this masterlist contains all compiled works for easier browsing!
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bob reynolds
tonight, I asked God a favor. (one shot)
synopsis: everyone in the tower knows how much bob likes you, and everyone is trying to help him showcase his affection little by littleâone of them hopes you'd return the affection before lovesick bob gives up on trying.
lights, camera, and love on air! (fic: on-going)
synopsis: you and bob are star-partners in highschool, especially within the school publication where you both first met. students often confuse you two between lovers or simply emotionally constipated idiots. that one coming summer of the outgoing Editorial Board members for the school held a one-last roundtable discussion, all eyes turn to you and bob for one last spiel.
âȘ pt. 1, pt. 2
the closest thing to peace was (pending)
synopsis: as the team depart for a mission, you and bob were left at the watchtower. bucky insisted you stay behind to rest and heal from the injuries you sustained from the previous battle with the remnants of HYDRA.
cold coffee and book fairing (pending)
synopsis: you and bob got way too excited about the book fair, not realizing the flock of people that got you and him separated momentarilyâuntil you found him coaxing a child who got lost, making it both your mission to bring the kid back to their guardian.
bucky barnes
daytime in anaheim (pending)
synopsis: post-void battle shenanigans at the watchtower where the team gathered to be briefed shortly before their scheduled departure for an off-work trip, one that Yelena had specifically requested time and time againâthat godforsaken trip to disneyland, and it's up to you and bucky to keep all hands on deck.
come back, be here. (on-going)
synopsis: a mission failed and a broken heart returned back at the headquarters, and despite having to save almost everyone in the team, Bucky blames himself for what happened to you.
âȘ pt. 1, pt. 2
robert floyd
they say, 'home is where the heart is.' (one-shot)
synopsis: while being secretly a wife to WSO Lieutenant Floyd and a daughter to Capt. Mitchell, it is imperative to keep the status under the wraps. Let's just say, it was a huge reveal when you went to visit the Hard Deck in full uniform with your husband silently drooling over you, and a few of them take notice.
Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesnât expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he canât keep to himself anymore.
Word Count: 16.5k
Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Buckyâs past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love
Authorâs Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, Iâd love to hear what you think! Also, Iâve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if thatâs something youâd be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy âĄ
Divider by @cafekitsune âĄ
Masterlist
The air smells of memory.
As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.
Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avengerâs compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someoneâs installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.
There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.
This version of the compound is lived-in.
Itâs unnerving.
He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldnât. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.
He doesnât trust this. He doesnât trust any of it.
Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And heâs not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world thatâs supposed to be some mirror image of his own.
It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.
He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.
In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didnât do it. Clint insists he did. Here, itâs perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.
He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldnât feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.
This could still be his universe somehow.
Even though it isnât.
And even though he doesnât want it to be.
He never wanted to be part of the mission.
He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didnât matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.
Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.
He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.
And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, itâs only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didnât even try to mask.
And it made his heart clench.
You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.
You asked why Tony couldnât just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.
You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.
You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.
You asked how much they even knew about this universe.
Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. âWe donât know much,â he admitted. âThis universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.â
Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.
âSHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,â Steve went on. âStarkâs readings say itâs stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.â
Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.
The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.
Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.
He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didnât truly know if he even got this.
He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.
When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldnât meet your eyes for too long.
And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.
The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.
Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.
In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.
Thatâs what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasnât lived the same kind of life.
He reaches the second floor and hesitates.
The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. Itâs like something alive and trapped.
He turns left.
Your room is down this hall.
Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldnât assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you donât see until itâs already unmade you.
But his feet are already moving.
Itâs not like heâs planning to go in.
He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.
He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. Itâs cracked open. Thatâs weird. You usually always have it shut.
Your voice isnât behind it. Youâre not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.
He steps closer.
The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someoneâs been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.
He knows itâs yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.
Heâs memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.
He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when youâre near.
He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.
Eyes open, eyes closed.
In dreams, in silence.
In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.
