, the room felt quieter than before.
You stared at the coffee until it cooled and did not touch it.
Natasha noticed next, though with her it was impossible to say exactly when noticing became certainty.
She did not ask if you were all right. Natasha respected certain kinds of damage too much to insult them with obvious concern. Instead, she observed. Adjusted. Positioned herself nearby more often than she used to, in the subtle way she had when she suspected a crack in the foundation and wanted to know whether it would spread.
One evening in the training room, she disarmed you twice in under four minutes because your concentration kept slipping half a beat behind hers.
On the third pass, she trapped your wrist, twisted, and sent the knife skidding across the mat.
You swore under your breath.
Natasha let go and stepped back. “Again.”
You bent to retrieve the knife with more force than necessary. “I know.”
“I’m sure you do.”
You came at her harder the next time. Too hard. She sidestepped, clipped your ankle, and put you flat on your back before you even recovered from the failed feint.
The ceiling lights blurred above you for one humiliated second.
Natasha looked down, breathing not even slightly altered. “That wasn’t frustration,” she said. “That was distraction.”
You sat up and rubbed a hand over your jaw. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”
“You’re welcome.”
There was no mockery in it. That almost made it worse.
You rose too quickly. “Can we just keep going?”
Natasha twirled the knife once, then held it out to you hilt first. “You’re not sleeping.”
It was not phrased as a question.
You took the knife from her. “You all suddenly very interested in my schedule.”
“You’re not eating much either.”
You went still.
She had noticed that.
Of course she had.
You looked away first. “I’m busy.”
Natasha’s expression changed by less than a degree, but you saw the shift. A narrowing. A decision not to call you a liar only because it would serve no purpose.
“Busy is usually louder,” she said.
Your fingers tightened around the practice knife. “I’m handling it.”
“Mm.”
You hated that sound. Natasha could load an entire indictment into one hum of skepticism and still leave you no obvious sentence to fight.
She tilted her head, studying you. “Whatever this is, you’re carrying it badly.”
Something hot flashed under your skin. “That’s helpful.”
“It’s honest.”
You almost snapped at her then. The retort rose sharp and instinctive – something about minding her own business, something unfair and defensive, because pain without an outlet usually turned toward the nearest hand that reached for it. But you swallowed it. Natasha did not deserve your temper. She stood in front of you with concern disguised as bluntness because that was the only form of care she trusted, and you knew it.
You blew out a breath instead and rolled your shoulders once. “Can we finish?”
Natasha watched you for another beat.
Then she nodded. “Again.”
That was all. No questions. No pressure. Only the knife, the mat, the bruising insistence that you stay inside your body long enough to move it properly.
You were almost grateful.
Almost.
Steve saw all of it.
That was what made the whole thing unbearable.
He saw Sam lingering in your doorway more often than usual. He saw Natasha watching you in briefings with that unreadable feline stillness she wore when cataloguing another person’s fractures. He saw the darkening shadows under your eyes, the meals left half touched, the way you rubbed your thumb over the ridge of your wrist when you were trying not to let the inside of your head show on your face. He saw your patience splinter, your responses sharpen, your focus turn erratic around the edges even when the center held.
He saw.
And he did not intervene.
Perhaps, in his mind, that was mercy.
Perhaps he believed distance was the only kindness he still had any right to offer. Perhaps he knew any attention from him would only reopen things he had already decided to bury. Perhaps he thought not touching the wound counted as leaving it alone.
From where you stood, it felt like erasure.
Not because he ignored you completely. He did not.
That would have been obvious. Impossible to explain to the team, perhaps, but obvious to you.
Instead he measured himself with infuriating precision. He treated you exactly as he treated any capable, increasingly frayed teammate in need of monitoring but not yet formal correction. He asked for your tactical input in meetings. He reassigned you once from a solo perimeter sweep to a two-person watch with Sam after you missed a radio check by fifteen seconds. He told you to get medical attention after you took a hard hit in training. He held open the conference room door for you one morning when your hands were full of files and did not meet your eyes while doing it.
Every gesture landed wrong.
Professional concern where there had once been intimacy. Command where there had once been care. Courtesy where there had once been warmth so private it lived only in shadows.
He kept his distance.
You watched him erase the shape of what had been there and could not even accuse him of it aloud.
The grief changed under that pressure.
At first, it had been mostly pain. Raw, disoriented, impossible to carry with any grace. The kind of private hurt that made nighttime unbearable and mornings ugly.
But pain, left unseen long enough, curdled.
It became shame.
Not shame for loving him. You were not there yet.
Shame for still reacting while he appeared not to. Shame for feeling wrecked in a world where no one else could even identify the loss. Shame for standing in rooms with him and remembering things he had already filed away under mistake and discipline and necessary distance.
The humiliation of it settled in slowly.
No one knew what you had been to him.
No one knew there had been nights in your room, hands at your waist, confessions in the dark, small domestic softnesses more dangerous than passion because they had made you feel chosen in ways no one else could see.
No one knew, which meant no one understood why you looked tired enough to be ill or why the sound of Steve’s voice sometimes made your pulse go uneven for reasons that had nothing to do with respect for authority.
To the team, you were simply off.
More brittle. More impatient. More difficult than usual.
That should have been easier to bear than exposure.
It was not.
One afternoon, a little over two weeks after Steve had left your room with apology where explanation should have been, you came back from the lower levels with a folder tucked under your arm and a headache building behind your eyes. You had spent most of the morning in one of Tony’s labs listening to an analyst explain why satellite lag had corrupted half the footage from a recon drone. The fluorescent lights downstairs had been too bright. You had not eaten since dawn. The idea of food made your stomach turn and your temper sharpen in equal measure.
As you stepped into the common room, voices reached you before the room itself came fully into view.
Sam laughed first.
Not a polite chuckle. A real laugh – open, warm, easy.
Clint said something you did not catch.
Then Steve answered, and there was amusement in his voice.
You stopped just short of the doorway.
The common room opened out in bright afternoon light, the city spread broad and gleaming beyond the glass. Sam sat sprawled on one end of the couch, one ankle over his knee, gesturing with a protein bar as if it were part of the story. Clint leaned against the kitchen island with a bowl of cereal balanced in one hand because apparently he had given up all pretense of adult eating habits. Natasha stood near the window, arms folded, expression dry but not disengaged.
And Steve…
Steve stood beside the counter with a mug in his hand, listening.
Listening and smiling.
It was not a broad smile. He did not do broad, careless joy often. But it was there, unmistakable: that quiet lift at one corner of his mouth, that momentary easing of the lines around his eyes, that brief unguarded look he got when he forgot himself in the company of people he trusted.
It was a perfectly ordinary sight.
That was what gutted you.
Nothing in the room was wrong. Nothing dramatic was happening. The team was simply existing together the way teams did between crises – trading stories, half arguing over something stupid, occupying the same air without strain.
Steve looked at ease in it.
At ease while your insides still felt rearranged from a conversation he seemed to have stepped neatly beyond.
You stood there longer than you should have.
Sam said something else. Steve answered. Clint snorted into his cereal. Natasha, who missed very little, turned her head first and saw you in the doorway.
Her gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly.
A beat later, the others noticed too.
Sam lifted a hand. “There she is. We were just arguing about whether Rogers cheated at cards in the forties.”
Clint pointed his spoon toward Steve. “He absolutely did.”
Steve looked at you then.
Only for a second.
Just long enough for something unreadable to pass through his face before it settled back into calm.
“We didn’t have enough cards to cheat,” he said to Clint, though his eyes had already moved away from you.
The humiliation arrived so fast it felt like heat under your skin.
Not because he had done anything wrong.
That was the problem.
He had done nothing wrong.
He stood in the common room with your team – his team – having a normal conversation, and somehow that normality became its own kind of violence. Not because he laughed. Not because he was cruel enough to look happy. But because the world had resumed its shape around him while yours still felt split open, and no one in that room had the faintest idea why the sight of him standing there so easily nearly made you sick.
Sam was still talking. “Tell me you don’t see him palming an ace.”
“I’m saying I didn’t need to,” Steve replied.
Clint groaned theatrically. “That’s not a denial.”
Natasha continued to watch you.
You realized, with a strange delayed clarity, that everyone expected you to join in.
To walk forward. To answer. To stand in the same light and play your part in the easy, unbroken rhythm of the team.
You could not do it.
Not without feeling something in you crack.
“I left a file downstairs,” you said.
The lie came out flat and unconvincing.
Sam frowned lightly. “You just got up here.”
“I know.”
No one answered right away.
You did not look at Steve again. You did not trust your face if you did.
Natasha said, after the shortest pause, “I’ll send it up if I see it.”
You nodded once. “Thanks.”
Then you turned and walked away before anyone could stop you.
The hallway beyond the common room felt colder than it should have. The air too thin. You kept moving because stopping might mean understanding too clearly what had just happened inside you, and you were not sure you could afford that in the middle of the afternoon.
It was ridiculous, you told yourself as you hit the elevator call button harder than necessary.
Ridiculous to be shaken by the sight of Steve smiling at a joke. Ridiculous to expect him to carry his damage visibly just because you could not hide yours as well. Ridiculous to resent him for doing exactly what he always did best: functioning.
The elevator doors opened.
You stepped inside and pressed a random lower floor because you could not yet bear the thought of being alone in your room with no motion around you.
As the elevator descended, your reflection stared back at you from the mirrored panel opposite.
You looked worse than you realized.
Tired enough that the skin under your eyes had gone faintly bruised. Mouth set too tightly even at rest. Shoulder held tense in a way that made you look braced for impact. You had thought your damage still belonged mostly to the inside of you.
Apparently it had started to show.
The elevator opened to a quiet administrative level you had no reason to visit. You stepped out anyway and walked down a corridor lined with glass offices and dimmed workstations until you found an empty records room with the lights off. There, at last, you stopped.
For a long moment you simply stood in the dark with one hand braced against the edge of a metal cabinet, breathing carefully through the ache under your ribs.
Chagrin had become humiliation.
That was the shape of it now.
Not only because Steve had ended what you had and lived through the aftermath more gracefully than you could.
But because you had no witness to the loss. No grave to point to. No public fracture. Nothing anyone else could see and say yes, of course she is not herself; of course there is a reason.
Instead the hurt had turned inward, where it sharpened against pride.
You thought of the common room again – Steve with his mug, Sam laughing, Clint making some stupid point with utter confidence, Natasha watching all of it with those too-knowing eyes.
You thought of how natural Steve had looked in that scene.
How impossible it had been to reconcile that version of him with the man who once stood at your window after midnight and spoke of Brooklyn in a voice too quiet for daylight.
The worst part was that you knew the ease in the common room had not been false.
That would have been simpler. If he were pretending, you could have taken some ugly satisfaction in it. But Steve had always been capable of being real in more than one room at once. He could grieve and still lead. Long and still comfort. Hurt and still function. Whatever it cost him, he had built a life on carrying pain without making it everyone else’s burden.
You had admired that once.
Now it left you stranded.
A soft knock sounded against the partly open records room door.
You straightened instantly.
Natasha leaned one shoulder against the frame, the hall light outlining her before she stepped into the dimness.
“I wondered where you went,” she said.
You looked away. “I’m fine.”
“I’m sure.”
The dry answer might have almost made you smile on another day.
She closed the door behind her but did not come too near. Natasha never crowded pain unless the person in question was bleeding visibly. Instead she stayed by the wall with her arms folded, watching you the way she watched dangerous things – carefully, respectfully, without underestimating their capacity to do damage.
“You could have told Sam you weren’t in the mood,” she said after a moment.
“Was I that obvious?”
“To me? Yes.”
You let out a breath and rubbed at your temple. “I’m just tired.”
Natasha’s expression gave nothing away. “Still.”
You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Apparently that’s the official diagnosis.”
“It’s the easiest one to offer when nobody wants the harder answer.”
Your head snapped up.
She held your gaze steadily.
Not accusing. Not prying. Just presenting the sentence and letting you decide whether to touch it.
You did not.
You could not.
Your throat tightened around words that had no safe form. If you spoke, you might say too much. If you said too much, the whole fragile architecture of concealment would collapse – not only yours, but Steve’s. And despite everything, despite the bitterness and the humiliation and the private fury still festering under your skin, you could not yet imagine dragging him into the open like that.
So you looked away first.
“There isn’t a harder answer,” you said.
Natasha let the lie stand.
After a moment she crossed to the cabinet beside you, leaned back against it, and stared out into the darkness rather than directly at you. “You know,” she said, “when people are hurt in ways they can’t explain, they usually pick one of two strategies.”
You closed your eyes briefly. “Do I get a choice?”
“No.” A beat. “But you get advance warning.”
Against your better judgment, curiosity made you ask, “What are the strategies?”
“They either make themselves smaller,” Natasha said, “or they sharpen.”
The words settled over the room with quiet accuracy.
You stared at her profile in the dark.
“And which one am I doing?” you asked.
She did not hesitate. “Both.”
That should have offended you.
Instead, because it was true, it only exhausted you.
You looked down at your hands. “I don’t know how to stop.”
Natasha was quiet long enough that you wondered whether she had heard the confession inside the sentence.
When she answered, her voice had gentled by a degree too small for anyone but you to notice. “You don’t have to stop all at once.”
Something tightened painfully in your chest.
You hated how close that came to comfort.
You also hated that it was not the comfort you wanted.
Because Natasha could see the damage and Sam could see the symptoms and neither of them could touch the actual wound. Only Steve could do that. And Steve, who saw everything, chose distance.
That knowledge sat inside you like ice.
Natasha pushed off the cabinet after another moment. “Come upstairs when you’re ready,” she said. “Or don’t. But eat something before you fall over and embarrass us all.”
There it was – the dry edge returned, the deliberate shift away from tenderness before either of you had to acknowledge it existed.
You almost thanked her.
In the end you only nodded.
She opened the door, paused in the frame, and looked back once. “Whatever you’re carrying,” she said, “you’re not hiding it as well as you think.”
Then she left.
You stood alone in the records room a long time after that.
By the time you went back upstairs, the common room had emptied. A mug sat abandoned by the sink. Clint’s cereal bowl had been left in the dishwasher crooked, because of course it had. The city beyond the windows had turned gold and blue in the approaching evening.
There was no sign Steve had been there at all.
You stood in the middle of the room and felt, with a cold and humiliating certainty, that this was how erasure happened.
Not in one grand act.
In ordinary scenes. In untouched mugs. In briefings and hallway nods and all the small practical motions of a life that continued around a private ruin no one else had permission to name.
At his end, perhaps, he was only keeping his distance.
At yours, he was writing over the place where you had once existed.
After that, the damage stopped being quiet.
It had lived inside you for weeks by then, pressing inward, turning sleep thin and food useless and every ordinary interaction with Steve into a private humiliation no one else knew enough to name. But hurt, when denied any clean exit, rarely stayed internal forever. It looked for shape. It looked for movement. It looked for somewhere to go.
In your case, it found the field.
The first time it happened, you almost did not register it as a change.
The mission itself was routine by Avengers standards: an arms transfer intercepted in an abandoned industrial district on the edge of Newark, three warehouses, too many exits, bad sightlines, and enough concrete corridors to make close-quarters fighting messy. Intel had suggested a straightforward recovery with moderate resistance. That usually meant someone had underestimated either the number of guns or the stupidity of the people holding them.
You moved in with Natasha on the eastern side while Sam took the roofline and Steve coordinated entry from the center with Clint on remote eyes.
At first, everything held.
You breached, cleared the first hall, took down two armed guards before either managed a clean shot. Natasha cut through the next room like she had been built for shadows and bloodless efficiency. Your comm crackled with Steve’s voice – steady, concise, maddeningly calm.
“South corridor is active. Watch the blind turn at the loading bay.”
“Copy,” Natasha answered.
You said nothing. You were already moving.
There had always been something clean in combat for you. Not simple, never that, but clean. The field reduced life to immediate choices and immediate consequences. No subtext. No hidden currents. No pretending not to feel something because the mission did not care what sat under your ribs when the shooting started. It only cared whether you reacted fast enough.
Lately, the clarity of it had become addictive.
You took the turn too fast, saw the muzzle flash half a beat before the sound, and threw yourself sideways through the opening instead of waiting for Natasha’s cover. You hit the shooter low, drove him back into a stack of shipping pallets, disarmed him, and put him down before he got a second shot off.
The movement felt almost effortless.
It was only when you rose that you heard Natasha’s voice in your ear, flatter than usual.
“You were supposed to wait.”
“Didn’t need to.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“He’s down.”
A brief silence followed.
Then Steve’s voice cut in through the comm. “Status.”
Natasha answered before you could. “Secured. She jumped the turn without cover.”
A beat.
Then, “Copy. Stay on formation.”
His tone gave nothing away.
That should have soothed something in you. It did not.
You kept moving.
Later, in the warehouse’s central bay, one of the men swung at you with the butt of his rifle hard enough to split the skin under your eye. You barely felt it. Another drove a shoulder into your ribs where an older bruise still lingered. You took the hit, kept your footing, and answered with enough force to hear something crack under your fist.
You came out of the fight with blood in your mouth, a ringing in your ears, and the sharp, exhilarating sense that pain had become distant. Not absent. Just unimportant.
When the team regrouped outside, Steve looked at the blood on your cheek and the way you held your side a little too stiffly.
“You should get that checked.”
You wiped at the cut under your eye with the back of your glove. “It’s nothing.”
His gaze rested on you a second longer than necessary. “That’s not the point.”
You almost said something sharper than the moment required, but Natasha cut in first.
“It would’ve been less than nothing if she’d waited three seconds for cover.”
Your head turned toward her.
Natasha only shrugged one shoulder. “You left the angle open.”
“You saying that because it’s true,” you asked, “or because you’re in a generous mood?”
“Both.”
Steve’s jaw tightened.
He looked at you, not hard, not angrily, but with that controlled command presence that already put your nerves on edge.
“We’ll review it upstairs.”
You nodded once, because there were too many eyes around you and your pride still had enough survival instinct not to start a scene on the tarmac.
But something mean and hot lodged under your sternum all the same.
Upstairs became a pattern after that.
Not formal reprimands. Not anything that would go into a file.
Just corrections.
Watch your position.
Wait for the signal.
Stop advancing without cover.
Hold the line.
You knew he was right. That was the worst part.
He was not inventing flaws to punish you. He was not picking at nothing. He was seeing the truth with military clarity and naming it exactly.
You had become dangerous in the field.
Not sloppy. Never sloppy. If anything, you had become sharper. Faster to anticipate movement, quicker to strike, more willing to take the first opening before anyone else committed. Your focus in the moment of violence had narrowed into something brutally effective.
But you had stopped valuing the cost.
You moved like someone who trusted her body only as far as it could still carry out the objective. You took angles before cover settled behind you. You absorbed hits rather than giving ground. You accepted injury as a reasonable price for speed, and because you were good enough to make that look tactical half the time, it took longer than it should have for the team to call it what it was.
It was not bravery.
It was indifference.
Not to the mission. To yourself.
You did not think of it in those terms, not consciously. If anyone had accused you then of wanting to get hurt, you would have denied it with honest outrage. You did not want pain. You did not want blood. You did not have some theatrical death wish.
You simply no longer felt the same instinctive urgency to protect your own body that you once had.
There were seconds in the field when the difference between caution and carelessness came down to whether you believed, deep down, that you were worth pulling back for.
You had stopped believing it in time.
Steve noticed before anyone else admitted it aloud.
Of course he did.
He knew your fighting style too well not to. He knew where your caution usually lived, how you preferred to enter a room, when you would normally wait and when you would push. He knew the difference between your controlled aggression and the new thing taking shape beneath it – this stripped-down, almost brutal willingness to let impact land if it bought you a faster route through.
He saw it.
And because he was Steve, because he could not watch risk accumulate forever without acting, he finally did something about it.
The first real incident happened three days later on a hostage retrieval in Baltimore.
The building was an old municipal records office repurposed by a trafficking ring with more money than taste and enough military hardware to make the whole operation uglier than expected. Civilians were on the second floor. Hostiles were dug into the stairwells. The windows had been reinforced, which meant entry points were limited and every room became a funnel.
Steve laid out the plan in the quinjet with clipped efficiency.
Sam and Clint would secure external sightlines. Natasha would take the west stairwell. You would move with Steve through the center hall and split at the archive room once civilians were located.
You listened. Nodded. Understood every step.
Then the first explosion went off in the wrong place.
Someone on the inside panicked early. The blast did not take out the stairwell, but it shook dust loose from the ceiling and sent one of the lower hall lights flickering. The comms filled with overlapping noise for half a second – Sam calling movement from the roofline, Clint correcting his visual, Natasha swearing in Russian.
And you moved before Steve finished the order.
You saw a child through the shattered glass of an office door on the far side of the corridor, saw one armed man dragging him toward the rear room while another fired blind toward the entry point, and something in you snapped to action so fast the rest of the plan ceased to exist.
You broke from formation and went low under the gunfire.
Steve shouted your name.
You ignored him.
A round clipped the wall beside your head, showering plaster over your shoulder. Another struck your vest hard enough to bruise through the armor. You kept going, hit the first guard in the knees, drove him into the doorframe, tore the weapon out of his hands, and put him down hard enough that the back of his skull cracked against tile.
The second man swung at you before you fully rose. The blow glanced off your temple. White light burst behind your eyes for a second, and still you did not stop. You drove him backward, took the hit to your ribs when he landed one, and used the opening to put your knife to his throat.
By the time Steve reached you, both hostiles were down and the civilians were safe.
So were you, nearly.
Your breathing came fast and thin. Blood ran warm from a split near your hairline into the collar of your uniform. One knee had hit the floor harder than you realized and was already stiffening.
Steve looked from the civilians huddled against the archive wall to the dropped weapon near your feet to the blood at your temple.
His face changed in a way you had begun to dread.
Not fear. Not tenderness.
Command.
“Fall back,” he said.
You wiped at the blood with one glove. “I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t an option.”
The words came cold and clean over the comms, audible to everyone still linked in.
Something in your chest tightened instantly.
You heard Natasha’s silence. Sam’s breathing in the background. Clint muttering coordinates farther down the hall. Every member of the team was still on channel.
Steve took one step closer. “You broke formation, ignored a direct order, and pushed a live corridor without cover.”
“The hostile was moving.”
“That doesn’t change the order.”
“It changed the timing.”
His expression hardened by degrees. “This is not a debate.”
There it was.
Not concern. Not private anger. Not the man who once came to your room after midnight because he could not sleep with guilt sitting too heavily on his chest.
Captain America. In full voice. In front of the team.
The mission continued around you. Natasha called that the west stairwell was clear. Sam reported movement on the roof. Clint marked a heat signature two rooms over. But the world had narrowed to the corridor and the blood trickling down the side of your face and Steve looking at you like you were a problem of discipline.
You wanted, with a vicious and immediate intensity, to wound him with something precise.
Instead you bit down on it because civilians were still shaking behind you and professionalism, unlike whatever remained of your private life, had not entirely abandoned you.
“Understood,” you said.
The word came flat enough to freeze.
Steve held your gaze a second too long.
Then he turned and resumed command as if nothing else had happened.
The mission ended successfully.
Of course it did.
You got the civilians out. Natasha secured hard drives from the rear office. Sam dropped two men on the roof before they got a clear line on extraction. Clint cracked one joke too many over comms and nearly got himself cursed out by three different people in under thirty seconds. Steve led the whole operation cleanly from start to finish, if one ignored the small matter of your pulse hammering itself to pieces behind your ribs.
By the time the quinjet lifted off, your head had started to ache properly.
Bruce tried to get a look at the cut near your hairline. You let him clean it with all the grace of a trapped animal.
“It’s not deep,” he said gently.
“No kidding.”
Bruce blinked once at your tone, then wisely said nothing else.
No one spoke much during the flight.
Sam sat strapped in near the rear, one leg bouncing faintly with residual adrenaline. Natasha cleaned blood from under her nails with a wipe that had no chance of being enough. Steve sat opposite you with his arms braced on his knees and his shield propped beside his boot, staring at the floor hard enough to suggest the metal had offended him personally.
He did not look at you.
You did not decide whether that was better or worse.
Back at the Tower, you made it as far as the debrief room before it happened.
The whole team was there. Bruce had peeled off to the med bay. Tony had called in remotely and was half listening while working on something else entirely, his holographic interface glowing blue at the far end of the room. Sam stood by the coffee machine with a paper cup in hand. Natasha leaned against the wall near the screens. Clint sat backwards in a chair, arms folded over the backrest.
Steve stood at the front with the mission summary on one screen and your mistake sitting unspoken in the room like a second report.
He got through the first half without looking at you.
Hostage count. Weapons recovered. Intel passed to SHIELD. Structural risks at the site. Standard points, clipped and efficient.
Then his gaze shifted to the tactical breakdown.
“Before we sign off,” he said, “there’s one issue that needs to be addressed.”
You went cold.
No one else moved.
Steve’s voice remained even. “The archive corridor entry was a breach of formation and chain of command. It compromised the team’s timing and created unnecessary exposure in an already unstable room.”
The words were not shouted. They did not need to be.
Every syllable landed with clinical force.
Your face stayed still by effort alone.
Sam glanced toward you, then toward Steve, uneasy now. Clint’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Natasha, who had likely seen this coming the moment Steve opened his mouth, did not move at all.
Steve continued, because once he chose command over mercy he rarely stopped halfway.
“I understand the civilian was at immediate risk,” he said. “That does not justify disregarding direct instruction. We do not freelance in active corridors. Not in this team.”
The humiliation hit harder this time because it was public and because part of you knew he was doing exactly what a leader should do. That was what made the anger inside you so ugly. There was no military flaw in what he was saying. No tactical lie to hide behind. He had the right facts, the right tone, the right forum.
And still, all you could hear under it was erasure.
As if the problem between you could be reduced to this. A breach. A corridor. A discipline issue. As if the fracture hollowing you out had nothing to do with him and everything to do with your conduct.
He looked at you then.
“Do you understand?”
Silence filled the room.
You understood the question.
You also understood that if you answered in the tone available to you, the whole thing would rupture beyond recovery.
So you said, “Yes.”
Your voice sounded calm. You hated that.
Steve held your gaze a fraction longer, then nodded once. “Good.”
Good.
Something nearly tore loose inside you.
The rest of the debrief passed in a blur of sound you could not have repeated later if threatened. Tony said something about poor entry math. Sam asked a question about thermal lag in the west stairwell. Clint muttered that everyone needed a nap and maybe a muffin. Natasha remained very quiet.
You stood through all of it with your jaw locked and your hands still at your sides until the room finally emptied.
Sam lingered a second, as if uncertain whether to say something. One look at your face seemed to change his mind. He left with Clint. Tony’s hologram vanished mid-sentence. Natasha was the last to go. She paused at the door, her gaze sliding once between you and Steve, measuring the room with that infuriating precision of hers.
Then she, too, left.
The door shut.
Silence dropped hard into the debrief room.
Steve exhaled first, almost imperceptibly, as if he had been holding himself rigid through the whole thing and could finally loosen by a single degree. He set the tablet on the table and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
You stared at him.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Steve said, quieter now, “You can’t do that again.”
The simplicity of it nearly made you laugh.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was unbearable.
You took one slow step toward him. “That’s what you have?”
He lowered his hand and looked at you, already guarded. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That room full of people, and that’s what you wanted to address.”
His brow furrowed. “It needed to be addressed.”
“Yes,” you said. “Tactically.”
His expression sharpened. “It wasn’t personal.”
The words struck like an open palm.
You laughed once, a sound so short and dry it barely counted as one. “No. Of course not.”
He straightened slightly. “It couldn’t be.”
That made your temper flare bright and clean.
“No, Steve,” you said. “That’s the problem. It always can’t be, with you.”
His jaw tightened. “You ignored an order.”
“I know that.”
“You broke formation.”
“I know.”
“You put yourself and the rest of the team at risk.”
The anger in you shifted shape, deepened, darkened.
“I know,” you said again, the words suddenly louder. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
Steve took a measured breath, visibly trying to keep this from becoming something larger. “Then why are we arguing?”
For a second, the answer locked behind your teeth.
Because you stood in front of him with blood still dried near your hairline and humiliation burning under your skin, and what you needed from him had nothing to do with tactical feedback.
Because he had looked at you in front of the team as though your recklessness existed in a vacuum.
Because every correction from him now felt like he was carefully carving away any trace that what lay beneath it had once been shared.
“Because,” you said, voice dropping low and deadly, “you don’t get to stand there and act like this is just some discipline problem.”
His eyes flashed. “Right now, it is.”
“No.” You moved closer before caution could stop you. “No, right now it’s also you watching me come apart and pretending you have no idea what’s causing it.”
His face went still.
The room seemed to hold its breath with him.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
You felt something inside you tip past the point of restraint.
“Don’t what?” you asked. “Say it out loud?”
His mouth tightened. “You’re upset.”
The word was so woefully insufficient that for one bewildered second you could only stare at him.
Upset.
As if you were discussing a rough week. A bad mission streak. A frayed temper and poor sleep schedule that had appeared out of nowhere.
Then the hurt underneath the anger rose up so fast it made your vision sharpen.
“Upset,” you repeated.
Steve’s voice stayed maddeningly calm. “You’re letting it affect the field.”
There it was again. That cool reduction. That endless, infuriating ability to drag everything back toward management, procedure, control.
You looked at him and saw, with brutal clarity, the shape of what he was doing: not denying your pain, exactly, but flattening it into a professional issue because that was the only frame he could survive.
And something in you finally snapped.
“You don’t get to do that,” you said.
His brow drew tighter. “Do what?”
“Look at me like this is surprising.”
His face changed, just enough.
Too late.
Your voice came out harsher now, roughened by weeks of swallowed things and the corrosive humiliation of having nowhere safe to put them.
“You do not get to watch me fall apart and stand there with that look on your face like this happened in a vacuum.”
Steve took one step toward you. “Lower your voice.”
The command in it only made everything worse.
You laughed in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”
“People are still nearby.”
“Good.” You took a step closer as well, closing the distance until the air between you felt charged and dangerous. “Maybe then you’ll stop pretending you don’t understand what this is.”
“I understand that you’re compromising missions.”
“And I understand that you’d rather call it that than admit any of the rest.”
His expression hardened. “This isn’t about us.”
That word nearly undid you.
Us.
The first time he had used it in weeks, and only to deny it.
“No,” you said, so quietly the fury in it turned cold. “That’s exactly what you’ve made sure of.”
He looked away for one brief, fatal moment.
You saw guilt in the movement. Saw recognition. Saw that awful, impossible thing that always kept the wound open: he knew.
He knew.
He knew what he had done to you. He saw the sleeplessness, the fraying edges, the carelessness in the field, the sharpness in your voice, and still he kept choosing distance as though distance were neutral.
Your throat tightened around the next words, but once they started, you could not stop them.
“You don’t get to look at me like I’m a disappointing soldier,” you said. “Not when you know exactly why I’m like this.”
“Enough.”
“No.”
“Enough.”
His voice cracked through the room with full command force that time.
Any other day, it might have checked you.
Today it only turned the hurt into something uglier.
You looked him dead in the eye and said, each word clear as broken glass, “You don’t get to watch me drown with that surprised look on your face.”
Silence slammed down after it.
For one suspended second, Steve did not move.
You saw the hit land. Not as anger. As damage. As if the sentence had found a seam in him and driven straight through.
His mouth parted slightly, then closed.
When he finally spoke, his voice had lost some of its certainty. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
The sheer fragility of the answer made your chest ache.
But the ache no longer softened anything. It only hollowed.
“No?” you asked. “Then what would you call it?”
He said nothing.
Of course he said nothing.
Your laugh this time sounded tired, almost ruined. “Right.”
You turned away from him because looking any longer might have become begging, and you had enough humiliation for one day.
Behind you, Steve said your name.
You stopped.
His voice was quieter now. Not command. Not quite Steve the way he used to be with you, either. Something stranded between the two.
“You can’t keep doing this.”
You faced the door, not him.
“Doing what?”
“Throwing yourself into live fire like you’ve got nothing to lose.”
The words lodged deep because they were true.
You hated that he was the one to say them.
You also hated that some dark, exhausted part of you wanted to turn around and ask whether he had only just noticed.
Instead you kept your hand on the back of the nearest chair and said, “Maybe I really have nothing left to lose.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He was silent long enough that you almost thought the argument had burned itself out.
Then he said, very low, “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
That finally made you turn.
He stood exactly where you had left him, broad shoulders tense, hands loose at his sides only by effort. There was anger in his face now, yes, but not only anger. Fear sat beneath it. Fear and guilt and something that looked too much like pain for you to survive seeing clearly.
The sight of it should have comforted you.
Instead it made the whole thing worse.
Because if he was afraid, then he cared. If he cared, then all this careful distance was not indifference but choice. And choice was harder to forgive.
You looked at him with all the exhaustion you had been swallowing for weeks and said, “You don’t get to start now.”
The blow of it showed.
Steve flinched almost invisibly.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled himself back together. You watched it happen in real time – the wall going up, discipline slotting into place where something more human had almost broken through.
When he spoke again, his tone had gone controlled.
“Get some rest,” he said. “We’ll revisit field assignments in the morning.”
The words were so coldly professional that for one mad instant you thought he might as well have signed a report and dismissed you from the room.
You stared at him.
Then you nodded once.
“Of course,” you said.
You left before he could answer.
The hallway outside felt too bright. Too clean. You walked it on unsteady legs, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, your pulse still roaring in your ears. Somewhere around the corner, you heard Sam’s voice low with Clint’s, then the sound cut off abruptly as they noticed you approaching.
You kept walking.
No one stopped you.
In your room, the silence hit like a pressure change.
You shut the door harder than necessary and stood with your hand still on the handle, staring at nothing. The cut at your temple throbbed. Your ribs hurt where one of the men in Baltimore had landed a shot through the vest. The room smelled faintly of clean laundry and the antiseptic Bruce had used earlier. On your desk, a mission report waited half open from the last operation, full of neat, impersonal language that would never include words like grief or humiliation or the exact look on Steve’s face when you said drowning.
Your hands were shaking.
Not with fear.
With the aftershock of saying something true and receiving nothing back but containment.
Slowly, you crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
The worst part, you realized, was not even the fight itself.
It was that Steve had still tried to save the conversation by dragging it back into procedure.
Field assignments. Orders. Discipline. Survival.
As if your unraveling could be handled the same way he handled a compromised corridor – identified, corrected, folded into future protocol.
Maybe that was all he knew.
Maybe that was what broke you.
Because pain, in the absence of comfort, had finally become behavior.
It had worked its way out of your body and into your choices, your instincts, your sense of risk. You no longer threw yourself forward because you misjudged danger. You did it because some deep and battered part of you had stopped caring enough to avoid it.
And Steve saw that.
He saw it and called it a field issue because naming the real cause would have required him to stand in it with you.
Your laugh came out soft and ugly in the empty room.
Then, because there was no one to hear and no point in pretending alone, you put your face in your hands and sat very still while the silence closed around you.
By morning, the ache would have sharpened into anger again. It always did.
But that night, sitting on the edge of your bed with your body full of impact and your mind full of him, you understood something new and dangerous.
You were no longer just hurt.
You were becoming reckless with your own life in ways too subtle to call suicidal and too deliberate to call accidental.
And somewhere in the Tower, Steve knew it.
Bucky noticed before you wanted him to.
That was the irritating thing about men who had spent too long learning how damage looked in other people. They did not always ask the right questions, and they did not always know what they were seeing, but they recognized the shape of distress with an accuracy that felt almost invasive.
It began with small things.
A pause too long in the doorway when he found you alone in the kitchen at one in the morning, standing barefoot in front of the open fridge without taking anything out.
A glance that lingered half a second too long when you came back from training with your jaw set so tight it looked painful.
A dry, unadorned, “You look awful,” tossed your way in the elevator one evening with no mockery in it at all.
He said it the way one soldier might say to another you’re bleeding.
Plainly. Without softness. Without pretending it was anything but true.
You liked him better for that than you should have.
Not because Bucky was easy. He was not. He carried himself with the kind of quiet tension that never quite passed for rest, even in the Tower at its most peaceful. He moved like a man still listening for old threats in new rooms. Some days he spoke so little you wondered whether he had spent the whole morning holding language at arm’s length on purpose.
But he did not ask you to perform recovery for him.
He did not look at your darkening eyes and tell you to sleep.
He did not slide concern across the table disguised as advice.
He did not watch your silence like it was a problem to solve.
He saw it.
That was all.
And after weeks of Steve’s measured distance, Sam’s gentle concern, Natasha’s too-accurate observations, there was a strange relief in being seen by someone who did not immediately reach for a fix.
The first time you ended up alone with him was almost accidental.
It was late enough that the residential floor had gone mostly quiet. The Tower lights had dimmed to their softer nighttime setting, turning the halls amber and the windows black mirrors over the city. You had gone downstairs because sleep refused to come and lying in bed with your own thoughts had started to feel like a form of punishment.
You found Bucky in the kitchen with the overhead lights off, standing by the counter with a glass of water in one hand and the refrigerator door still open behind him.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then he shut the fridge and said, “You too?”
You leaned one shoulder against the doorway. “Depends what we’re doing.”
“Pretending we’re hungry.”
His voice was flat, but the line carried enough self-awareness to almost count as humor.
You looked at the glass in his hand. “And is it working?”