Heâs mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you canât reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you donât need.
He knows how your arm swings when you walk.
Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.
And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.
Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.
Itâs not an accident.
It never is.
He carries you like a story he hasnât told yet.
And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.
Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.
He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.
He doesnât understand.
Why would he-?
No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesnât carry his past like a loaded gun. Or itâs just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.
Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.
To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.
Itâs a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.
Heâs seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you canât say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.
This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.
He knows what it means. He knows you.
But the painting doesnât belong here. Not like this. Itâs intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.
Someone like him.
His stomach twists.
Maybe it is him.
He doesnât like that thought. Doesnât like how it makes his heart trip over itself.
He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didnât want to argue. And he stops breathing.
Because you're not there.
But the room is.
The room is here.
And thatâs almost worse.
Itâs too familiar.
Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.
The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.
But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.
The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.
And thereâs a sweater messily folded on your dresser.
A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.
Like you were just here.
Like maybe, if he stays long enough, youâll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.
He doesnât touch anything.
Heâs afraid to.
Because this version of the world remembers you.
The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.
He walks the room like an intruder in someone elseâs dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.
He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.
And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.
But itâs only silence, mocking him.
He wants to sit.
He wants to stay.
Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, youâll be beside him again.
He knows it isnât true.
This isnât his world.
This isnât his home.
And this isnât his you.
But the ache doesnât care about reality.
The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.
Thereâs a coat draped over the back of a chair.
His coat.
Not one like it.
His.
The leatherâs too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. Thereâs even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you werenât a tailor but youâd seen enough war movies to fake it.
He steps inside without meaning to.
The room smells like you.
Itâs your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.
Itâs the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.
Thereâs a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.
He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.
You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.
He reaches out for it.
Stops.
His hand is shaking.
Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.
Itâs not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.
Itâs the two of you.
He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.
Youâre laughing. And he looks-
He looks in love.
Like he has everything he ever wanted.
His breath hitches.
He steps back.
Back again.
Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.
His ears are ringing.
None of this makes sense. Not fully.
He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.
The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. Thereâs a candle on the windowsillâburned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.
Thereâs another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.
He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like itâs foreign and familiar all at once.
His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.
He shouldnât be here.
This isnât his room. Itâs not his place. Not his world. Heâs just a shadow slipping through someone elseâs life.
The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.
He has a job.
A mission.
A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. Thatâs the only reason heâs here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.
He doesnât belong to this life.
He doesnât belong to you.
Not like this.
Especially not like this.
He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.
The room creaks as though it knows heâs not supposed to be here.
So he leaves.
Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.
Because of what it could mean.
He closes the door behind him. Doesnât let it latch.
He is leaving your room because he has to.
Because heâs still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isnât letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasnât real. Or wasnât his.
The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.
His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.
Thereâs a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.
And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.
These things shouldnât exist here. But they do.
Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.
The picture frames are all straight here. No oneâs taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.
Someoneâs sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Samâs. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is âeco-friendly but manly.â
The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.
Itâs yours.
You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.
The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.
He walks slower now. Like heâs afraid heâll wake something up.
He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.
He tells himself itâs for the layout. That heâs retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really itâs you. Itâs always you. He knows youâre here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isnât ready for. Or worse - see you in a way heâll never forget.
His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.
The light changes first.
The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.
And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.
He stops breathing.
Because there are you.
Standing with your back to him.
You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.
The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.
You are moving through a rhythm you donât know heâs watching.
Youâre cooking something - he doesnât know what, canât smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.
Itâs domestic.
Effortlessly soft.
The kind of moment heâs never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.
His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.
But it cleaves him open.
Because you move the same.
You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you donât know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.
He watches.
Rooted to the floor.
This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesnât tear his heart apart.
Youâre not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way youâve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.
But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.
Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you donât know youâre humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.
The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. Itâs almost too much. Itâs absolutely too much.
Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.
He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.
His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.
You donât see him.
Heâs not ready for you to. He knows he shouldnât let you see him.