“No.”
“Good system.”
He took a drink and studied you over the rim. Not rudely. Not gently. Just directly.
You crossed to the counter and took out a bottle of water because it gave your hands something to do.
The kitchen hummed softly around you. Somewhere below, machinery ran through the bones of the building. Rain had started again outside, a faint patter against the glass walls of the common room beyond. The whole floor felt hollowed out by the hour.
Bucky leaned back against the counter. “You’ve been up a lot.”
You twisted the cap off the bottle. “You taking attendance?”
“No.” A beat. “Just noticed.”
You almost said something defensive. Something sharper than the sentence deserved. But the tone he used left nothing for you to fight. It held no accusation, no invitation to confess, no concern dressed up as a command.
Only fact.
So you drank instead.
He waited a second, then added, “You don’t have to explain it.”
That made you look at him.
The dim light from the stove hood cut across one side of his face and left the other in shadow. His expression gave little away, as usual. But there was recognition in it. Not of your specific pain, because he could not have known that. Of the condition itself.
Sleeplessness.
Frayed nerves.
That brittle, inward look people got when too much of them had gone underground and started pressing against bone.
You let out a breath through your nose. “That obvious?”
“To me?”
Something in his face shifted – dry amusement, maybe, or something even barer than that.
“Yes.”
You should have been embarrassed.
Instead, you felt the smallest flicker of relief.
“Congratulations,” you said. “You’ve joined an elite club.”
“Wilson?”
“And Romanoff.”
He nodded once, unsurprised. “Makes sense.”
You glanced at him sideways. “You’re not going to tell me I need rest and a proper meal?”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
Bucky took another drink of water. “If you wanted advice, you wouldn’t be standing in the dark pretending this counts as dinner.”
The line should not have made you smile.
It did, barely.
He noticed. Of course he did. But unlike Sam, he did not push for more once the wall shifted. He only looked away first and let the silence settle back around you.
That became the pattern.
Not every night. Not predictably enough to name in advance. But often enough that, after a while, you stopped being surprised when you found him in the hours when the Tower felt emptied of everyone else.
Sometimes it was the kitchen.
Sometimes the gym, long after the official training schedule ended, with the overheads dimmed and the mats abandoned and Bucky sitting on one of the benches rewrapping his metal arm in silence.
Sometimes the balcony off the common room, where the city wind came cold against your face and made talking feel optional.
You never planned it.
He never summoned you.
You simply drifted toward the same corners at the same hours, two people too tired to sleep and too proud to call that what it was.
The conversations stayed sparse.
That was part of what made them bearable.
Bucky did not fill silence for the sake of easing it. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that some kinds of exhaustion made small talk feel like violence.
So the words, when they came, came plain.
“Your right hook’s getting sloppy.”
“You saying that because it’s true?”
“I’m saying it because you almost dislocated your shoulder compensating.”
Or…
“You skipped breakfast.”
“You watching me now?”
“No. You nearly bit Barton’s head off over a protein bar. It was hard to miss.”
Or…
“You should ice that.”
“You should mind your business.”
“I am. You’re making it ugly for the rest of us.”
The dryness of it made it easier to stand there with him than with anyone else.
Sam was kind, and kindness threatened to pull at things you were still holding shut with both hands.
Natasha was observant, and observation from her always felt like a blade held up to the light.
Bruce was too gentle by half.
Steve…
You shut that thought down before it finished.
Bucky gave you nothing to brace against and nothing soft enough to break on. He did not ask how you felt. He did not ask what happened. He did not ask why your temper had gone sharp or why your eyes looked permanently overtired now or why your fighting style had turned from disciplined aggression to something closer to attrition.
He let all of it exist.
It should not have mattered as much as it did.
But when most of your days had become performances of functionality around people who either worried or watched or carefully looked away, there was a distinct comfort in someone who accepted your damage without requiring a speech about it.
One night, nearly a week after the debrief room argument with Steve, you found Bucky in the training room sitting on the floor with his back against the mirrored wall, one leg bent, the other stretched out in front of him. The room had been stripped back to half darkness. Only one row of lights remained on overhead, throwing long pale reflections across the mats.
You nearly turned around when you saw him.
He looked up first. “Door’s still open.”
You paused with your hand on the frame. “That your way of saying I’m allowed in?”
“It’s my way of saying I’m not moving.”
You let the door swing shut behind you and crossed to the far side of the room, dropping onto the mat with more care than grace. Every bruise from the Baltimore mission had started to yellow at the edges, which meant they hurt in a way that made sitting down unexpectedly annoying.
Bucky watched the controlled stiffness of the movement.
“You’re limping.”
“You’re observant.”
“No,” he said. “You’re just bad at hiding pain.”
The sentence landed harder than he meant it to.
You looked away.
For a moment the room went quiet except for the soft buzz of the lights and the far-off hum of the Tower’s ventilation system.
Then Bucky said, “That wasn’t a criticism.”
You gave a short laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”
His mouth twitched – not quite a smile, but close enough to count from him. “You’d know if I was criticizing you.”
“That reassuring?”
“No.”
That should have been the end of it. Instead, perhaps because you were more tired than guarded that night, you stayed.
You sat across from him with your knees drawn up and your arms folded loosely over them while the mirrors threw back a dim, fractured version of the room around you. Bucky remained still in the opposite corner of your vision, broad shoulders loose only by comparison to the perpetual tension you had come to recognize in him.
After a while, he said, “Steve has been on you.”
You went very still.
There were a hundred ways he might have meant it. Tactical. Team leadership. The public correction after Baltimore, which had apparently reached even the corners of the Tower that you thought had stayed mercifully quiet.
But his voice carried no interest in gossip. Only observation.
You kept your eyes on the mat. “He’s doing his job.”
“Maybe.”
That answer made your jaw tighten. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bucky leaned his head back against the mirror. “Means sometimes people hide behind their jobs when they don’t want to deal with something else.”
For one dangerous second you wondered whether he knew.
The thought came and went just as quickly.
No. He did not know.
If he had, he would not have said it that way. There was too little calculation in it. Too little target.
He was speaking generally, from instinct and scars and whatever private archive of bad choices and buried grief he carried inside himself.
Still, the words hit close enough to raise your defenses.
“You saying that from experience?” you asked.
Bucky glanced at you.
The overhead light caught for a moment on the metal of his left hand, dull silver in the half-dark.
“Usually am.”
You did not know what to do with the unexpected honesty of that. So you defaulted to the only kind you could manage.
“That sounds bleak.”
“It is.”
There was no bitterness in the answer. No self-pity, either. Just a statement, as uncomplicated as weather.
You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding.
The thing about Bucky was that he did not dress pain up. He did not make it poetic. He did not turn it into morality or weakness or some noble burden to be carried in silence for everyone else’s comfort. He simply treated it as something that existed.
That made him strangely easy to be near.
You rested your head back against the mirrored wall and looked up at the ceiling. “You ever get tired of everyone asking if you’re okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever answer honestly?”
“No.”
That made you smile despite yourself.
“Interesting strategy.”
“It works.”
“Does it?”
Bucky was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “No. But it ends the conversation.”
You turned your head just enough to look at him.
He was already looking at you.
Not intensely. Not intrusively. Just steadily, as if he had not meant to say anything revealing and was waiting to see if you would make a problem of it.
You did not.
Some things felt different when spoken in the dark. Less like confession, more like fact accidentally left within reach.
He looked away first.
That became familiar too.
There was a kind of peace in those late-night encounters that had nothing to do with comfort in the ordinary sense. You did not leave them healed. You did not feel lighter after. But you felt less scraped raw. Less alone inside your own skin. For an hour here or there, the pressure in your chest eased from unbearable to merely constant.
And because Bucky never asked for more than presence, you kept drifting back.
One night, the city disappeared entirely behind rain.
The balcony doors had fogged at the edges, and the common room beyond lay mostly dark except for the low floor lights and the blue pulse of some forgotten Stark interface left on standby near the bar. You had gone down for water and found Bucky already there, sitting on one of the stools with a glass in front of him.
Not whiskey. Not anything stronger than that sharp amber glow might have suggested from a distance.
Tea, as it turned out. Black and unsweetened.
He looked at the water bottle in your hand, then at your face. “Thrilling.”
You glanced at the mug. “You went with old-man insomnia.”
“It was this or pacing.”
“You pace?”
“No.”
“You just implied–”
“I implied it would annoy me.”
“Right.”
You moved to the other end of the counter and leaned against it, facing partly toward him and partly toward the rain-smeared windows. The room held that strange middle-of-the-night stillness that made every small sound sharper: the tap of water against glass, the faint click of the cooling system, the muted ceramic touch when Bucky set his mug down.
After a while, he slid it half an inch in your direction.
You looked at him. “What’s that?”
“Tea.”
“I can see that.”
He shrugged with one shoulder. “You look like you need something warm.”
The simple practicality of it made your throat tighten unexpectedly.
He had not said you look awful.
He had not said you should eat, sleep, recover, explain.
Only this.
Something warm.
As if that were a sufficient response to a visible crack in a person.
You set your water aside and took the mug. Your fingers brushed his for less than a second around the handle. The contact was brief, neutral, and still it seemed to hang strangely in the air afterward.
You took a sip.
It was too bitter, too hot, and exactly the sort of thing you would not normally choose for yourself.
“It’s terrible,” you said.
Bucky nodded. “I know.”
“Then why are you drinking it?”
“It’s there.”
That made you laugh – a real laugh this time, quiet but unmistakable.
He glanced at you, and something in his expression eased.
Not softened. Not warmed into flirtation or invitation or anything as simple and dangerous as that.
It just eased.
The silence that followed felt different from the others. Fuller, somehow. Charged by the small absurd intimacy of shared tea, by the rain hemming the Tower in, by the hour and the darkness and the simple fact of two exhausted people standing in the same pool of low light without pretending to be less tired than they were.
You held the mug with both hands and stared out at the city reduced to blurred streaks of white and amber below.
After a while Bucky said, “You don’t have to keep pretending with me.”
Your grip on the mug tightened.
You did not look at him. “Pretending what?”
“That you’re fine.”
The room went very still.
You should have denied it. You almost did. The instinct rose immediately – automatic, practiced, sharpened over the last month into something reflexive. But it died before it reached your mouth.
Maybe because he asked without pressure.
Maybe because it was raining hard enough to make the whole world feel far away.
Maybe because there was no point in lying to someone who had never once asked you to be anything but what you were in the moment.
So you said, very quietly, “I know.”
Bucky did not move.
Did not offer comfort.
Did not reach.
Did not make the silence kind in a way that would force you to break.
He only nodded once, as if that answer made perfect sense.
And for some reason, that simple acceptance felt more dangerous than sympathy would have.
You set the mug down carefully. “You always this easy to be around?”
His mouth twitched. “No.”
“Good. That would be suspicious.”
“You’re not exactly a picnic yourself.”
“Cruel.”
“Honest.”
You looked at him then.
He was standing with one forearm resting against the counter, the low light cutting his face into shadow and silver and tired lines. There was nothing seductive in the way he held himself. Nothing calculated. No effort to close distance or sharpen the air between you.
He was simply there.
That should have made him safe.
Instead, because of everything unraveling inside you, safety started to feel strangely slippery around him. Not because Bucky did anything to create that. Because he did not. He gave you room, and that room became its own kind of risk.
You realized with a small, sick clarity that some part of you had started leaning toward his presence the way exhausted bodies leaned toward walls without thinking.
Not love.
Not want, not yet.
Relief.
That could be worse.
The rain struck harder against the glass for a minute, then softened again. Somewhere in the building, an elevator hummed past and was gone.
Bucky’s gaze dropped briefly to the half-empty mug between you.
“You can keep that,” he said.
You looked down at it. “As a souvenir?”
“As tea.”
“Right.”
Another pause.
Then, because the quiet had turned too full to leave untouched, you asked, “Why don’t you ask?”
His brow furrowed faintly. “Ask what?”
“What happened.”
He was silent just long enough to suggest he had asked himself the question already and discarded it.
Then he said, “Because if you wanted to tell me, you would.”
The answer struck somewhere deep.
Not because it was kind.
Because it respected you in a way that almost nobody had lately.
You looked away first.
For a long moment neither of you spoke again.
Then Bucky pushed off the counter. “You should try sleep.”
You laughed softly. “You too?”
He picked up his own mug. “Difference is, I don’t expect you to listen.”
That earned him the smallest smile.
He started toward the hallway, then paused near the doorway and glanced back once.
“Don’t train on that knee tomorrow,” he said.
You stared at him. “How did you know my knee hurts?”
He gave you a look as if the answer were painfully obvious.
Then he left.
You stood alone in the dim common room with his mug still warm in your hands and the rain making the glass tremble faintly under the weather.
Nothing had happened.
That was the dangerous part.
No line crossed.
No flirtation you could point to.
No confession.
No deliberate seeking of comfort beyond what the hour and the room and the quiet between you already offered.
And still, as you carried the mug back to your room, you knew something had shifted.
Bucky had become a place you drifted toward when the nights got too long.
Not because he repaired anything.
Not because he asked for your pain.
Not because he tried to turn your wreckage into meaning.
Only because he stood near it without asking you to stop bleeding.
It was not romance.
It was refuge.
And that, in the state you were in, may have been the more dangerous thing.
Series Summary: A secret relationship with Steve Rogers begins to fracture when he starts pulling away, unable to face what he feels. As the silence between you turns into hurt, humiliation, and reckless self-destruction, the cracks spread through every mission, every glance, and every choice - until everything comes to a head in the worst possible way.
Wordcount: 10.9k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Series Warnings: heavy angst, no happy ending, major character death, secret relationship, emotional repression, miscommunication, grief, guilt, jealousy, emotional self-destruction, reckless behavior during missions, injury, blood, graphic wound description, femoral artery injury, panic, near-death scene, death scene, funeral aftermath, complicated Steve/Reader/Bucky dynamic, one-night stand with Bucky, non-romantic rebound/comfort sex, emotional distress, implied poor sleep and loss of appetite.
A/N: Please read the warnings before continuing. This fic contains heavy angst, emotional self-destruction, a secret relationship falling apart, reckless behavior, jealousy, a one-time sexual encounter used as emotional escape, graphic injury, major character death, and a grief-heavy ending. This is not a fix-it and does not have a happy ending. Beta read by Cassie.
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Next
The Tower never truly slept.
It quieted, sometimes. It dimmed. It exhaled in long metallic sighs through the vents and softened its lights to a low amber glow that made the hallways look gentler than they were by day. But it never slept. Somewhere, a monitor always blinked. Somewhere, an elevator always hummed. Somewhere, an engine, a server, a machine built by hands smarter than yours, kept the whole place breathing.
You learned that early.
You learned that it was easier to be lonely in a building that never stopped moving.
That night, the city spread beneath the glass in a thousand blurred lights, pale gold and cold white against the dark. Rain tapped softly against the windows of your room, not hard enough to be a storm, only enough to be heard if you listened for it. You sat on the edge of your bed with your boots still on, your shoulders aching from the mission, a shallow cut drying tight across your ribs beneath your shirt. Your knuckles still stung from where they had connected with bone.
You should have showered. You should have slept.
Instead, you sat in the half-dark with a glass of water on your nightstand and your pulse still not settled, staring at nothing.
The mission had gone well, technically. Nobody died. The hostages came out alive. The intel had been recovered. Fury would call that a success. Natasha would call it messy but salvageable. Sam would make some joke tomorrow over coffee about the three men you nearly put through a window and the way one of them cried before you even touched him.
Steve had said very little on the quinjet ride back.
He had blood on his jaw that had not been his. His uniform had torn across one shoulder. He looked as he always did after a hard mission – composed in that way that never meant calm, only control pulled so tightly over strain that it started to look like the real thing.
He sat across from you on the flight home. Once, only once, he lifted his gaze and met yours.
It should not have meant anything. To anyone else, it would not have.
But you knew the language of his silences by then.
You knew the difference between Steve looking at you as your team leader and Steve looking at you as if the room had narrowed to a single point and you stood at its center.
On the jet, with the others around you and the rotors humming through the floor, he only looked for a second. Long enough to ask a question without speaking.
Are you hurt?
You gave the smallest shake of your head.
I’m fine.
It was a lie. You suspected he knew it. It was not the kind that mattered.
Then he looked away, and by the time the jet landed on the Tower roof, Captain America had returned in full. Efficient. Focused. Untouchable.
You hated how much that hurt, even when you understood it.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Your head lifted.
You looked at the door, your heart tripping once in your chest before common sense caught up. It could have been anyone. Natasha, if she wanted to check the cut on your side because she did not trust your definition of fine. Sam, because he was incapable of letting a tense debrief end without one more wisecrack. Even Friday, through the speaker system, if Tony had decided the whole team needed to know the latest upgrade to some weaponized piece of nonsense at one in the morning.
Then the knock came again. Not louder. Just patient.
Three taps. A pause. Two more.
Your breath caught despite yourself.
Nobody else knocked like that.
You stood too quickly and had to brace a hand on the bed when pain pulled at your ribs. You crossed the room in socked feet, every step suddenly too loud in the quiet. When you opened the door, Steve stood in the hallway with his hair still damp from a shower, a grey long-sleeve shirt clinging lightly to his shoulders, dark sweats hanging low on his hips.
Out of uniform, he always looked more dangerous somehow.
Less like a symbol. More like a man.
The hallway light haloed faintly around him. His expression was tired, set in that careful neutrality he wore whenever the walls still had ears, but his eyes swept over your face first, then down, sharp and immediate, as if he had needed to see for himself.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
You looked down automatically. A thin line of red had seeped through the side of your shirt where the bandage had shifted.
“It’s nothing.”
Steve’s mouth flattened.
“That usually means it needs stitches.”
“It needed stitches two hours ago,” you said. “Now it just needs sleep.”
He glanced down the corridor once, more habit than suspicion, then back at you. “Can I come in?”
It was ridiculous that those four words still did something to you.
He had already been in your room more times than you could count. Late nights after missions. Quiet hours no one else noticed. Mornings that came too soon and left you both with just enough time to pretend nothing had happened. He had sat in your chair, leaned against your desk, stood at your window with the city behind him and your name in his mouth like something private.
Still, every time he asked, your pulse answered.
You stepped aside.
He entered without a sound, and you shut the door quickly behind him. The click of the latch seemed louder than it should have. Final in some intimate way.
For a second neither of you spoke.
The room held the usual signs of your life in disarray: your discarded jacket over the chair, a half-unpacked duffel by the wall, mission reports stacked unevenly on the desk, a book you had not had the attention span to finish lying face-down on your blanket. Nothing dramatic. Nothing revealing.
Nothing that announced him as a secret regularly kept here.
Steve turned toward you, and the reserve he wore in the hallway loosened by a fraction.
“Let me see.”
You should have refused on principle. You did not.
With a quiet huff that was more for your own pride than his benefit, you tugged the hem of your shirt up enough to expose your side. The cut ran slantwise along your ribs, not deep enough to be dangerous, only deep enough to hurt every time you moved. You had cleaned it quickly in the med bay and covered it yourself because the last thing you wanted was Bruce fussing gently or Tony making some comment about field discipline.
Steve stepped closer.
“Sit down,” he said.
“You know, one day I’d like a visit from you that doesn't start with an order.”
His mouth twitched.
It was barely there. Most people would have missed it. You never did.
“One day,” he said.
You sat on the edge of the bed, and he disappeared into your bathroom without asking where you kept anything because by then he knew. That fact had settled into you slowly over months, becoming dangerous only after it was too late to call it harmless. Steve knew where you kept spare bandages. He knew which drawer stuck unless you lifted it slightly. He knew you were more likely to run out of painkillers than coffee. He knew that when you were too tired to sleep, you left the lamp on and read the same paragraph four times without turning the page.
He returned with antiseptic, fresh gauze, and the small first-aid kit you pretended was for emergencies and he knew you used mostly because you were stubborn.
“You’re awfully comfortable in here,” you said.
He knelt in front of you.
It should have made the room tilt less, by now. It did not.
“You’re awfully bad at taking care of yourself,” he said.
“I take care of myself just fine.”
Steve looked up at you then, one eyebrow lifting in quiet disagreement, and you had to look away first.
He peeled the old bandage back carefully. The sting made you suck in a breath through your teeth.
“Sorry.”
“You’re the one doing it.”
His fingers steadied lightly against your side. Warm. Careful. Entirely too gentle for a man who had spent the evening throwing armed mercenaries through concrete pillars.
“That guy on the second floor caught you?” he asked.
“The one with the knife?”
“He had a knife?”
“You say that like it surprises you.”
“It surprises me that you let him get close enough to use it.”
You leaned back on one hand, watching him clean the blood away. “He got lucky.”
“No,” Steve said, and there was no sharpness in it, only certainty. “You got distracted.”
You looked at him.
He kept his eyes on the wound, but you knew him well enough to hear the rest of it. The way his voice changed when concern slipped through before discipline could stop it. The way he made observations sound neutral when they were anything but.
“Maybe,” you said.
His jaw tightened.
He said nothing more as he worked. The silence between you settled into something familiar, not empty but full. Rain brushed the windows. Somewhere beyond your room, the elevator chimed faintly and passed on. The Tower breathed around you. Steve’s hands remained steady.
You studied his bent head, the damp blond at his temples, the little line between his brows that never fully left anymore.
You remembered the first time he had come to your room like this.
Not for this. Not for anything physical. Not at first.
It had been after a mission in Bucharest three months before, though it felt longer. Everyone had returned wrung out and raw. The debrief had gone past midnight. Tony and Steve had argued about collateral damage until Natasha cut through both of them with a single look and sent everyone away before someone said something they could not pull back.
You had gone upstairs with your head pounding and found Steve at your door twenty minutes later, not in uniform then either, just tired down to the bone.
He had not asked to come in that night. He only stood there with his shoulders too tight, his expression shut, and said, “You were right about the east exit.”
It had taken you a second to understand.
In the briefing, you had argued that the east exit was the likeliest choke point and should have had two agents posted. Steve had made the call to keep the team concentrated on the main floor instead. He was not wrong, exactly. He was just not right enough.
Two civilians nearly paid for it.
You thought he had come because guilt sat too heavily on him to let him sleep. You thought he needed to say the words out loud to someone who would not use them against him.
So you let him in.
He sat in your chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he was holding himself together by force. He did not speak for a long time. When he did, he said things you suspected he had not said to anyone in years. Not about tactics or command or what the reports would show. About responsibility. About the sickening quiet after a mission when everyone else walked away and he still saw every choice in reverse. About how leadership always sounded noble from a distance, and felt uglier up close.
You listened.
That was all.
You did not touch him. You did not tell him he was wrong to feel it. You did not offer him empty absolution.
When he finally looked up at you, something in his face had changed. Not healed. Only softened. As if being seen and not judged had loosened something in him for the first time in a very long while.
After that, the line moved little by little.
Late-night conversations became an easy habit. Shared coffee in the kitchen before dawn missions. Lingering after everyone else left the training room. The occasional brush of his hand against yours that lasted a fraction too long to be accidental and a fraction too short to be acknowledged. The first time he touched the back of your neck, absent and intimate, while passing behind you in the lab. The first time you stood too close to him on the balcony outside the common room and neither of you moved away.
The first time he kissed you had been quiet enough to feel almost impossible after.
No grand confession. No warning. Only another late night, another room with the lights turned low, another conversation that strayed from strategy into things more dangerous because they were true. You had laughed at something he said – genuinely laughed, which had been harder to come by during that stretch – and he had looked at you with an expression so unguarded it stole the next breath from your lungs.
Then his hand had lifted to your face as if of its own accord.
You remembered every second of what followed with miserable clarity. The hesitation. The chance to step back. The way you did not. The way his mouth met yours gently at first, like he expected himself to stop, then not gentle at all when you kissed him back.
He pulled away after only a moment and looked almost startled by himself.
You should have said something sensible then. You should have reminded him who he was, who you were, what complications looked like inside a team like this.
Instead, you kissed him first the second time.
After that, whatever line remained did not last long.
No one knew.
Or if they suspected, no one said a word.
Maybe Natasha knew, because Natasha knew everything worth knowing and half the things no one wanted known. Maybe Sam noticed the way Steve found you first after a mission even when he pretended not to. Maybe Bucky saw more than either of you guessed and simply chose not to interfere. It did not matter.
The secret took on a life of its own.
It lived in brief touches behind closed doors, in his hand at your waist the moment your bedroom door shut, in the low murmur of your name when he was too tired to hide what he felt. It lived in the stolen quiet after midnight when he could stop being Captain America for an hour and become only Steve – worn thin, stubborn, gentler than anyone would have believed, carrying old grief in places he did not let most people see.
It lived in you, too, in ways that should have frightened you sooner than they did.
Because it had not only been physical. That might have been simpler. Safer, in a way.
Instead, he had become familiar.
He told you things in the dark he told no one in daylight. He admitted when something rattled him. He confessed to the strange, persistent ache of living in a world that moved too fast and remembered him wrong. He spoke of Brooklyn sometimes, in small pieces. His mother’s voice. Alleyways. Hot summer concrete. Dance halls glimpsed and never entered. Once, very late, he mentioned Peggy only by her first name, and the grief that crossed his face then had been so old and so undramatic that it hurt more to witness than open weeping would have.
You never asked him for more than he offered.
Maybe that was why he kept coming back.
Steve pressed fresh gauze against your side, pulling you out of the memory.
“Hold this.”
You obeyed, fingers closing over his.
For one suspended second neither of you moved.
Your hand covered his, the bandage between your palms, his skin warm and rough where old calluses never quite left despite healing faster than anyone else alive. He looked up. You looked down. The room narrowed.
Something shifted in his expression then – something softer, quieter, impossible to mistake.
You thought, not for the first time, that Steve Rogers looked most defenseless only when he cared.
He removed his hand first.
You hated the tiny cold that followed.
“There,” he said, reaching for the tape. “That should hold.”
“You missed your calling.”
“As what?”
“A very judgmental nurse.”
He let out a breath that nearly passed for a laugh. “You would’ve been an impossible patient.”
“I am an impossible patient.”
“That’s what I said.”
You smiled despite yourself. It was small and tired, but real. Steve noticed. He always noticed the real ones.
When he finished securing the bandage, he remained kneeling for a moment longer than necessary. Close enough that your knees nearly touched his shoulders. Looking at the floor instead of at you.
“What happened out there?” he asked at last.
You frowned. “On which part? The guns, the explosions, or the hostage situation?”
His eyes lifted. “You hesitated.”
It was not an accusation. That would have been easier to dismiss.
You looked away toward the rain-streaked window. “I was tired.”
“You were distracted before we ever got there.”
You could have lied. You almost did. Instead you said, “I didn’t sleep much.”
Steve straightened slowly to his feet.
“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“So have you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
You laughed once, without humor. “You hate it when people do that to you.”
He folded the used wrapping neatly, because even at one in the morning Steve could not leave disorder where he could fix it with his hands. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He studied you, and under that look you felt seen in a way that was both comfort and danger. It was one thing when Steve noticed the obvious – the bruises, the fatigue, the split lip after training. It was another when he looked at you as if he could trace the shape of the things you did not say.
He took a step back, enough to make breathing easier and harder at once. “You don’t have to keep going full speed all the time.”
“Neither do you.”
His expression shifted, some private weariness flickering across it. “This isn’t about me.”
“It usually is.”
The words left your mouth before you decided to let them.
For one sharp second, the room changed.
Not broken. Not yet. But something in it tightened.
Steve’s face stilled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You regretted it instantly, mostly because it was true in ways he would hear and ways you had not intended. “Nothing.”
“You didn’t say it like it was nothing.”
You rose from the bed because sitting under that gaze made you feel too pinned. “I’m tired, Steve.”
“So am I.”
There it was again – that quiet honesty that stripped all pretense from the room the second he let it out.
You looked at him then.
He did look tired. More than tired. Worn thin around the edges in a way that no serum could fix. His shoulders held tension like habit. There were shadows beneath his eyes. There always were, lately. He stood in your room after midnight smelling faintly of soap and rain and the mission still clinging to him somewhere underneath, and for one irrational moment affection hit you so hard it felt like grief.
You crossed the small distance between you before sense could intervene.
Your hand rose to his jaw, your thumb brushing the place where blood had dried there earlier and now had been scrubbed clean. Steve’s eyes closed for half a second at the contact. When they opened again, whatever reserve remained in him had thinned to transparency.
“You should sleep,” he said, voice lower now.
It was not a step back. It was not a refusal.
It was the kind of useless thing people said when the real sentence could not be trusted.
You let your hand slide to the back of his neck. “Then stop standing so close.”
A breath left him. Almost a laugh. Almost surrender.
“You think this is my fault?”
“Usually.”
This time the smile did come, small and brief and so tired it ached.
Then he kissed you.
It still startled you, every time, the contradiction of him. The restraint in his hands. The hunger in the way he bent to you after resisting for all of two seconds. Steve kissed like a man who had spent his life denying himself things and never quite learned how to do anything halfway once he let go.
You kissed him back with equal certainty.
His hand came to your waist carefully, avoiding the bandage, then spread against your back instead and drew you closer until the line of his body pressed warm and solid against yours. You felt the moment his self-control faltered – not in roughness, never that, but in the way the kiss deepened, in the quiet sound that escaped him when your fingers tightened at his neck.
When he finally broke away, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours.
The room felt too small for the heartbeat pounding through it.
“You should really stop getting hurt,” he murmured.
You smiled against his mouth. “You first.”
His hand slid up your spine in one slow pass that made your breath catch. “That’s not how this works.”
“No?” you whispered.
“No.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then just beneath your jaw in a way that turned the word into something dangerously close to tenderness. “You worry about everyone else. Let me worry about you.”
Something inside you softened at once.
It would have been smarter if it had not.
You tipped your head back enough to look at him. “That sounded rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It sounded good.”
He opened his eyes fully then, and there was that look again. The one that stole all the air from your lungs because it did not belong to Captain America. It belonged to a man standing in your room in the middle of the night, holding you like you were something he reached for before he remembered he should not.
“I meant it,” he said.
You believed him instantly.
That was the dangerous part.
Not the secrecy. Not the late nights. Not even the team, if it ever came out. The dangerous part was that Steve never sounded false when he was alone with you. Whatever else he held back from the world, what he gave you in these hours was real. You felt it in the care he could not hide, in the way he listened, in the stillness that came over him only here.
You had not meant to fall in love with him.
The truth was simpler and more humiliating than that. You never really noticed the moment it happened. There was no single point you could return to and name as the mistake. Only an accumulation of small mercies and softer looks and nights like this one until one day you woke with the knowledge already settled inside you like a blade too deeply lodged to pull out cleanly.
You did not say it.
Neither did he.
But there were moments when the silence around those words felt so thin that one wrong breath might tear it open.
He kissed you again, slower this time, and led you backward until the backs of your knees met the edge of the bed. You sat because it was either that or make the cut on your side protest sharply enough to ruin the moment. Steve noticed, of course. He noticed everything, especially now.
“Easy,” he said.
There was no point pretending you did not need the caution.
He crouched in front of you again, but differently this time, one hand resting on your thigh, the other braced on the mattress beside you. You slipped your fingers into his hair, still barely damp, and watched his face soften in a way no one else ever got to see.
“You know,” you said quietly, “for someone who spent most of the ride back pretending I didn’t exist, you got here fast.”
Regret flashed across his face so quickly you almost missed it.
“I wasn’t pretending.”
The answer came too quickly to be careless. Too honestly to dismiss.
You studied him. “No?”
He looked away first this time, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t exactly check on you in front of everyone.”
“You do with Sam.”
“Sam’s not–” He stopped.
A tiny, bitter line of amusement pulled at your mouth. “Not what?”
His hand tightened once against your leg, then relaxed. “You know what.”
The air shifted.
You should have let it go. Instead you asked, “Do I?”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked back at you with something open and uncertain in his eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Push when you know what I mean.”
There it was again. Not a confession. Not anything clear enough to stand up in daylight. Just one more thing felt more than spoken, offered to you in the narrow safe space between night and morning.
You swallowed.
“I’d settle for hearing it sometimes,” you said before caution could stop you.
The words hung there.
Steve’s face changed in a way that made your pulse slow and race all at once. He knew what you meant. Of course he knew. You saw it in his expression – the immediate understanding, the hesitation right behind it, the old restraint rising like a wall out of instinct alone.
For one terrible second, you thought he might step back.
Instead, he brought your hand from his hair down to his mouth and pressed a kiss into your palm.
It was such an old-fashioned gesture it should have felt ridiculous.
It did not.
When he spoke, his voice came rougher than before. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
It was not enough.
It was everything.
That was the beginning of the trouble.
Because the answer should have disappointed you. It should have reminded you that presence was not the same as promise, that stolen hours were still stolen, that men with ghosts as old as Steve’s did not give themselves away cleanly.
Instead, warmth bloomed low and dangerous in your chest.
He was here.
He kept coming back.
At the time, that felt like proof of something solid.
You nodded once, though you were not sure what exactly you were agreeing to.
Steve rose and sat beside you on the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. For a little while neither of you spoke. The rain thickened softly against the windows. The city beyond the glass blurred into watercolor light. You leaned into him almost without thinking, and after the briefest pause, he put his arm around you.
With anyone else, the silence might have felt awkward.
With Steve, it felt like an answer.
After a while he said, “Bucky asked about you.”
You tilted your head enough to look up at him. “Did he?”
“He said you looked like hell.”
You snorted. “That was kind.”
“He was concerned.”
“Bucky’s version of concern always sounds like an insult.”
Steve’s mouth curved faintly. “That’s his version of most things.”
You let your head rest against his shoulder. “What did you tell him?”
“That you were fine.”
You laughed softly. “Liar.”
He tipped his head back against the wall. “I said you were stubborn.”
“Also true.”
“He said that was worse.”
You smiled. “He’s not wrong.”
The mention of Bucky did not mean much then. Just another thread in the larger weave of the team. Another person orbiting the same strange life. You let the conversation drift. Steve told you Sam had nearly broken his hand trying to show off in the gym earlier that week. You told him Tony had threatened to install voice-activated weapons in the kitchen after Clint set off the smoke alarm again. The smallness of it calmed you both. It always did.
That, more than anything, made the relationship feel dangerous in hindsight.
Not the intensity.
The ease.
You could survive intensity. You had before.
It was the domestic softness hidden inside the secrecy that slipped past your defenses unnoticed. Steve handing you water before you asked. Steve remembering how you took your coffee. Steve leaning in your doorway after midnight talking to you about absolutely nothing because nothing felt precious when it was him. Steve in your room with his sleeves pushed up and your blood on his hands, fixing what he could reach.
You turned your face slightly into his shoulder and closed your eyes.
“Don’t fall asleep sitting up,” he murmured.
“Bossy.”
“Tired.”
“So are you.”
His arm tightened once around you. “I know.”
You did not know how long you sat there. Minutes, maybe. Maybe longer. Time always changed shape around him when the rest of the world fell away. Eventually he shifted, pressing a kiss to your temple before he carefully eased away.
You opened your eyes reluctantly.
He stood and looked down at you with that familiar unreadable softness. “Try to get some rest.”
“You say that like I have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
You glanced at the mission report on your desk. “That’s adorable.”
He followed your gaze and sighed. “Leave it until morning.”
“Can’t.”
“You can.”
“I know myself better than you do.”
Something almost fond crossed his face. “That’s exactly why I said it.”
You smiled despite yourself.
He moved to the door, and panic – small, irrational, immediate – flickered through you before you could smother it. You did not want the night to end yet. You did not want him to turn the knob, step into the hallway, and become someone you had to look at from across a room again.
Maybe he felt something of the same. His hand paused on the handle. He looked back.
The dim light caught the edges of him, softened the hard lines the world expected him to wear. For one suspended second he looked young and old at once. Strong enough to carry everyone. Tired enough to drop under the weight of it when no one was looking.
You loved him.
The thought came quietly. Not dramatically. Not as a revelation, because some part of you had known already.
You loved him, and the room did not crack open under the force of it. Nothing changed. The rain kept tapping at the windows. The city kept glowing below. Steve kept standing by your door with one hand on the handle and too much gentleness in his eyes.
That was how dangerous it had become.
Not because love arrived like lightning.
Because it arrived like habit.
“Steve?”
He waited.
You almost said it.
The words rose warm and reckless into your throat, drawn by exhaustion and dim light and the soft aftertaste of his mouth and the impossible foolish hope that maybe he would not look startled, maybe he would not go still, maybe he would say it back.
Instead you asked, “You coming by tomorrow?”
Relief and something sadder flickered together across his face so fast you might have imagined it.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “I’ll find you.”
You nodded.
He stayed one heartbeat longer, as if he wanted to say something else. Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence rushed back into the room, but it no longer felt empty. It felt full of all the things left suspended in the air after him – the warmth of his hands, the smell of rain and clean soap, the tenderness he never named and never denied. You lay back slowly against the pillows, one hand drifting to the fresh bandage at your side, the other resting uselessly over your own sternum as if that might quiet the ache there.
Beyond the glass, New York glittered with indifferent beauty.
Somewhere down the hall, Steve walked away from your room and toward whatever version of himself the Tower required by daylight.
You closed your eyes and smiled into the dark like someone foolish enough to mistake secrecy for safety.
At the time, you still believed in stolen hours.