Not here. Not like this. Not when youâre standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Buckyâs - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like youâre thinking about something else entirely.
And for one breathless second, he forgets.
He forgets this isnât his kitchen.
That this isnât his world.
That the you standing there isnât the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.
That youâre not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesnât mind drowning in.
But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.
Because heâs seen you like this before.
In his own kitchen, in his own universe.
Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.
You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.âšYou, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.
Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.
And now, he just watches.
This version of you doesnât turn around. Doesnât feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.
He grips the doorframe.
Tries to swallow the pain.
Because this is what heâs always wanted, but it isnât his.
And it wonât be.
But he canât stop looking.
He knows he should move. Now.
Heâs not supposed to linger.
Not supposed to look.
Not supposed to feel.
Heâs a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.
But you-
God.
You are gravity and he is weak against it.
You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.
And he canât help it.
He looks.
He stays.
Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.
You are the only thing in this place that hasnât changed.
The only thing that feels right.
And thatâs the worst part.
Because you feel like home.
And youâre not his.
You might never be.
But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isnât real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldnât undo him in ways the war never could.
You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. Itâs branded into this whole place.
He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.
You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.
Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body heâs only ever worshiped in dreams.
You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didnât feel it, just enough to pretend it doesnât mean something.
He doesnât understand how this version of you still reads like poetry heâs already memorized.
He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.
For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.
As though you are the world. His world.
You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You havenât seen him yet. Youâre focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.
But he is frozen in place. His muscles arenât working.
He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though youâve caught a scent you know too well.
And then you look up.
You see him.
Buckyâs mind is running on empty cells.
Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.
Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.
He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.
âBuck-â your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. âYouâre back.â
He doesnât move. Canât.
The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.
You donât give him time to speak. You donât give him space to even think.
Because youâre already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.
You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though theyâve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.
He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.
Heâs too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldnât.
Youâre warm. Youâre so warm.
You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasnât earned.
âWhy didnât you tell me you were back?â you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. âI thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.â
Bucky canât speak. He canât do a single thing and thatâs absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. Heâs not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.
Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and itâs too much.
The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.
But you donât know that. You donât hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.
He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. Youâre beaming. And he is blinded.
Youâre looking at him as though heâs something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.
And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.
Bucky freezes.
All the air leaves his lungs.
His heart stutters in his chest.
Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though youâve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.
Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.
But he doesnât stop you.
He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isnât him. Not the right one. That the man you think youâre kissing is a ghost wearing someone elseâs memories.
But he doesnât. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice heâs been carrying in his chest for too long.
Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream heâs buried too deep to name, one heâs never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesnât know if heâs breathing or if that became something irrelevant.
He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasnât changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.
His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didnât earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.
You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.
Your hands are on his face and youâre kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.
His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.
Your body is pressing forward as though itâs coming home.
His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesnât speak.
This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.
But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.
âGod, I missed you.â
And everything collapses.
The words strike like ice water down his spine. Itâs like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isnât real. This isnât real.
Youâre not his.
Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.
You think heâs your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.
And so he breaks the sky.
He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.
Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you donât know. Not when you think heâs someone else.
And even though itâs you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - itâs not the version of you heâs imagined this with.
And itâs not right.
The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion heâs never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didnât offer him.
Heâs just a stranger behind familiar eyes.
You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.
Your smile falters. Disappears.
His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.
And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.
And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.
Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe youâre the one who crossed a line.
And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.
You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though youâre suddenly unsure of yourself.
And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.
âBuck, I-â you start, your voice soft and hesitant. âIâm sorry. That was⊠I shouldnât have just- I didnât mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-â you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.
Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isnât his.
Itâs killing him.
That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.
You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.
His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasnât caught up yet.
Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.
He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that wonât stop bleeding.
âNo!â he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. âHey- no, no, you didnât- You werenât- Iâm not-â
But he doesnât know what to say.
He wants to tell you itâs okay, that you didnât do anything wrong, that itâs him, itâs all him, itâs always him, itâs never you.
He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you donât know youâve given him.
But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.
And all he does is stand there.
Breath shaking.
Heart breaking.
Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.
Because you didnât give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.
And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.
He feels sick.
And now you look like youâre folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.
âI just got excited,â you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. âI missed you and I didnât- I thought youâd- Never mind. Iâm sorry.â
Youâre already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didnât just break the air between you. As though you havenât just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.
And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.
Because itâs not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.
He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him arenât even a thing.
Because in his world, youâre his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. Youâve patched him up after missions. Youâve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. Youâve fallen asleep on his shoulder. Youâve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. Youâve told him - more than once - that youâre here for him.
But youâve never kissed him.
Youâve never touched him as though you owned the moment.
Youâve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.
And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.
And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.
Because he couldnât be the right Bucky.
He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.
âNo- no, hey,â he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. âItâs not your fault. Itâs not you. I just⊠I mean, I didnât think-â He knows heâs not making this better at all right now.
He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.
You search his face, your eyes too deep.
A trembling nod.
âOkay,â you say. âI just thought- I donât know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I shouldâve given you a moment.â
And there it is.
The softness.
The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one heâd go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.
He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That heâs not the man you think he is.
He almost does.
But his throat is choked up.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.
Because you think you did something wrong.
âNo,â he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. âYou donât need to apologize, sweetheart. I-â he hesitates, and you see it. âI missed you, too.â
He screwed up. Completely.
You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Buckyâs shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesnât belong to you anymore.
And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.
You look at him as though heâs a wound.
As though heâs something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though youâve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.
Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like youâve already seen him flinch once and youâre afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.
âBuck,â you say, slow, quiet. âAre you okay?â you ask and itâs not just a question. Itâs a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasnât let anyone touch. Youâre peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe youâve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.
But not this version of him.
Not here. Not now.
And it does something sharp to him.
Because heâs not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after heâs flinched from your kiss, after heâs stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.
He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where theyâve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He canât swallow them. He canât spit them out.
You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.
âDo you need anything?â you ask, as though youâve asked him this a thousand times before. âWater? Food? A shower? A-â you falter, â- a second to breathe?â
Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. Youâre hurting and youâre still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it wonât burn you if he doesnât take it.
He doesnât deserve this.
He doesnât deserve you.
Not when heâs not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.
His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.
âIâm fine,â he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.
Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.
âOh,â you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. âOkay.â
And there it is.
That thing he canât stand.
That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe youâd overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.
It crushes him.
Because he made you feel that way.
He made you feel as though youâre making it worse by caring.
He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.
He doesnât deserve your tenderness. He doesnât deserve your care. He doesnât deserve the way youâre moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. Youâre trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.
You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though itâs been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.
âIâm almost done here,â you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. âIf you do want something.â
You say it as though youâve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.
Bucky can feel his heart cave in.
Youâre still looking at him like that. As though heâs someone youâd give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isnât just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.
Even when he pulled away, even when he didnât say a damn word, you didnât get angry. You didnât accuse him of anything. You just worried. And youâre still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like theyâre nothing when they mean everything.
It makes him feel like a thief.
Because heâs not your Bucky. And he doesnât know what yours did to earn you, but he canât possibly live up to it.
His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.
You wouldnât have kissed him if you knew who he really was.
And still, he wants to say yes.
Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate youâd hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.
But itâs not.
Itâs yours.
And itâs his job to leave it untouched.
âIâm good,â he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.
You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.
He hates that look.
That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know heâs not telling the truth but donât want to press. Maybe youâd rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.
âOkay,â you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. âJust let me know if that changes.â
And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.
And Bucky just stands there.
Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.
And youâre cooking for a man who doesnât exist in your world.
And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.
He wishes this was real.
He wishes it were him.
He wishes it more than heâs wished for anything in his life since he lost it.
Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all heâs done is survive.
He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.
The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.
He watches you move like heâs memorizing. As though this is the last time heâll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world canât steal it. Where time canât take it. Where even regret has no reach.
Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didnât need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. Youâre pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. Youâre waiting. Giving him the space he didnât ask for and that he doesnât actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than heâs ever learned to give himself.
And you are so familiar. Youâre the same here. Even in this place thatâs slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesnât recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.
Even if your kindness isnât meant for him.
Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesnât even understand.
Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.
Bucky doesnât know how to be that man.
He wants to be.
But he doesnât know how.
Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends thatâs protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like itâs medicine and doesnât let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.
But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.
Because what would he even say?
Hey, I canât sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.
And what would you say to that?
Would you smile?
Would you run?
He doesnât know. Heâll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.
But this Bucky did.
And now this is the price.
Standing in the compoundâs kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things heâs never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.
He wonders if youâd greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.
If youâd light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.
If youâd wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.
He aches with the idea of it.
He wants this.
He wants you.
And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when youâre laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.
He wants this.
You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.
But he hasnât. He knows that.
Heâs just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you donât want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they donât actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesnât mean anything. Not to you.
Not like it means to him.
And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.
You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. Heâll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.
And this version of you belongs to someone.
Even if itâs just a different version of him, itâs not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything heâs done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesnât know how to be soft.
He doesnât know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesnât know how he got so lucky. Doesnât know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.
Heâs not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesnât. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.
Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think heâs not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.
Bucky thinks heâd kill to have what that punk has.
And he hates himself for that.
But he canât help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.
It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.
Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, youâd feel betrayed. Youâd feel wronged. Because this wasnât yours to give and it wasnât his to want and now youâre both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.
But youâre here. And heâs here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.
And he canât stop wanting.
He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.
He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.
He wants to be the one you light up for.
He wants it so bad it hurts.
But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.
And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.
And maybe thatâs why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.
He canât stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything heâs ever tried not to need.
He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.
Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.
âI should, uh,â he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. âIâve gotta take a shower.â
He bites his lip in frustration at himself.
Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.
âOkay,â you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you werenât able to overshadow. âYouâll tell me if you need anything?â
He nods too fast. Too tight. âYeah.â
And then he leaves.
Because if he doesnât, heâs going to do something worse than kiss you back.
Heâs going to beg.
And he knows he has already taken too much.
And he needs to turn away.
Because he has something to do.
Because this world isnât his. And he wasnât sent here to collect the storyline heâs too afraid to build on his own.
Heâs here for a mission.
He wasnât sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.
He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, itâs like heâs leaving something behind heâll never quite be able to touch again.
He almost turns around.
Almost says your name.
Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.
But he doesnât.
Because he doesnât get to ask.
So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.
****
âDid you run into anyone while you were there?â
Steveâs question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.
Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someoneâs fingers drumming absently on the table.
The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.
The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind thatâs been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.
Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.
And he knew this was coming.
Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.
Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.
The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.
The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tonyâs vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesnât matter.
They have it. He got it.
But thatâs not what anyone is talking about right now.
Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when youâre sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and youâre watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesnât sit right.
âBucky,â Strange says, voice low and still too loud. âI need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-â
âI know the damn rules,â Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.
He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didnât belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.
He canât stop thinking about you.
He doesnât want to talk about it.
He dreads talking about it.
âThere was someone,â he says, and the room quiets.
You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.
He can feel you watching him.
You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And itâs so difficult to just look at you because he swears thereâs a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.
âWho?â Strange asks.
Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.
âYou,â He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. âI saw her.â
You blink.
âYou ran into Y/n?â Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.
Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.
He canât look up anymore. Canât look at you.
He doesnât need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.
He pushes through.
âShe was there. She saw me.â His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.
Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. âThatâs not ideal.â
Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.
âDid you talk to her?â Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.
He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.
âYeah,â he sighs, quieter now. âWe, uh- we talked.â
Silence.
Strangeâs eyes are boring through him. âHow close did you get?â
Sam leans forward. Bucky doesnât look at him.
Youâre staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You havenât said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.