You still believed that because something was real, it might be enough.
You had not yet learned how easily a thing could be both beautiful and doomed.
The change did not come all at once.
That would have been easier to survive.
If Steve had turned cold overnight, if he had stopped coming to your room entirely, if he had looked you in the eye and told you something had shifted, you could have called it what it was from the start. You could have bled cleanly, perhaps. Not less, but faster. There would have been a wound to point to.
Instead, it came apart the way old fabric did – at the seams first, in places so small you only noticed once your fingers slipped through.
At first, you told yourself he was tired.
That part was true.
The whole team had been running too hard for weeks. Fury pushed operations back-to-back, Stark kept finding reasons to drag everyone into last-minute weapons tests or security updates, and whatever fragile equilibrium held the Tower together had worn thin under constant use. Missions blurred at the edges. Morning drills bled into briefings, briefings into flight plans, flight plans into the stale metallic air of the quinjet at dawn. People snapped more easily. Even Sam, who usually carried humor like a shield, had started going quieter around the eyes.
Steve carried more than any of you.
He always did.
You knew what leadership cost him, even when he refused to name it. You knew the look he got after bad calls, even if no one else could see the difference between his usual restraint and the particular stillness of guilt. You knew that sometimes he stood a little too long by the windows in the common room, staring down at the city as if he were waiting for it to explain itself.
So when he missed one night, you told yourself it meant nothing.
You were lying in bed with a book open on your chest, not reading a word of it, listening for the knock you had trained yourself not to expect too openly. Rain had not come that evening. The city lights shone hard and sharp through the glass. Friday announced midnight in her pleasant mechanical voice from somewhere beyond your walls, and still your door remained untouched.
You stayed up another hour.
Then another.
At half past one, you put the book aside, turned off the lamp, and told yourself you were not disappointed.
He came by the next morning.
Not privately. Not in any way that mattered.
He came into the conference room with a tablet in one hand and a fresh bruise darkening along his jaw, his expression focused and unreadable. Natasha sat with one boot propped on the edge of the table, Clint stole coffee from Sam’s mug while Sam complained loudly enough for everyone to hear, and Steve barely glanced your way except to confirm you were present before starting the briefing.
He looked at you the way he looked at everyone else.
Professional. Brief. Controlled.
You hated how foolish that made you feel.
He assigned positions, routes, contingencies. He corrected Tony twice. He ignored Clint’s interruption entirely. When he asked for input, he addressed you by surname.
Not because anyone else was there. He always used surnames in briefings. That was not new.
What was new was the absence of anything beneath it.
No extra pause. No glance that lingered a fraction too long. No private undercurrent hidden inside the official tone.
Nothing.
And because it was Steve, because he did everything with enough restraint to make you doubt your own instincts, you spent the entire meeting wondering whether you imagined it.
Afterward, as the others filtered out in twos and threes, you stayed behind under the pretense of reviewing the route map one more time. Steve stood at the far end of the table gathering files into a stack that did not need gathering.
You waited until Sam left with Clint and Natasha disappeared without a sound.
Then you said quietly, “You missed last night.”
His hands did not stop moving.
“I know.”
That was it.
No apology. No explanation. Only acknowledgment, flat and simple, as if you had remarked on the weather.
You stared at him. “That’s all?”
Steve finally looked up. His face remained calm, but there was something guarded in his eyes that had not been there before. “I got caught up downstairs.”
“You could’ve said that.”
“I’m saying it now.”
Something in your chest tightened.
There was nothing openly cruel in his tone. If anything, he sounded tired. But there was a distance in it, a carefulness that made your skin go cold.
You folded your arms. “You could’ve sent a text.”
A flicker crossed his face – so quick you almost missed it. Irritation, maybe. Or guilt. With Steve, the difference often depended on how badly he wanted not to show either.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
Not because they were harsh. Because they were careless.
You had never asked him for much. That had become a point of pride with you, though perhaps it should not have. You did not ask him to stay the whole night. You did not ask him to be seen with you. You did not ask for promises, explanations, labels. You took what he gave freely and taught yourself not to want more than that.
So no, perhaps he had not needed to.
Still, the answer sat wrong under your ribs.
You held his gaze for a second too long, long enough that his jaw tightened.
“Right,” you said.
Then you picked up your file and walked out before the silence could get any worse.
The mission that day gave you no room to think.
Hydra remnants had surfaced in an old shipping district on the Jersey side, tucked into warehouses with enough blind corners and decaying metal catwalks to turn a straightforward sweep into a long, punishing fight. You moved through it on instinct and training. Sam covered the upper levels. Natasha slipped in and out of sight like a blade between ribs. Clint muttered coordinates in your ear from overwatch. Steve led from the front, as always, his shield a flash of color in the dirty light.
He did not falter once.
He also did not look for you.
Not in the ways you had learned to feel rather than see. He gave you orders when he needed to. Checked your flank once when a man came at you from the left. Pulled you back from falling sheet metal with a hand around your forearm so brief and impersonal it might have belonged to anyone.
By the time you returned to the Tower that night, your muscles shook with exhaustion and your temper had frayed down to threads.
He did not come.
That should not have mattered. It did.
You showered. Waited without admitting to yourself that you were waiting. Sat on your bed in fresh clothes with wet hair cooling the back of your neck and every minute stretching long and ugly. By one in the morning, anger had begun to replace disappointment. By two, anger had sharpened into something meaner.
You slept badly.
The pattern repeated.
Not every night. That would have made it obvious. That would have forced the issue.
Instead, Steve remained just present enough to keep you off balance.
He still touched you sometimes when no one saw.
A hand at the small of your back as he passed in a narrow hall. Fingers brushing yours when he handed you a file. A kiss stolen in the storage room off the training floor one evening after you cornered him between stacked mats and asked, half-joking and half-not, whether he planned on forgetting where your room was.
He kissed you hard enough to make you forget the question for a moment.
Then he pulled away too soon.
“I have to go,” he murmured, and left before you could ask to where.
It was that more than anything that unsettled you.
Nothing had disappeared completely.
The warmth was still there, buried under the surface. So was the want. So was the softness in his eyes when he forgot himself for a second too long.
But he kept withdrawing after every moment of closeness as if he had touched something hot.
You started seeing it everywhere once you noticed.
At breakfast, he sat one seat farther than usual.
In debriefs, he addressed you as if you required an extra layer of distance.
On the quinjet, when the others dozed or pretended to, he no longer let his knee angle toward yours under the cramped seats.
At night, if he came, he stayed less time. If he kissed you, it felt caught between need and reluctance. If you reached for him in the dark afterward, sometimes he held you. Sometimes he lay awake beside you with tension in every line of his body until you could feel him thinking himself elsewhere.
The first time you asked what was wrong, he answered too quickly.
“Nothing.”
You were in the kitchen just after dawn. The rest of the floor still slept, or at least kept to their rooms. The windows over the city had just begun to pale at the edges with morning. Steve stood by the counter with a mug of black coffee gone untouched in his hand. He had not shaved yet. There was a crease in the sleeve of his Henley where he had pushed it halfway up his forearms and forgotten it there.
You had found him by accident, barefoot and tired and not in the mood to be lied to.
“Something’s wrong,” you said.
He looked up from the coffee. “I said nothing’s wrong.”
“You also haven’t looked at me properly in a week.”
His face changed then – not enough for anyone else to mark, perhaps, but enough for you. A certain stillness settled over him, the kind that always meant he had reached for control.
“That’s not fair.”
A short, incredulous laugh escaped you. “No?”
“No.”
“You missed three nights.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“We’ve all been busy.”
He set the mug down with excessive care. “I’m not doing this right now.”
The dismissal stung hard enough to make your voice sharper. “Doing what?”
“This.” He gestured between you with one hand, already frustrated, though you could not tell whether it was at you or himself. “Interpreting every schedule change like it means something.”
You stared at him.
The kitchen suddenly felt too bright.
“I’m sorry,” you said, very evenly. “Am I inconveniencing you?”
His expression tightened immediately. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No.” He dragged a hand over the back of his neck and exhaled slowly, as if trying to force himself back into patience. “No, it isn’t.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He did not answer fast enough.
In that split second of silence, your anger found its target.
“Forget it,” you said, stepping back.
He caught your wrist before you could turn away.
The touch was gentle. The effect was not.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
You looked down at his hand around your wrist, then up at his face. “Don’t what?”
“Walk away angry.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to.”
For a moment the world narrowed to his thumb against your pulse.
Steve let go first.
He always did.
He leaned back against the counter and looked older than he had any right to at that hour, exhaustion carved into the set of his mouth. “I just need some space.”
The words landed between you with the force of something heavier.
You went very still.
Space.
Such a harmless word. So reasonable. So impossible to argue with without sounding needy, fragile, foolish. The kind of word people used when they wanted distance without accountability for what the distance implied.
You folded your arms as if that might hold something together inside you. “From me?”
His gaze flicked away.
That was answer enough.
You should have protected yourself then. You should have gone colder, gone quieter, matched him with the same careful detachment and let him work out the shape of his own absence. Instead, because hurt made you reckless long before it made you numb, you asked the question anyway.
“Why?”
He looked back at you, and for one awful heartbeat there was so much conflict in his face that hope flared where it should not have.
Then he buried it.
“I’m tired,” he said.
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the one I have.”
You searched him for something that made sense. An opening. A crack. Some sign that if you pushed only a little more he would say what this really was and why it suddenly felt like standing on ice thin enough to hear the water beneath it.
Instead, Steve picked up his coffee again and looked past your shoulder toward the windows.
The conversation was over because he had decided it was.
You stood there another second, pulse pounding hot and humiliating in your throat, then left before pride failed you entirely.
After that, the distance became harder to dismiss.
Not cruel. Never openly cruel. Steve was not built for that.
But there was a precision to his withdrawal that felt worse than temper would have. He did not lash out. He did not say anything unforgivable. He simply reduced himself by degrees, as if carefully removing weight from one side of a bridge and pretending not to notice the strain it put on the other.
Some nights he did not come at all.
Some nights he did, but only to sit at the edge of your bed with a mission file in hand and discuss strategy in a voice almost too steady. He would listen when you spoke, nod, offer insight, and leave after pressing one absent kiss to your forehead like a man visiting a hospital bed.
You began to dread those nights more than the empty ones.
At least absence could be named.
Half-presence turned you inside out.
You tried once to salvage something easy from it. You really did.
A week later, after a mission in Prague that left the team bruised and short-tempered, you found him alone in the gym long after midnight. The overhead lights had been dimmed. The room smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant. Steve stood at a punching bag with his wraps half undone, breathing hard, his shirt dark with sweat between the shoulder blades.
He looked up when you entered.
For a moment, something warm and unguarded flickered over his face at the sight of you. Familiar enough to hurt.
You clung to it anyway.
“You trying to murder the equipment?” you asked.
The corner of his mouth moved. “It started it.”
“Seems serious.”
He unwound the rest of the wrap and tossed it onto a bench. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you.”
He shrugged one shoulder, already turning away to grab a towel.
You crossed the room before the fragile ease could vanish completely. “Steve.”
He stopped.
You stood close enough to smell the clean salt of sweat on his skin, close enough to remember exactly how his body felt under your hands. For one terrible instant, the memory made everything seem normal again.
You put your hand lightly against his chest.
His heartbeat thudded steady and strong beneath your palm.
“Talk to me,” you said.
He looked down at your hand, then at your face.
“What do you want me to say?”
The question hurt because it sounded genuine.
You swallowed. “Anything honest.”
A long silence followed.
Then he covered your hand with his.
Not to hold it.
To remove it.
Carefully, as if even rejection must be done kindly to count.
Your fingers fell back to your side.
“I’m trying,” he said, voice low.
“To do what?”
His jaw worked once. “The right thing.”
You stared at him, confused and increasingly angry. “For who?”
He did not answer.
Or perhaps he did, in the terrible way he looked away again.
That night you went back to your room and threw a glass at the wall hard enough for it to shatter behind your dresser.
You cleaned it up yourself before morning.
No one noticed. Or if they did, they left it alone.
By the end of the month, the whole thing had become a kind of private madness.
You still had moments – small, starving scraps of them – that kept you tethered to what it had been. A hand brushing your spine in passing. His voice gone soft with exhaustion when he said your name and forgot for half a breath that he was supposed to sound distant. The way his eyes sought yours instinctively after explosions, after gunfire, after every mission debrief, as if some part of him still needed proof you had come back breathing.
But the pull-away came faster now, harsher for being silent.
It left you constantly braced.
You began to study him in rooms he did not realize you were watching.
He carried himself differently around you than he used to. Stiffer, somehow. Too deliberate. As if he was monitoring every glance, every point of contact, every lapse in his own restraint. It would have been easier to hate him if he looked indifferent.
He looked afraid.
That was worse.
Because fear meant there was still something there to run from.
The breaking point came on a Thursday evening with rain pressing silver across the Tower windows and thunder muttering low over the city.
The team had returned late from a retrieval mission gone sideways in Queens. Nothing catastrophic. Just ugly. Too many civilians in the line of fire. Too much room for one wrong move to become a body count. Adrenaline still hummed under your skin when you stepped out of the elevator onto the residential floor.
Steve was already there, standing near your door.
For one bright, traitorous second relief hit you so hard you nearly smiled.
He must have seen it.
If he did, it only made whatever he had come to say harder for him.
He stood with his hands loose at his sides, shoulders set, expression serious in a way that stripped all illusion from the hallway before a word was spoken. No softness. No almost-smile. No secret warmth slipping through the cracks.
Only Steve, resolute and tired and bracing.
Your relief curdled instantly.
“What happened?” you asked.
He glanced once down the corridor, then back at you. “Can we go inside?”
Something cold moved under your ribs.
You opened the door without answering.
He followed you in, and for the first time since all of this had begun, he did not seem to belong in the room. The air changed around him, tense and uncertain. He stood near the window instead of sitting down. You stayed by the bed, arms folded, boots still on, too wired to pretend ease.
Rain tapped at the glass.
Neither of you spoke for several long seconds.
At last you said, “If you’re about to tell me you’ve been busy, save it.”
Steve shut his eyes briefly.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Good.”
He opened his eyes again. They looked older tonight. More lined with strain. More shadowed. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this.”
Every muscle in your body went tight.
You hated yourself for still hoping the next sentence might somehow undo the last month.
You waited.
Steve drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “I think we need to stop.”
The words did not make sense at first.
Not because you did not understand them. Because some stubborn part of you rejected them on contact, as if meaning itself had glitched.
Stop.
The room stood perfectly still around you.
Your voice came quieter than you expected. “Stop what?”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t make me spell it out.”
A laugh escaped you then – sharp, disbelieving, nothing like humor. “No, please. God forbid you say anything directly.”
Pain flickered across his face, but he did not retreat from it.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Your arms dropped to your sides because suddenly holding them there took effort you no longer had. “What exactly are you ending, Steve?”
He looked at you then, really looked, and you saw the blow land in him. But if he felt it, he chose to let it stand.
“You know.”
“No,” you said, the word turning brittle in your mouth. “I know what this has felt like lately. I know you’ve been disappearing by inches and expecting me not to notice. I know you’ve been acting like touching me is something you have to recover from. But no, actually, I’d love to hear what you think this is.”
His face hardened – not with anger, but with the effort of not backing away from what he had come to do.
“It went too far.”
For a moment even breathing seemed optional.
You stared at him.
Then you repeated, very carefully, “It went too far.”
“I didn’t mean–”
“No.” You held up a hand, because if he came any closer to softening it, you might actually let him. “Don’t. Don’t fix it.”
He fell silent.
The rain filled the room where your pulse should have been.
“It went too far,” you said again, and now there was no mistaking the hurt underneath it. “That’s what you came here with?”
Steve raked a hand through his hair, visibly losing grip on his calm. “I’m trying to be honest.”
“No, you’re trying to make this clean.”
His mouth tightened. “There is no clean version of this.”
“Then try truth.”
He looked at you for so long that your skin began to burn under it.
When he spoke, his voice had changed. Lower now. Rougher. More tired than controlled. “I can’t do this the way you deserve.”
You laughed once, and this time the sound broke on the way out. “There it is. The noble part.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” You took a step toward him before you even realized you had moved. “Because it sounds an awful lot like the kind of speech people give when they want to leave and still feel good about themselves.”
His eyes flashed. “You think this feels good?”
“I think it makes you feel safer.”
The answer hit. You saw it.
For one second, Steve looked almost angry – not at you, never quite at you, but at the way you had laid a hand on the truth and refused to let him dress it up.
He turned away, looking out toward the rain-blurred city. “You don’t understand.”
The sentence landed like an insult.
“Then explain it.”
Silence.
You waited.
When he still did not speak, something hot and vicious rose under your sternum.
“No,” you said softly. “No, don’t do that to me. Don’t come into my room and end this like I’m supposed to just accept your mystery and your silence because you wear them well.”
He turned back sharply. “It’s not about mystery.”
“Then what is it about?”
His face tightened with something you recognized too late as pain. “I’m trying not to drag you into something I can’t give you.”
You stared at him.
The words were meant to sound protective. They landed like rejection.
“You think I asked you for anything?”
“No.”
“Did I ask you to promise me forever?” Your voice climbed despite every effort to control it. “Did I ask for public declarations? A future? Anything?”
“No,” he said again, and the quiet misery in it only made you angrier. “You didn’t.”
“Then don’t stand there and talk like I cornered you into feeling trapped.”
“You didn’t.” He took one step toward you, then stopped as if even that was dangerous. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then say what you are saying.”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
That was it, in the end. That was the whole disaster in miniature.
Steve always felt things deeply enough to drown in them, and still there were moments when he would rather choke than name them.
Your throat burned.
“Is it because of her?”
The question slipped out before you meant to ask it.
The room changed instantly.
Steve went still.
You hated the answer in that stillness before he ever gave it.
He looked down, then back at you, and somehow that tiny hesitation hurt more than if he had said yes outright.
“It’s not that simple.”
It was not a denial.
You laughed again, and this time it sounded ugly. “Of course it isn’t.”
His expression twisted. “Don’t.”
“What?” The word came sharp. “Say her name? Mention that maybe there’s a dead woman standing in every room with us and I’m just supposed to smile around the ghost?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this.”
He exhaled hard through his nose, like a man holding himself in place by force alone. “I care about you.”
The words should have soothed. They only scraped.
You stepped back as though he had reached for you with something sharp. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that.” Your eyes stung suddenly, humiliatingly, and you refused to look away. “Don’t give me scraps like they’re mercy.”
His face changed again then. Cracked, almost. You saw guilt there, and conflict, and something achingly close to tenderness. If he had crossed the room in that moment, if he had taken your face in his hands and said one honest thing, the whole night might have bent another way.
Instead he stayed where he was.
Of course he did.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said.