âI donât think that matters-â Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.
âIt matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-â
Bucky laughs, but itâs hollow, breathless. Rotten. âWhat the hell is an emotional tether?â
âItâs you,â Strange answers simply. âAnd her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.â
âJesus,â Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.
His palms wonât stop sweating.
He hasnât felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers theyâd need to break before he forgot his own name.
The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.
He doesnât want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.
So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.
âShe hugged me.â
A pause.
He doesnât look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steveâs shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesnât know where youâve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesnât think you even realize youâre doing it.
âShe hugged you?â Sam repeats, brow raised. âLike⊠greeted you?â
Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. âSomething like that.â He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesnât.
âWhat happened before that?â Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.
âI-â Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. âI walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I donât know the details.â
âAnd she hugged you,â Steve adds.
âYeah,â Bucky sighs.
He doesnât mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.
And youâre watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.
âAnd you just let her?â Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. âYou didnât say anything?â
âWhat do you think I should have said?â
âWell, I donât know, man-â
âDid I say anything? Or⊠she?â
Itâs your voice.
And it makes his stomach flip.
His eyes snap to you. But youâre not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.
He shifts in his chair. âYou- She asked why I hadnât told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.â His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.
âAnd?â Steve asks, too gently.
âShe kissed me,â Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe heâs trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.
There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.
Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.
And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.
âShe kissed you?â Natasha says, brows high.
Bucky exhales. Nods.
âWhat kind of kiss?â Sam blurts, leaning forward again. âA welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?â
Steve sighs exasperated.
âNo, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.â
His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. âIt was- not friendly.â
And the room really freezes. Stunned.
Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.
You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Buckyâs stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. Heâs not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And itâs all turned inward.
Samâs eyes narrow. âSo she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.â
Bucky doesnât answer. Heâs trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.
Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. Itâs not anger. He knows that heat, and this isnât it. Itâs just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though youâve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.
And he hates it.
Bruce clears his throat carefully. âThat implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.â
Tony makes a face. âSo weâre saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.â
âLooks like it,â Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.
âHoly shit,â Clint remarks unhelpfully.
They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesnât wreck something fundamental in Buckyâs ribcage.
And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. Itâs hot and awkward and strangely intimate.
Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone elseâs. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.
He says nothing.
He feels terrible.
Because a part of him still wants it.
Still aches with it.
Not the kiss. Not the accident.
The life.
That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that donât demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesnât have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.
He wants that version to exist so badly.
And it makes him feel like a monster.
Youâre sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.
You are you. You are right there. And you donât even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.
The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Buckyâs knuckles, the tightness of his body.
Thereâs a long pause.
Then Tony exhales. âWell, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.â
âTony,â Natasha warns lowly.
Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.
âDid you tell her anything?â His voice is edged. âDid she suspect something?â
Bucky doesnât answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.
âNo,â he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. âI didnât tell her anything.â
Strangeâs eyes narrow. âNothing?â
Bucky shakes his head. âNothing.â
Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. âHer behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if sheâs acting off.â
The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.
âShe was hurt,â he admits, and the words punch out of him. âI froze up. She thought sheâd done something wrong. But she didnât suspect anything.â
Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.
Youâre watching him as though youâre trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.
He swallows hard.
âI didnât tell her anything,â he says again, and itâs not for Strange this time. Itâs for you. âI didnât compromise anything. I was careful.â
âYou were compromised,â Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. âEmotionally. Whether you said something or not.â
Bucky doesnât argue.
Because yes. He was. He is. He doesnât even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though youâd been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.
He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.
He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If heâs back. If heâs home. If youâre in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If heâs grateful. If he deserves you.
And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.
Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe youâve been wanting to say something for a while now.
He doesnât hear the others anymore.
Theyâre voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window heâs no longer looking through.
Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.
And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.
Small. Thin. Stupid.
Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.
And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.
Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when itâs terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe youâll see something in him that youâll want to keep.
Maybe heâs not beyond that.
Maybe heâs not on the edge of the world after all.