You swallowed against the heat climbing your throat. “Then why does it feel like you’ve been doing it slowly for weeks?”
He had no answer for that.
Or perhaps he had too many.
The rain struck harder against the windows, a brief bright hiss that filled the silence. Somewhere far below, the city moved on, indifferent and enormous. In your room, the space between you felt wider than the entire skyline.
You had imagined so many possible versions of this month. A fight. A confession. A collapse into something messier and truer. You had never imagined this peculiar humiliation – the sense of being handled, managed, gently removed from a place you had once been welcomed into with such care.
You looked at him and thought with sudden, devastating clarity that the worst part was not losing him.
It was realizing he intended to make the loss sound reasonable.
“So that’s it?” you asked.
Steve’s gaze dropped to the floor for half a second. “I think it has to be.”
“I think,” you repeated, because apparently all your pain tonight would have to make do with approximations. “That’s what you came with.”
He looked tired enough to break. “What do you want me to say?”
The question hollowed something out inside you.
You should not have answered it. You did anyway.
“The truth.”
His eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them again, there was resignation in them now. A terrible kind. As if he had come here knowing honesty would cost him and still chosen the smallest version of it he could survive.
“I can’t be what you need,” he said.
It was astonishing how fast hurt could become anger when given the right shape.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not deciding for you.”
“You just did.”
“No.” His voice sharpened at last, not loudly, but enough to cut. “I’m deciding for me.”
The words landed clean.
There it was.
Not noble. Not protective. Not about your future or your peace or your wellbeing.
For him.
For what he could not carry. For what he could not bear. For what it cost him to feel something he no longer trusted himself with.
You saw it, and perhaps he realized you saw it, because some of the defensive hardness left his face and something more broken took its place.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.
No anger remained in you after that. Only something colder.
“That’s obvious.”
He flinched.
The sight should have satisfied some ugly part of you. It did not.
You were both quiet for a long time.
Then, because the silence had already destroyed enough, because you could not stand there under the weight of what he would not say and let the conversation end on his terms alone, you asked the one question you should have protected from him.
“Did it matter?”
Steve looked at you as if he did not understand.
You forced the words past the ache in your throat. “Any of it. Did it matter to you?”
His face changed.
That was the first real crack.
The control did not vanish. Steve Rogers would probably carry control into the grave with him. But it faltered. You saw the answer before he spoke it – not in certainty, but in pain. In the way his shoulders shifted as if under sudden weight. In the way his mouth parted and closed again.
He cared. He had cared. Enough to make this hard.
And still, he did not give you what you needed.
“It mattered,” he said at last, voice rough. “That’s why I’m here.”
The words hit like cold water.
Not because they were false. Because they were too small for the wreckage in the room.
You looked at him for a long second, waiting for more. For the sentence that might make that one worth anything.
None came.
You laughed softly, and this time it sounded almost tired. “You really can’t do it, can you?”
His brow furrowed. “Can’t do what?”
“Say the part that hurts you too.”
Something moved behind his eyes then – alarm, maybe, because he knew exactly what you meant and exactly why he would not give it to you.
You wiped angrily at your face before any moisture could betray you. “Forget it.”
He took a half-step forward. “Don’t shut me out.”
The absurdity of that nearly made you laugh again.
“You don’t get to ask that of me.”
His expression closed.
Something final had entered the room, though neither of you touched it yet.
You moved to the window because standing still under his gaze felt impossible. Rain traced cold paths down the glass. The city beyond looked warped by water, all its lights blurred into streaks.
Behind you, Steve said quietly, “I think we made a mistake.”
For one second you did not react, because the sentence took too long to become real.
Then you turned.
He stood where you had left him, hands loose at his sides, face drawn tight with the effort of holding himself together.
A mistake.
Not just him. Not his fear. Not his retreat. Not his failure to carry what he had started.
Both of you.
The words hit with such force that you almost lost your breath.
“A mistake,” you repeated.
Steve looked down once, then back at you. “I think we both let this become something it shouldn’t have.”
The room went silent in a way that felt deadly.
There were so many things you could have said.
You could have asked whether that was really what he believed, or only what he needed to call it to walk away. You could have asked what exactly had been the mistake – the nights, the trust, the way he had come to you with his grief, the way he had taken your body into his hands like it meant something, the way he had looked at you in the dark as if the world softened around you.
You could have asked whether he had rehearsed that line on the way to your door.
Instead you only stared at him.
And because you knew him, because you knew the places where his voice hardened when it lied and softened when it hurt, because you knew the terrible shape of his restraint better than anyone, you saw it then.
He did not believe it fully.
That was what made it unforgivable.
He was using the word as armor.
Mistake.
As if naming it wrong could make it smaller. Easier to survive. Easier to bury.
Your face felt very still when you said, “Get out.”
Pain flashed over his features. “Listen–”
“No.” Your voice did not rise. It did not need to. “You do not get to come in here and call this a mistake like I imagined it by myself.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then it shouldn’t be that hard to say what you did mean.”
He said nothing.
Of course he said nothing.
You nodded once. “Get out, Steve.”
For a second you thought he might refuse. Not angrily. Just stubbornly, like a man convinced staying would somehow make the damage less complete.
Then he looked at your face and thought better of it.
He moved toward the door slowly, as though every step cost him. His hand closed around the handle. He paused with his back to you, shoulders rigid beneath the dark fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You nearly laughed at the uselessness of it.
But you had no energy left for cruelty. Only for survival.
“Me too,” you said.
He stood there one heartbeat longer.
Then he left.
The click of the door echoed through the room.
You remained by the window, staring at the rain until the city beyond it became nothing but light and blur. Your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with any mission wound. Somewhere deep inside, something had cracked – not cleanly, not all at once, but enough that you knew the fracture would spread.
Mistake.
The word lodged under your skin and stayed there.
You hated it because it hurt.
You hated it more because part of you already knew it would not let you go.
Bullshit repeats itself / Is that how the saying goes? / Been here a thousand times / Selective memory though
You say we're drifting apart / I said "yeah I fucking know" / Big deal we've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow
Overview: A headass couple: people acting in a "slightly delusional, somewhat cheesy bubble," oblivious to how cringy or ridiculous they appear to others.
For some reason, you'd thought yourself to be the untouchable exception to the rule that all relationships eventually hit a rough patch. Peter and you were perfect, best friends first, and then dating. There wasn't a better match than the two of you. Except, of course, until there was. Your perfect image is shattered as you realize he's hiding more from you than you'll ever know. After a rough breakup, only one person seems able to cheer you up. A certain webbed viglinate. But, wait... why does his voice sound so familiar?
a/n: There will be the occasional ridiculous name/reference; if you catch them, they're all real (including Jumbo’s Clowns)
wc: 10.0K
They say that the best foundation for a relationship is built on friendship. And you used to believe that. When you first met Peter, it was like coming together with a missing piece of yourself. Even before the romance, the dates, the sex. When it was nothing more than something wonderfully platonic, you thought everyone was right.
But you were delusional. Your head had been too far up your ass to realize the truth of your relationship. You weren’t soulmates. You weren’t any more special than anyone else dating their best friend.
You would think, though, that being friends with someone for years would build enough respect for them not to blatantly mistreat you. To not lie to your face when they hide where they are at night. Sure, maybe other couples who didn’t know each other lied. But not you and Peter.
That’s what you thought, at least. Shows what you know.
Two Months Earlier
“Hi,” Peter rushes into your apartment, breathless and flustered as always. You get a firm kiss to the cheek before he disappears into your bedroom.
Laughing slightly, you peer around the corner and try to get a glimpse of him. “Everything okay, Petey?”
You get a slight hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to what sounds like rustling through papers. Shaking your head, you bring the popcorn bowl over to the couch and wait for him to reemerge.
It doesn’t take longer than a few minutes until he’s strolling back toward you, a slightly cocky pep to his step. You narrow your eyes at him but fail miserably at holding back a grin. “Whatcha up to, Parker?”
“Who, me?” He shrugs, playing dumb as he jumps over the back of the couch, landing on the cushion beside you. You spot something folded in his hand before he tries to hide it.
With little warning, you lunge forward, reaching for his hand. “Hey!” He jumps back, unable to hold in his laughter. “That’s cheating, you know?”
You don’t acknowledge him, grunting in frustration as he holds his hand further and further away from you. “Alright, well, what happened to no secrets?” You push, slightly embarrassed at how breathless you sound.
“Oh, wow,” his hand comes up, cupping your jaw as he pulls your face closer to his. “That’s playing dirty,” he whispers. You can’t subdue your smile, inching closer until your noses are brushing.
“You like it when I play dirty.” Peter’s eyes widen, a visible flush on his face as your lips just barely brush together. The whisper of a kiss. He was so focused on that, he failed to notice you ripping the paper from his hands.
He groans as you lean back on the couch with a triumphant grin. “You’re too easy, Parker,” you tease.
He props his chin on your knee, “Only for you.”
“Oh God, you are so cheesy.” He opens his mouth, a stupid grin on his face. You pinch his lips together and laugh, “Don’t say it again. For the sake of our relationship, please.”
You release him and he presses a quick kiss to your hand before leaning back. “Well,” he nods toward the paper in your hand. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?”
Excitement bubbles inside you as you unfold the small piece of paper. The print’s slightly smudged from your wrestling match, but when you bring it closer, you can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you.
“Peter!” He’s smiling widely, posture relaxed and completely smug as you gush. “I can’t believe you managed to get tickets.”
“One of the guys in my lab knows someone at the museum. He owed me a favor,” he shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he didn’t just get you into one of the most exclusive exhibitions in Queens.
He lets out a slight grunt when you toss yourself at him, arms wrapping like a vice around the back of his neck. You can feel the exhale of a laugh as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, arms quick to wrap around your waist.
“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at him. He keeps his grip firm, reluctant to let you get much further.
“You know I’d do anything for you,” he tells you and he has all the conviction of a man who really believes it.
“That’s a big promise,” you smile. “Sure you can keep it?”
“‘Course I can.” When you lean in to kiss him this time, you make sure it's real. Not the whisper of a touch, but something deeper as he pulls you into his lap completely. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how wonderful it is to be loved by Peter Parker.
“Christ,” you blow into your gloved hands and hope some of the warmth bounces back to your face. You knew it was going to be cold today, but you hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Peter had said he was going to meet you outside the museum, but it’s already been fifteen minutes and you’re losing feeling in your nose.
He does have a mind going 100MPH most days. Usually, you like to give him a leeway on timing. But it’s absolutely freezing today and snowflakes have just started falling. If you were with your boyfriend, this would be like a scene out of a romcom.
Instead, it’s about to be a nature documentary on wild stood-up girlfriends freezing in Queens tundra.
Pulling out your phone again, you bite the thumb of your glove and tug it off. You’ve sent Peter about twenty messages, none of which have even so much as gotten a ‘read.’ You try calling him this time, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you hurriedly tug your glove back on.
“Hey, this is Peter, you know what to do.”
You roll your eyes at his voicemail. “It’s your girlfriend, Pete. But, I swear, if you make me wait any longer in this damn snow, I’m going to be your ex.”
“Good thing you don’t have to wait.” With a squeak, you whip around to find Peter standing behind you. You slap his shoulder and he bounces back with a laugh. The tip of his nose has been nipped red by the cold and his cheeks aren’t much better.
“You’re lucky I like you,” you snap.
“Extremely,” he agrees, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. It softens you slightly. When you can feel your fingers again, you’ll consider forgiving him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, struggling slightly with the scarf triple-wrapped around you.
Glancing down to hang up the call, you see a little news notification pop up.
Spider-Man & Molten Man Spotted in Times Square
“What’re you looking at?”
You shake your head, tucking your phone away. “Nothing.”
You send him a smile that he returns eagerly. He passes the staff your tickets and opens the door for you as you step into the museum. You’d like for the first thing you appreciate to be the gorgeous mural on the wall in front of you. But you are far more interested in the blast of heat coming from the vents above.
“Oh, thank God,” you grumble, blocking the door as you greedily soak up all the warmth you can.
“Come on, bug,” Peter laughs, tugging you along so the line of people can get by. “We’ll get you an overpriced coffee at the cafe.”
“You’re paying,” you tell him sternly. “I still can’t feel my nose.”
“Deal.” Peter doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It’s the type of thing you used to see others do in public and gag.
You’d think about how you would never be one of those touchy-feely couples. Peter makes it feel so natural, though. As if you’ve been together all your life and this is just another one of your daily routines.
The giddy smile on your face is wide and can’t even be hidden behind your scarf as you lean into him. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, taking you toward the cafe. “What do you want to see first?”
“I read online that they’ve got a bunch of Monets by the south entrance, we’ll go there and then circle back to the front.”
“You’ve had this planned since you saw the tickets, haven’t you?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Since I read about the exhibit. Remind me to thank you again when we get home.”
Peter glances down, brows raised with a cheeky look on his face. You snort and push his face away. “What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did,” you tease. Peter laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you get in line for a coffee. You don’t even feel like you need it anymore. You’ve been warmed inside-out just by Peter’s presence.
God, when did I become such a cliche?
9:50
where the hell are you
they keep talking about distillation columns and thermo-something
you know I don’t understand nerd
Checking the time on your phone for the nth time, you feel your leg begin to bounce. Something uncomfortable has tied itself around your stomach, squeezing until you can’t stand one more sip of your beer.
Peter’s labmates celebrate around you. They keep jostling each other’s shoulders, talking in technobabble. You have never felt as stupid as you did when Marcy asked you what your thoughts were on a plug flow reactor. Whatever the hell that is.
You’d just said, “Oh, yeah, they’re great.” She’d smiled and slowly backed away, eagerly jumping into the next conversation.
It’s not that they’re not nice people, but this clearly isn’t where you’re meant to be. Not without Peter, at least. You’d promised to come thinking, oh, you know, that your damn boyfriend would be here.
10:30
Peter
Please
I feel so stupid
Nausea is thick in your throat as you hunch over the bar. Peter’s friends have all moved to a table, but you didn’t feel like following. It’s not like they were talking to you anyway. They didn’t know how and you didn’t either.
“This is so stupid,” you mutter, dragging your hand down your face. You push away your empty beer and find yourself drawn to the TV, looking for any sort of distraction.
It’s the news and, of course, Spider-Man’s swinging around the city again. His suit is bright against the night sky, and there’s an odd shape on his head that’s catching the snow. Leaning forward slightly, you snort when you see he’s wearing a red beanie.
“Of course, New York gets the weirdo for a hero,” you mutter. You grimace as you watch Spider-Man get punched down by a man who looks like he’s made himself a megazord. Pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you sigh at the time.
There’s a tight pinch in your chest as you slide off the barstool.
11:02
I’m going home
You debate saying anything else but decide not to. Tugging on your winter attire, you stop by the others’ table and bid them all goodnight. They’re nice enough to say bye, but you’re pretty sure they thought you had already left.
The wind pushes against the bar’s door as you make your way outside. Snowflakes are quick to whip at your cheeks, landing in your lashes and melting into your scarf. You pull the scarf tighter and trudge forward.
The cold isn’t bothering you any more than your absentee boyfriend is. You’ve always been gracious with Peter about being late. It’s a chronic sickness for him at this point and you’ve been around it the majority of your life.
But it feels different now that you’re dating. Waiting outside an arcade or a restaurant for a friend isn’t a big deal. But when you’re sitting on your own at a table in a crowded restaurant, that’s absolute humiliation.
He’s been dropping the ball a lot more lately and that hurts. But he hasn’t given you any other reason to worry about the state of your relationship. So, despite the sting, you’ve resolved to just swallow down the embarrassment and keep on going.
You hear a small thud behind you and your hand instinctively goes to your purse. Swallowing thickly, you keep walking, hoping it’s nothing more than your paranoia. Then you hear the crunch of snow behind you, the clear footsteps matching your pace. Your hand wraps around the mace Pete bought you and you whip around on them.
To your absolute horror, Peter’s standing behind you. He throws his hands up and lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, an hour late is really bad, but please don’t mace me.”
You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Two hours, actually.”
His face screws up and you cross your arms. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”
You shake your head and turn back around. “Forget it, Pete. Just go celebrate with your friends.”
Peter jogs to catch up with you and darts in front of you, a frown on his face. “Wait, no, come on. Why don’t you head in with me?”
You let out what can only be described as a guffaw and push past him. “And suffer through more questions about plug flow-whatever’s? Pass.”
“Plug flow reactors?”
You glare at him over your shoulder and he fails horribly at hiding the amused look on his face. “Trying to speak nerd with them was humiliating, Peter.” His face softens at that and he reaches forward to pull you closer.
Out of pure stubbornness, you should resist. But standing outside in the cold is making you desperate for Peter’s insane body heat. “Come inside, just for a little while,” he brushes a hair off your cheek and smiles softly. “I swear, I’ll teach you all our science jargon.”
You roll your eyes, but he knows he’s won when you sink into him. “You’re way too persuasive,” you snap. Peter does his best to lace your mittened hands together as he turns you back toward the bar.
“Yeah, but you love me.”
“Unfortunately,” you glare at him, but your smile gives you away.
For once in your relationship, you’re the one running late. Something you know Peter is about to take far too much joy in. He’s already sent about fifteen texts. The majority of them bemoan being all alone and then asking if this is how you always feel. Those were followed by an influx of apologies.
You’re not thinking about the texts, though, as you jog down the street. You spot Peter waiting outside the diner, leaning against the wall. He’s got his phone in his hands, fingers moving rapidly across the screen.
Sure enough, you can hear your phone ding with yet another passive-aggressive text. “Would you quit it?” You demand, completely out of breath, as you stop in front of him.
He tosses his head back dramatically and groans. “God, finally. I thought you were just going to leave me out here to freeze.”
“Would serve you right,” your brows furrow. “When’d you get this?” You flick the edge of the red beanie shoved over his hair.
Peter shrugs and readjusts it. “I dunno, I’ve had it forever.” You frown, biting your lip as you think. You swear to god you know it from somewhere, but you must’ve just seen Peter in it before and forgot.
He holds the door of the diner open for you and lets out a relieved breath as you both step into the warmth. You would feel bad for him if he hadn’t done this to you five times within two weeks.
“How come you wanted to…” The go to this place so bad trails off into a laugh. You should have known when he kept badgering you about coming here.
Plastered floor to ceiling are comic book characters, clips from the stories, and various forms of memorabilia. You’re absolutely surrounded by a hundred different fandoms, and you’re honestly surprised Peter hasn’t had a heart attack yet.
“I really should have seen this coming.”
Peter laughs and leads you over to an empty table. A busty woman with a purple leotard stares you down from where she’s painted on the wall. You give Peter a flat look and he flushes.
“I mean… the name is Strips.”
“Oh, seriously, Parker. Why would my mind immediately go to comics? I was worried you were taking me to a strip club or something.”
Peter wrinkled his nose and frowned. “That’s way too on the nose. I’d take you somewhere classy like Jumbo’s Clown Room.”
Your lips part and you just shake your head. “I don’t want to know if that’s a real place. And if it is, I don’t want to know how you found out about it.”
“Blame Flash,” he mutters as a waitress comes over with a coffee pot.
You smile and thank her as she walks away. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about this, yet.” Peter perks with interest and a wide smile blooms on your face. “You know how I was trying forever to be Professor Beeter’s TA. The position never opened but,” you trail off slightly as the people behind you start getting loud.
“Oh my god, he is wrecking this place!” Frowning, you glance over your shoulder and take a look at what they’re watching. Someone’s phone is propped in the middle of the table and you see yet another ridiculous villain punching through the Chrysler building.
Rolling your eyes, you settle back in your seat. “What was I saying?”
“Um,” Peter’s leg bounces under the table and his gaze shoots toward the door. “I’m not sure.”
You frown, watching him warily as he grows more antsy. “Oh, it’s about Professor Beeter. He offered me a-”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupts you and jumps to his feet. “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered I promised I would help May today.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“What? Peter! You wanted to come here!” He’s already running out the door. You watch, astounded, as he races past the window like hell’s nipping at his heels. You sink back into your seat with a stunned expression and your heart aching.
Clearing your throat, you look up to find your waitress giving you a pitying look. She offers you a sympathetic smile that only makes you sick to your stomach. Grabbing your bag and coat, you jump out of the booth, rushing outside.
What the hell is going on with him? You think, glaring down the street where Peter had gone. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you swallow down a lump in your throat and decide to just head back home.
After his abrupt exit, you haven’t heard from Peter all day. You’ve sent him a few texts, checking in on him and asking about May, but you only got one answer before he went AWOL.
You:
Everything good with May?
Petey:
Yeah
Her pilot was out had to make sure she had heat
After that, you’ve gotten nothing from him. Also, as far as you’re aware, May doesn’t use gas for heat. Peter hooked her up with better appliances forever ago.
It’s as you’re dialing May’s number that you have to try and convince yourself you haven’t gone total psycho girlfriend. It’s perfectly normal to want to check on your boyfriend. Especially after how he was acting today. The line only rings a few times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, May.”
She says your name and you practically hear the smile in your voice. “Hey, sweetie. How are you?”
“Fine,” you answer quickly. “I just wanted to be see how Pete’s doing?”
She’s silent for a moment too long. She clears her throat and you frown at the pitch of her voice. “Oh, yeah, Pete’s fine. I’d let him talk to you, but he’s busy right now.”
You hum, fingers twisting your hoodie (Peter’s hoodie) strings as your stomach ties itself into a knot. “Right. Uh, what’d he say he was helping you with, again?”
“Cleaning out the gutters. Apparently, it can be a fire hazard or something, I’m not sure.”
Your body goes cold while something venomous rushes up your throat. “Okay,” you can barely hear your own voice. “I’ll let you go, then.” You hang up before she can respond, phone slipping from your hand and clattering to the ground.
“Oh, my god,” you let out a panicked whisper, smoothing your hands over your hair as you try to think of a reasonable explanation. But there are no anniversaries, no birthdays, nothing special coming up that he might be lying about for a surprise.
You’re honestly more shocked that May would lie to you. Growing up, she’d always seemed like the type of woman to protect a girl from sleaze-bag boyfriends.
So maybe that means Pete isn’t doing anything bad. Maybe she’s covering for him for a good reason.
So, why can't you think of one damn reason May would lie to you?
You don’t want to start spiraling for no reason. People lie, not just boyfriends, and not always for insidious reasons. Plucking your phone off the floor, you call Gwen. She’s usually good at pulling you out of your head when you start getting bad.
The phone rings a few times before she finally answers. “Hey, what’s up?”
You frown and cross your arms across your stomach, trying to keep the nausea down. “Why do you sound so out of breath?”
“What?” She clears her throat but that only makes her sound worse. “No, I’m not. Did you need something?”
“Uh,” slightly taken aback by her tone, you struggle to find the right words.
“Gwen!” Your heart beats ruthlessly against your ribs as your entire body stills.
“Is that Peter?” You know it is. You could pick his voice out of a crowd if you were blindfolded.
Gwen lets out a tense hum. “Yeah, it is. Uh, he was helping me with some chem stuff. So, I gotta go. Call me later, yeah?”
She’s hanging up before you can say anything else. Your hands are trembling as you set your phone on the table. Squeezing your throat to try and keep the lump back, you shake your head.
There’s a reasonable explanation for everything. Right?
The nausea’s still coiled tight around you by the time Peter gets to your apartment. Your eyes are staring blankly at the wall, the only light coming from your window. You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there. Trying and failing to sleep as you consider all the reasons Peter might have lied to you.
Why he would be with Gwen instead of you.
You hear him padding through the hall and shut your eyes, tugging the blanket slightly over your head.
“Bug?” He calls softly. He’s quiet as he approaches the bed. He brushes a hair off your cheek and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You awake?”
Part of you wants to tell the truth. She wants to spring up and start laying into him, demanding to know why he lied. And the other half, she’s a coward. So, you stay curled into a ball, eyes closed, and pretending like you’re not falling apart.
Peter lets out a low groan as he settles in your bed behind you. It takes everything in you not to jerk away when he wraps his arm around your stomach, pulling you into his chest. The last thing you want right now is to have him touching you. But saying that requires being awake.
And that’s more painful than a sleepless night.
Peter wakes up slowly, his body aching after last night. He’s not sure who decided a “living robot” was a good idea. But his ribs are paying the price.
Stretching, he ignores the twinge of pain along his side. His arm gropes blindly along the sheets, searching for you, for your warmth. When his fingers brush against the wall, he reluctantly opens his eyes.
He frowns when he realizes you’re not in bed beside him. Turning toward the rest of the apartment, he doesn’t hear you. You’re not in the shower or humming in the kitchen.
With something cold settling inside him, he gets out of bed. “Sweetheart?” He calls out, hoping to hear you answer. It’s Saturday, and while it’s never been something you’ve both spoken aloud, traditionally, you spend all day in bed together. Just crashing from stressful weeks and overloaded uni schedules.
“Bug?” He tries again, wandering through your apartment. He already knows, deep down, that you’re not in here. But he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s barely had any time for you this week and he was really looking forward to just being lazy with you all day.
In the kitchen, pinned to your fridge, he finds a pink note with his name on it.
Prof. Beeter asked me to come in. Someone messed up last week’s research log
Should be home for lunch <3
The only thing stopping him from spiraling is the little heart at the bottom of the note. He knows it’s silly, but he’s slightly worried that you’re mad at him. He can’t explain where the feelings are coming from, but it's gnawing along the back of his mind.
Peter glances at the clock and groans. It’s only 9, and lunch to you is usually 2 O’Clock. He’s not sure if he’s patient enough to last that long. Peter glances at the note again and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed.
He had Professor Beeter last semester and they got along pretty well. He’s sure the older man wouldn’t mind Peter bugging you for a little while.
Still heavy with the feeling that he’s done something wrong, Peter brought along your favorite sweet treat from the cafe on campus. Hopefully, that will soothe his worries and give you a boost for the day. He knows you look forward to Saturdays just as much as he does.
Peter’s heading toward the lecture hall when his brain finally catches up with the rest of your note. What research were you talking about? You hadn’t told him you were a part of any projects.
He’s always yapping to you about his labs. He figured you would do the same. Maybe it’s new, he thinks.
Pushing open the door, he spots you immediately. You’re at a desk, papers and books piling all around you. There are three other people with you, each of whom he has a vague recollection of.
“I mean, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to salvage this.” Your voice sounds strained, completely pulled taut. Peter frowns, wishing he could just take your problems and shoulder them for you.
“It’ll be okay,” one of the girls assures you.
You finally lift your head from your hands. “Twelve pages with zero references, we’re going to be at this all damn day.” Peter draws back slightly, suddenly wondering if this is such a good idea.
He knows how testy you can get about school. Especially major projects. Sometimes just leaving you alone seems to work better than smothering. But, then, before he can back out, one of the girls, he thinks her name’s Mila, catches sight of him.
“Peter?” She calls out. Your eyes instantly snap to him. If he thought you were angry at him before, he does not feel any better now. Your gaze is sharp, lips in a flat line, and there’s absolutely nothing on your face except perpetual irritation.
“What’re you doing here?” You snap and your voice is way sharper than he was expecting. Holding his hands up slightly, he approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to treat his girlfriend like a stray dog, but you look ready to go for someone’s jugular.
“I thought you might want something to eat. Figured you didn’t have any time before you left to get something.”
Mila and the other girl both aw over him and it gives him the briefest amount of hope. But then you’re shoving out of your chair and storming toward him. Peter swallows roughly as you approach. He almost wishes he were fighting that living-fire guy right now.
You snatch his sleeve in your hand and drag him back toward the door. “Peter, why are you here?” You demand, voice lowered so the others can't hear.
He frowns and shrugs helplessly. “It’s Saturday, we always spend Saturday together.”
You cross your arms, a sharp, derisive look on your face. Okay, definitely mad. “Oh, so you can remember dates now? What’s next? Are you going to show up on time for once?”
“Hey,” he objects, hoping to lighten the mood. “I was on time yesterday.”
Your eyes narrow and something on your face goes blank. He can’t place it exactly, but it’s like there’s a wall where he can usually read you so well. “Yeah, doesn’t count if you ditch me ten minutes later, babe.”
The venom in your voice makes him take a step back. He looks down, knowing you’re right. But he doesn’t want you any more mad than you are, instead of addressing it, he nods toward your desk.
“What’s going on here?”
“We’re working on the dementia research project with Professor Beeter.”
Peter wants to light up, to hug you, and congratulate you for finally getting an in with the professor you’ve been trying to work with since last year. But you deliver him the news so flatly he feels like you’d only get more mad.
“You didn’t tell me about that,” he says instead. Which is very clearly the wrong answer, by the way you back off with a sharp scoff.
“I’m not sure when I would have, Peter. I got placed two weeks ago and I haven’t seen you for more than an hour since then. Besides, when I tried to tell you yesterday, you fucking bolted to May’s.” You pause, and your lips curl up into something cruel. “Or was it Gwen’s place? Sorry, I can’t remember which lie you bullshited your way through.”
Peter feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s like a film goes over his eyes as his mind scrambles for any explanation that isn’t ‘I was busy beating up a robot with a weird, creepy human brain in it.’ Because he’s pretty sure that would be grounds enough for you to dump him right now.
You really don’t give him a chance, either way. You snatch the bag from his hand and the smile drops from your face. “Thanks for the visit. You can go now.” You turn back toward your teammates without another look at him. “Hungry?” You call out to Mila.
She gives a hesitant nod and you toss Peter’s pastry at her. “Dig in.” Even when you sit down, you don’t look up from your books. Not even a twitch as he opens the door.
Peter walks out, still slightly numb from the whole… argument? Did that even count as an argument? Or was that just you finally calling him out?
You’ve let him get away with a lot and maybe he took advantage of that, but he’s worried you might have the wrong idea. He doesn’t know why you would bring up Gwen, but the tone of your voice was so accusatory that he feels sick to his stomach.
Yes, he was at her house last night. But that’s because he needed to be stitched up. She’s known about Spider-Man since high school. It was either bleed out or have her use her beginner's sewing kit.
Peter lets out a shaky breath and runs his hands through his hair restlessly. You’ve both gotten into worse fights before. It’s not like you were a perfect couple. Surely, you could find a way to get over this. He just needs a half-decent excuse for his lying.
Peter perks up as he hears you step into the apartment. He glances at the clock and grimaces. You’re going to be pissed that you had to stay there until 6, fixing someone else’s screwup. When you round the corner and see him, he hears you let out one of the most exhausted noises he’s ever heard from you.
“Peter,” he finally turns to meet your eye. “Why are you here?”
His chest clenches as he forces a smile. “I figured you would be hungry.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you ever at your own place?”
Ouch. “I just wanted to make you dinner. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as it’s done, bug.”
You shrug off your jacket and take a seat at the kitchen island. Peter takes your silence as agreement and goes back to stirring the pasta. When you speak again, his ears practically touch his shoulders. This dreadful feeling in his stomach has just been mounting all day. He feels ready to vibrate out of his own skin.
“Peter, where were you last night? I want the truth.”
Peter’s hand clenches around the spoon and he keeps his back to you. “Went over to May’s to help around the house and then I saw Gwen.”
You let out a loud scoff and your hands slap against the counter. “Did you all get your stories straight? Am I hearing the right lie, now?”
Peter drops the spoon and turns to face you. He expects anger, maybe sadness. But you’re not giving him anything. You’re just… cold and Peter hates it. He’s seen you use that look before. It’s always been directed at people you don’t care about. You don’t hate them, you don’t love them, you just… don’t care. He doesn’t want to be someone you don’t care about. He can’t be.
“Look me in the eye,” you command. “Tell me the truth.”
Peter takes in a steadying breath, doing his best not to make it obvious. “Sweetheart, I swear, I went to help May with the heat and the gutters. Gwen called and she needed my help on her chemistry project. I’m sorry that I got home late-”
“I can’t,” you clear your throat and the way your voice cracks makes his heart ache. “I can’t believe that you’re just going to stand there and lie to me.”
He shakes his head and takes a desperate step forward. “No, bug, I’m-”
You hold your hand up and his jaw snaps shut. “You’ve talked Peter, now it’s my turn. I have put up with a lot from you. If anyone treated me the way you do, you know what you would tell me?”
He opens his mouth and you shoot him a look that makes him shrink into himself. “Do not answer that, I am still talking. You would tell me to cut them out. If someone doesn’t respect my time, my dates, if they lie straight to my fucking face, then that’s not someone who deserves to be in my life. You are never on time, if you even show up at all.”
He wants to object, he really does, but he knows you’re right. Still, you must sense his apprehension. “Scroll through our texts from the past two months. It’s just a block of me asking where you are and telling you how stupid I feel. Then you show up, make everything better, and I just let you get away with it. Because I have known and loved you for so long, I let you disrespect me. I can handle missing dates, I can handle not being on time, always being at my place and never letting me over at yours. But I can’t do this, I can’t just swallow down you lying straight to my face. Getting your aunt and my best friend involved in this is sick, Pete. What do you expect me to think when Gwen’s lying about why you’re at her place?”
“No, sweetheart,” he finally speaks, rushing toward you, voice breaking on something desperate. He reaches for you, but you jerk back and he swears something cracks open inside him. “I would never.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Why would I ever believe you?”
Peter flounders. He tries to think of anything. Anything that isn’t a lie and isn’t the truth about who he is. But his mind is blank. The panic flooding through him is overriding anything that might get you back, might get you in his arms again.
You suck your teeth and give him a jerky nod. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, he might actually cry.
“I think this has been happening for a long time, Peter. It’s just your first time realizing it.”
No, no, he can’t handle that. He can’t handle knowing that this awful, barbed feeling ripping through him is how he’s made you feel for so long. But he can’t just spill his guts and tell you everything.
Right after Gwen had discovered him, it was like the bad guys had a missile lock on her. She kept getting thrown into danger, nearly dying, because of him. He can’t be the reason you get hurt. He can’t live with that.
But he’s hurting you either way and for once, he can’t think of a way to make this all smooth over.
You take in a sharp breath and turn away from him. You walk to the stove, turning off the burner as the food begins to smoke. “I think you should go, Peter.”
“Bug,” but he doesn’t have anything to say and you still won’t look at him. He just wants you to look at him. He feels as if you did, if you saw how sorry he was, something here might be fixed.
“I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” You toss the pot in the sink and head down the hall, not another word spared for him. And Peter…
He just spirals. Every mistake, every time he showed up late, just pummels into him as he realizes this is all his fault.
You turned off your phone yesterday. The missed calls and texts from Peter were bordering on obnoxious and you couldn’t take it anymore. Even Gwen kept trying to call you. Kept texting you that it’s not what you think.
But did they ever offer any other explanation?
No, they fucking didn’t.
So, not only did you lose your boyfriend, the man you’ve been in love with as long as you’ve known him. You also lost your best friend.
Best. Week. Ever.
Sick of being sad in your bed, you decide to go be sad outside. Maybe just grab a pint of ice cream from the bodega and lock yourself inside your apartment for the rest of your life. That sounds like a decent plan.
Leaving your phone, you grab your keys and some cash. It’s still cold outside, though the snow has calmed down a little bit. It soaks through your tennis shoes, now, seeps along the hem of your sweatpants. No part of you can be bothered to care about that as you trudge toward the shop.
It’s unusually quiet as you walk inside. Usually it’s a lot busier this time of night. Maybe the universe decided to give you a break.
Digging through the freezer section, you frown when you don’t see your favorite flavor. You turn toward the shop owner, Al, who has gotten used to you coming down here the past few days. “You guys don’t have any more Turtlesaurus Rex?”
Al’s silent and you frown, finally turning to fully face him. A man in a black jacket lingers by the counter, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Al gives you a tense smile, and your brows furrow as dread picks at you.
“All out. Maurie down the street might have some.” There’s something about how wide his eyes are that’s making you think you probably should have brought your phone. Especially because you definitely just saw the handle of a gun in that man’s jacket and you really need to call the cops. (Even though they probably won’t do anything.)
“Yeah, I’ll go check over there.”
“Have a good night.”
You try not to sound stiff as you return the sentiment. But you’ve barely made it to the door when you hear the distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back.
“You think I’m stupid?” What a wonderful time this would be for a freak in red and blue spandex to show up.
You turn slowly and shake your head, absolutely zero idea how to defuse this.
“I think the lady’s just being polite. Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone encapsulate the term ‘mouth-breather’ so well.”
Your eyes widen, and you whip around to see Spider-Man standing at the entrance of the bodega. What the fuck is your life?
“Hey, jackass,” you hiss, and his head whips toward you. “Who’s he pointing the gun at?”
Spider-Man shrugs, “What gun?” You barely have a second to blink before a thick white string is twhip-ing past you and jerking the gun out of the man’s hands.
“Smartass,” you mutter under your breath.
“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Spider-Man for saving my life,’” you shoot him a flat look and walk out of the bodega. Maybe it’s time to just accept that you’re not meant to be in the outside world. You’re better off cocooned in your bed.
There are no robbers there. No cheating boyfriends and conniving best friends.
About a minute later, you hear rapid footsteps approaching. “I don’t have a purse, phone, or wallet.”
“Wow, great mugger-deterrent. I totally don’t want to rob you now.”
You plant your feet in the snow and hear Spider-Man let out a sharp breath as he skids around you. “I thought you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Not the quippy, neighborhood pervert who follows girls around at night.”