His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.
Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.
Heâs a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and heâs remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but canât ever forget.
You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compoundâs side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe youâre going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.
But you donât.
You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldnât.
But Bucky doesnât stop hoping.
Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.
Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.
Heâs not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.
Heâs not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.
But maybe he could become that man.
Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.
Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, youâll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.
In this one.
In your voice, when you say his name.
In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.
In your eyes, when you donât look away.
And he knows he would do anything to earn that.
He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.
His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.
The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that havenât realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Samâs laughter breaking loose and grating on Buckyâs nerves.
The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. âAlternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?â
âSounds like heâs living the dream,â Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. âYou finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.â
Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He canât tell anymore. He canât hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.
âHell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,â Sam remarks, amused.
Clint chuckles. âAh, Barnes just grew a pair.â
âWell, thatâs kind of a big deal, isnât it?â Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.
âAlternate-universe Barnes has game,â Sam says delighted.
âLucky bastard,â Clint mutters under his breath.
They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they donât say louder than the ones they do. Itâs how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.
But Bucky isnât laughing. He isnât smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.
He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.
With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.
The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you canât seem to look at him anymore.
He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesnât go down.
Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.
But Bucky feels sick.
Because heâs seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.
God.
Heâs such a fool.
A lovesick idiot.
Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though heâs spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he canât have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.
But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.
When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesnât hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.
As though youâve made a decision.
You donât look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.
And you leave.
No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.
Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesnât respond to Steveâs âBuck?â Doesnât glance at Strange, whoâs looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.
All Bucky sees is the hallway.
You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.
Not like this.
He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.
Youâre so graceful even when youâre upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength thatâs always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows youâre hurting.
He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when heâs unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.
âHey,â he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. âWait- can you- can we talk?â
You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you canât help it.
You donât turn around at first. Youâre breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.
You turn.
And itâs worse than he thought.
Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and youâre biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didnât bother you.
He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.
But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.
You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.
âCan we talk?â He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.
You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. âIf you want.â
He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.
âI know it probably sounded bad in there,â he says, voice rough. âI didnât want it to come out like that. Like I was⊠caught up in something.â
âYou donât have to explain yourself, Bucky,â you say quickly, voice too neutral. âYou didnât know. I get it.â
But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasnât stopped thinking about it since.
âI didnât tell you- I mean, tell her,â he blurts, breathless. âI didnât tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didnât say anything.â
You blink at him. âOkay.â
âShe thought I was him. I- I didnât say anything because I- I wasnât supposed to engage and I wasnât planning to. I swear I wasnât planning to.â
You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.
Bucky steps closer. Heâs aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.
âYou kissed me,â he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, âbut I didnât- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.â
He stops. Swallows.
And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing thatâs lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.
He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.
But not if it means breaking you to find it.
Youâre watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He canât tell if itâs pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows itâs tearing him apart.
âI know it wasnât me she kissed,â he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesnât want to be spoken. âAnd I know it wasnât you, either. But it made me think that maybe-â He breaks off, exhales. âI know itâs not fair to say it, but-â
âThen donât.â Your voice is soft when it comes.
And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.
But your face isnât cruel. Itâs sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when theyâre holding too many emotions all at once.
âIâm not her,â you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. âIâm not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, thatâs not me.â
âI know,â he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesnât dare.
âNo, I donât think you do.â Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. âShe looks like me,â you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. Itâs not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. âShe sounds like me. But sheâs not. Sheâs not me, Buck.â
And then you turn as if youâre about to go. As though you canât stand another second of standing still in front of him.
âNo- donât,â he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. âPlease.â
You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.
He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when youâre trying really hard not to cry.
Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.
âWhat?â There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.
Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.
âShe hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like sheâd done it a thousand times before.â His voice is shaking, even if heâs trying not to let it.
âAnd I didnât stop her. Not for a second,â he goes on, quiet. âI shouldâve. I shouldâve pulled away sooner, but I-â
You pull your arm back, but he doesnât let go.