Spider-Man lets out a noise that can only be described as a guffaw. “I’m making sure you get home safely. Since clearly you don’t care. I mean, who walks around this late at night without mace at least?”
“Me,” you tell him flatly.
“Pretty girls shouldn’t be walking around here on their own.”
Your lips curl and you gag as you continue toward your apartment. “Okay, first of all, totally not helping with your creep angle.” He groans and you almost laugh at the defeated sound. “Also, I’m fresh off a break-up, so keep the compliments to yourself.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spider-Man quickly jumps in front of you and you frown as he blocks your way. “Breakup,” his voice is pitched so high, you swear it almost sounds familiar. “You broke up with someone?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“R-really?” He tries to lean against a lamppost, slips, and then straightens awkwardly like he meant to do that. “Because you know sometimes people think that it’s just a break and not a breakup, you know? Big difference. Are you sure this isn’t just a break?”
He’s talking so rapidly you can barely understand him. It doesn’t help that he’s got that mask on, so you can’t try to catch the words on his lips to decipher them. You think you might have gotten half of that word-vomit.
“Well, I’m the one who did it. I feel like I should know.”
“Does he?” He holds up his hands, quick to correct himself. “Or she? Spider-Man doesn’t judge.”
“Oh, good to know, he’s a pervert, but at least he’s an ally.” You push past him. “Look, if he doesn’t know, then he’s a lot stupider than I gave him credit for.”
You hear a low, “Ouch,” behind you and figure you might be being a tad harsh about Peter. But what the hell would Spider-Man care?
“You know,” Spider-Man continues after you.
Jesus, he’s like a damn dog.
“I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a second chance.”
You glare over at him and swear you see the eyes of his mask turn down. You’ve never seen a mask emote before; it’s incredibly bizarre. “Do they deserve a second chance after sleeping with your best friend?”
Spider-Man shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you have evidence that it happened, though?”
“Dude,” you snap. “What do you care? And what other evidence would I need besides the fact that he wouldn’t tell me the truth? If there was nothing to hide, why would he continue to hide shit?”
You hear his inhale of breath and shake your head, holding your hands up. “No, you know what, no. Alright? I didn’t get my Turtlesaurus Rex and I am not going to listen to some weirdo in a unitard give me relationship advice.”
“Unitard?” He scoffs. “I’m not a weirdo.”
“Oh, yeah?” You call over your shoulder. “Then stop following me home!” It takes a few minutes to believe he’s actually gone and you can finally breathe again. What weird ass fever dream was your life turning into?
You sit on the ledge of your roof’s building, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’re scrolling through all the texts Peter’s sent you in the last three hours. There are at least fifty of them. But it’s the one at the end that really catches your eye.
Is this really it? Are we done? Bug-
You stop reading at the nickname and put your phone down. Reluctantly, Spider-Man’s words from the other night pop into your head. Some people think it's a break, not a breakup.
How could Peter not have gotten the message by now?
“Fancy meeting you here.”
You let out a screech and jolt forward. Arms winding wildly as you try to regain your balance. The city tilts below you until something’s latched onto the back of your shirt and you’re suddenly being pulled into a firm chest.
“Why would you sit on the edge?” Again, his voice gets an impressively shrill pitch.
Shoving away from him, you whip around and slap his shoulder. “Why would you scare someone sitting on the edge?”
You can hear his sharp intake of breath before his argument fizzles out. “That’s what I thought Spider-Boy-”
“Man.”
“Whatever.” You walk back to the edge and rewrap yourself in your blanket. With a pointed glare over your shoulder, you hop right back on your perch. Spider-Man lets out a world-weary sigh before he jumps up beside you.
“You know,” he drawls. “Most people say thank you when a superhero saves you.”
“Oh,” you laugh. “Is that what you are, now? A superhero?”
“Dude. What is your problem?” His voice goes so flat, all humor sucked out of it, that, for some weird reason, it’s the first thing he’s said to get a real laugh out of you. He seems just as confused as you are if the way he tosses his hands up means anything.
“I cannot figure you out.”
You shake your head and brush a stray curl from your eyes. “It’s not you, Bugboy-”
“Rude.”
“It’s life,” you spread your palms out, gesturing to the sprawling city across from you. “Just broke up with the love of my life. Lost my bestie. The research project I’ve been trying to join for a year is falling apart at the seams. Oh, and I almost got shot yesterday.”
You point your face to the sky and let out a dramatic sigh. “God hates me.”
There’s a light nudge on your arm and you look over to see that Spider-Man’s moved closer to you. “God doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I didn’t let you get shot. I’d say that’s pretty damn lucky.” You snort and from the mask, you think he’s… pleased? It’s really hard to tell.
“I guess that’s fair.”
Spider-Man lets out a satisfied hum as he turns to the city. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, bug.”
Your entire body goes still. Your eyes widen as they stare down at your lap, adrenaline rushing through your blood as you turn toward Spider-Man. “What’d you say?” You ask, voice so low you’re surprised he even registers it.
He shrugs, “I said to stop being so hard on yourself.”
“No, you called me something. What’d you call me?”
“Bug,” Spider-Man drawls and you swear you’re going crazy because that voice is painfully familiar. “You called me Bugboy, I thought it would be fair.”
It’s too hard to distinguish whether this swooping feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. And you hate yourself for not knowing which one you want it to be.
“Right,” you scoff and rub your eyes. “I’m going crazy, now.”
Spider-Man lets out a long sigh as he watches you. “You kind of seem like you’re having a mental breakdown. Maybe, I don’t know, get off the edge of the very tall building.”
“Oh, don’t tell me Bugboy’s got a crush.”
Your lips curl at his scoff. “You’re impossible.”
Feeling only slightly guilty for the hell you’ve given him, you slip off the edge and get your feet planted firmly on the ground. “Better?”
He surveys you suspiciously before nodding. You pick your phone up off the ledge and, for some reason, are compelled to open up the texts with Peter. You should have guessed how nosey Spider-Man was going to be about it.
“That the ex?”
You shoot him a flat look as he kicks his legs over the ledge. “Yeah. That’s the ex.”
“So, what are you going to tell him?” He motions toward the last text. “Break or breakup?” Your mind snags on how Peter called you bug and Spider-Man’s weird slip-up before you force yourself to dispel the thoughts.
“Breakup. I guess I should have made it more clear.” Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you shoot Spider-Man a look. His back has gone weirdly tense and you frown. “Hey, you’re a guy. How’s the nicest way to tell him it’s done.”
“Don’t.” His voice is clipped, almost angry. “He’ll get the hint. Trust me.”
Your brows furrow as you eye him warily. “Are you okay?”
“Gotta go. Superhero business, you know?” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already leaping off the ledge, thwip-ing his way to the building across from yours.
“Weirdo,” you scoff.
You figured that after Spider-Man’s abrupt departure on the roof, that would be the end of it. But, no, it’s only gotten worse for you. He’s everywhere now. He’s somehow more consistent than your ex ever was.
Walking home from late research sections, look who wants to be a walking buddy.
Heading to the bodega for a midnight snack, somehow, Spider-Man had the same idea.
Your life is now a Sunday comic strip in the paper. It’s like there’s some sadistic artist out there exploiting your misery for humor. It’s not just him, either. It’s the month. In all your drama with Peter, you’d failed to keep up with the dates.
Now, freshly single for the first time in a couple of years, you sit alone preparing yourself for the next week. Valentine’s Day is Saturday, which means suffering through pink streamers all over campus and girls walking around with gift baskets lovingly curated by their boyfriends.
“I don’t like how often I find you on this ledge.”
You spare a glance over your shoulder and smile. “I don’t like that you still haven’t learned not to scare me.”
“Touche,” Spider-Man breathes out, taking quick strides toward you. “You seem tense. Feel like sharing? I’m a great listener.”
“Nothing big, just Valentine’s Day. I’ve had a boyfriend for so long I forgot how bitter and annoying it is for single people.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighs.
“Really? The Spider-Man is single?”
“I appreciate the surprise in your voice, no matter how forced it is.” You let out a wry chuckle and you swear you can hear a smile in his laugh.
“Probably a good thing, though. I can’t imagine any girlfriend would be happy with the amount of time you spend on this ledge with me.”
“No,” he agrees, “probably not.” The next noise he lets out is soft, tired in the kind of way that resonates with you. For the most part, your interactions are shallow. There’s banter, stupid quips, and then he’s off. You don’t usually hear something so real from him.
“Freshly single?” You ask. His head whips toward you and you shrug. “I recognize the misery of your sigh. It resonates within my withered heart.”
Spider-Man swats your shoulder lightly and you grin. “Yeah, it’s fresh. I still don’t think I’ve accepted it.”
You prop your chin in your hand and smile at him. “What level of not accepted are we talking here? Stalking? Or just crying over Instagram posts?”
Spider-Man goes quiet and you pull back. He recognizes the suspicion on your face and waves his hands. “No, no, no, this doesn’t count as stalking. Not really. I mean, it’s consensual?”
He sounds more unsure of himself at the end than you did. “Let's just not talk about that,” you offer. “I don’t think I want to know what your idea of consensual stalking is.” Spider-Man snorts and you shake your head.
A billboard across from you catches your eye. It’s Gwen’s favorite band, an announcement that they’ll be coming through soon. There’s a sharp ache in your chest when you remember you can’t just text her about stuff like that anymore.
“Gwen would love that,” you say, almost without thinking.
But what’s worse is when the man beside you doesn’t think either. “Oh, yeah, she would.”
Consensual
Stalking
Oh. My. God.
Your entire body stiffens as you turn to Spider-Man/maybe your ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to realize his slip-up and that just makes you freeze up. You don’t know what to do. You can’t just blindly accuse him of being Peter. If you start hinting at secret identities, he might stop talking to you.
Loathe as you are to admit it, you’ve begun to enjoy his company. The main reason being he reminded you of how it was with Peter before you guys started dating.
Oh, Jesus, you’re gonna throw up off the ledge of your building. When the pavement below seems to swim up to you, it’s time to slip off the ledge. Slowly, fighting off the vertigo of your discovery, you drop back to safety.
Spider-Man watches you, head tilted in question. “Um, I have to go.” You search for an excuse, but none comes. “Yeah, I have to go.”
“Oh,” he seems taken aback, but doesn’t comment. “Alright. I’ll see you later?”
You let out a noise between a hum and a squeal as you rush back into your apartment building. Your mind is racing while you scramble through the door of your apartment. Like a detective, you flit through different memories, red string connecting each one as you start to line up Peter’s disappearances with Spider-Man's greatest hits.
Every missed date, every time he showed up late, it was all right there. But you never thought to connect it because… Well, why would you? Peter is Peter. He’s not a superhero. He definitely doesn’t have webs. Please, don’t let him have webs.
Scrambling for your phone, you dial the first number you can think of. It’s barely ringing before it’s getting picked up. “Gwen,” your voice is incredibly shaky as you try to calm yourself down. “I’m going to ask you something and if you don’t tell me the truth, we’re never talking again.”
Spider-Man/Peter Parker/ex-boyfriend-
No, no, too many titles. Peter has not been around in the past week. Not as his alter ego, and not at his lectures. Unfortunately, a lot of your schedule seems to intersect and the majority of your day is spent hiding in a hoodie and trying not to make eye contact.
But there hasn’t been any of that at all this week.
Maybe Gwen told him you know. He’s probably losing his mind right now.
But, no, she swore she wouldn’t and you know she’s not going to risk hurting your friendship again. Though you did profusely apologize for ever thinking that she could do that to you. And then she berated you about thinking she would ever be attracted to Peter.
Which… Ouch.
It’s Saturday, which used to mean days spent with him. Instead, it now means watching people get all mushy on Valentine’s Day. That used to be you, disgustingly in love, kissing way more than you should in public.
Now, you watch it all on the subway with that same old glare you used to have before Peter. You’re thinking about him a lot more than you want to. Especially given that he’s supposed to be an ex.
After your long speech on respect and boundaries and honesty, you should be completely over him. But it sort of makes sense now. Especially after Gwen told you what happened to her when she found out about him.
Peter wanted to protect you. You can understand that. But it doesn’t just erase all of the pain you felt while you were in the dark. You let out a low groan, ignoring the people around you as you walk home. You just keep going in circles over and over again.
The streets around you begin to thin out the closer to home you get. You’re still so deep in thought, you don’t notice the man dangling in front of you until your forehead is smacking into his.
“Ow,” you hiss, pressing your palm to the bruise that’s probably already forming. Backing up, Spider-Man, Peter, is dangling from the small overpass, upside down, as he waits for you.
“Dude,” you drawl. “How long have you just been hanging out here?”
He shrugs, “An hour, maybe.” Only in Queens would people pass by a dangling man in spandex and not question a thing.
One of his hands is tucked behind his back, and the other is holding onto his webbing. “Here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”
He untucks his free hand and passes you a bright pink, smothered in glitter, Valentine's Day card. You can hear his proud smile as he asks, “Be my Valentine?”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head with a low laugh. This is the dork you fell in love with. The boy you swore you would follow anywhere. It’s not his fault he’s such an idiot, not really.
Something soothes the ever permanent ache in your heart as you imagine the smile he’s probably got plastered on face. God, you bet he’s so proud of himself for this silly little Valentine.
A deep longing echoes through you and you reach up, going for the edge of his mask, when he reels back. “What’re you-”
“Relax, Parker,” you whisper. He goes completely still and you take hold of the mask.
“Did Gwen tell you?”
“You did, dumbass. You know, you’re really bad at the whole secret identity thing when it comes to consensually stalking your ex.” He lets out a low groan as you peel down his mask, just enough for his lips to be visible.
Pulling back, you take his face in your hands and smile. “Do you want me as your Valentine, or not?”
“What do you think, bug?” With a soft laugh, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It takes a second to get the angle right, what with his chin brushing your nose and all. But you don’t need perfect, you just need him.
Pulling back, he’s got a goofy grin on his face and you smirk. “Parker?” He hums as you fix his mask. “If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut a hole in the crotch of your unitard. Or, worse second option, I’ll tell Jonah Jameson where you live. Got it?”
He goes still and you raise a brow. “You’re not joking?” You shake your head, expression flat. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”
Smiling, you press a kiss to his cheek and step back. “Be home by six,” you tell him. “And bring some takeout.” You walk around him as he swings himself back up to the top of the overpass.
“I love you!” He calls after you.
“I know you do, Bugboy!”
𝘞𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘜𝘱 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 We've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow 💿
a/n: this was meant to be angstier but, well, I started writing him in the Spider-Man “voice” and folded like a wet paper towel
Frank Castle aka The Punisher whos been going to a little corner shop bakery for the longest time. It's owned by you, only in your early 20s, trying to work off your culinary school debt, you make the most amazing cookies. Every time Frank talks to you, he sees Lisa, smiling, getting flour everywhere baking some mess of a cake.
Frank has come around often enough that you've softened him up to get little pieces of his life. Stories of his wife, his son, his very dear daughter. You're told many times that Lisa would have loved you.
Frank pays off your debt quietly, you cry in his arms when you find out.
You weren't close with your parents, they had cut contact with you when you decided to pursue baking. You hadn't talked to them in 4 years. Frank filled the parental gap, Frank was there when you were tired and needed help, Frank was there when you had been jumped months earlier.
Frank was always there for you.
Frank admired that your heart is just so...light, how often you give away cupcakes to crying children or people having a bad day, the free library shelf by the counter, the amount of shit you take from angry people without getting mad back.
One day, a rougher day for Frank, he was talking about Lisa, how she always got the same cake for her birthday every year. It was always a blueberry and lemon cake with marshmallow frosting.
Frank loves starting his morning with one of your muffins and a black coffee, the little corner seat by the window, while youre still taking items from the oven, when the smell of pastries is strongest.
One early morning, while Frank sat in his chair, reading a paper, he heard you squealing excitedly, before rushing out, dough still on your hands, your apron still on and covered in spices, you were clutching a paper.
"Pete, look!"
You shoved a paper into his hands, your smile painted all over your face. The letter was from some baking show, saying that you had been nominated to compete to win 500,00 dollars.
"Pete, that's enough to get noticed! That- that's enough to get a whole new kitchen! I could expand or- or-"
Frank chuckled at tour enthusiasm
"Im proud of you, kid."
He handed you back the letter, as yiu bounced happily.
"You're a damn good baker, youre gonna crush them."
And so you were off, Frank drove you to the airport. You would be gone for a month. Frank made you promise to keep safe.
Frank watched the episodes as they came out, he watches you laugh with bakers your age, he sees you in your natural element. He sees you being complemented by professional world renowned bakers.
Frank watches you making a sugar dome for a small cake, the sphere looks perfect until the last second when a contestant bumps into you and it shatters.
Frank stands from the couch he was sat on, raising his arms at the TV
"Damn it!"
Frank sees your eyes well up with tears on the TV, you've got very little time left. Frank sits back down, his hands covering his mouth.
"Cmon kid, you've got this, pull through."
He watched you start a second one, wiping tears furiously.
"Cmon kid..."
You pull it off with seconds left, plating your cake at the last second. You're smiling so wide.
"Hell yeah, kid! Hell yeah!"
Frank shouts as he stands again, before silencing himself when his apartment neighbor bangs on the walls for him to shut up.
By the last episode, you got to make a cake completely by yourself, no recipie, just your mind, whatever cake you wanted.
You made a blueberry lemon cake with marshmallow frosting, naming it 'Lisa's cake' as you tell the judges, you glance at the camera, smile just slightly, as if you knew Frank was watching you. Frank couldn't stop the pained chuckle as tears filled his eyes. He pictured Lisa standing right there with you. When the judges asked you about the name, you just replied with,
"She's a...she's a friend of mine."
Frank watched every single episode. Frank watched you win. He watched you get handed a check that would change your life.
Frank met you at the airport on your trip home, you looked exhausted. You smiled so wide when you saw Frank.
"Pete! Did you see? I won!"
You showed him the medal proudly.
"Yeah kid, I saw every second. Im so proud of you-"
You hugged Frank before he could finish, a hug so tight he thought you might just squeeze all the air out of him.
i’ve warmed up significantly towards the concept of small talk ever since i learned that its sole purpose is to make friendly noises.
as long as you smile and nod, people are satisfied. it’s just to show that you are nice and there with good intentions. we’re small in a big world and have to rely on other people to be decent to us. so we do our little human dance to each other to say, “i’m not here to hurt you. here’s something we have in common, like the weather or sports or itchy sweaters, so we both know we’re on the same team. we both agree on a basic fact, like that it is rainy or that being itchy is uncomfortable, and this proves we can get along. i’m being light-hearted and non-threatening right now.”
small talk isn’t to get to know a person. it’s just a greeting to affirm you’re buddies in the universe.
i am motivated by wanting the other person to know i am friendly, so i have gotten pretty decent at small talk when i used to hate it.
dededos
ellievsbear
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theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