âWhy are you telling me this?â you question him, voice breaking in the middle. âWhat am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?â
There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.
He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.
âI didnât stop her,â he says lowly, slowly, âbecause, for a second, it felt like you.â
The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.
Your lips part, but no sound comes out.
âFor a second, it felt like something Iâll never have,â he confesses, barely audible now. âAnd I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasnât just a kiss to me.â
You donât speak. You donât move. Your chin trembles.
You look at him as though you want to say something but canât trust yourself to do it.
âIâve been trying to bury it,â he admits, voice strained. âThis thing in my chest. This want. Itâs been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe youâd never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasnât really you. And I- I didnât want to come back here and pretend I didnât feel it anymore.â
You donât move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you donât know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.
âIâm not asking for anything,â he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. âNot expecting anything. I just- I couldnât let you walk away thinking it didnât mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.â
Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.
Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if thatâs what you need.
His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.
He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl heâs tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.
The cold creeps in like a punishment.
He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesnât look away.
âIt meant something,â he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where heâs kept the truth folded up too long. âIt meant something because I love you.â
The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesnât shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. Itâs too much. Heâs too much. Too much and too late and heâs saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.
âI love you. You. Only you,â he repeats, and this time itâs quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.
He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he wonât ever be allowed to knock on again.
But you donât run.
You just stare at him.
Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, itâs like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.
You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.
And Bucky is not breathing.
Doesnât know how he will ever take in a breath again.
Then you move.
Fast. Sharp. Certain.
You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.
Itâs not gentle.
Itâs not careful.
You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now itâs surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.
It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.
He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.
Heâs still.
Because this is you.
You.
One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then heâs moving.
He melts.
His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.
And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything heâs been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.
He is kissing you back as though heâll never get the chance again.
His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question heâs been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like heâs been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.
Itâs not a careful kiss.
Itâs years of aching packed into the space between your lips. Itâs soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. Itâs a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.
The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though heâs living out every dream in which heâs imagined this before.
He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though heâs trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.
His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.
Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.
His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything heâs feeling.
He moans softly into you, doesnât even realize itâs happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.
When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.
His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.
When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.
He stares at you as though heâs seeing the sun rise for the first time.
âI love you too,â you breathe against him.
Bucky shivers.
It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.
Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.
And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if heâs lucky.
âI loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.â
haha hey so, did it ever crossed your mind that steve lost bucky twice, but bucky lost steve once and would never see him again. just yâknow, maybe it crossed ur mind like it did with mine bc it aches me to think about it. :,)
summary:Â you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunicationâjealousy, tension, the worksâand a training accident lands you in hospital...
notes:Â the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weatherâunless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldnât care less. Or, he shouldnât.Â
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldnât matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someoneâs wearing. It really shouldnât.Â
But it does. And not just with anyone. Noâthis has everything to do with you.Â
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldnât be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.Â
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isnât making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.Â
âGod damn,â Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto youâor more specifically, your ass. âDo you think she knows?âÂ
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, tryingâand failing, miserablyânot to sound annoyed that heâs checking you out. âKnow what?âÂ
âWhat a girl like that does to guys like us,â Jake replies easily.Â
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. âOh, she knows. She definitely knows.âÂ
âUgh,â Natasha groans. âCould you creeps stop looking at her like sheâs something to eat? Itâs gross. Sheâs our friend. Our teammate.âÂ
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.Â
âAnd sheâs barely younger than us, so donât say anything weird about her age.âÂ
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. âWasnât gonnaâŠâÂ
Thereâs a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way youâre leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.Â
âWait,â Mickey leans forward, squintingâvery unsubtlyâacross the bar. âIs that her date?âÂ
Natasha nods. âThink so. Looks like the guy she showed me.âÂ
Bobâs head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. âSheâs on a date?âÂ
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.Â
âAlright,â Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. âWho didnât tell Bob?âÂ
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. âDidnât you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.âÂ
âSaid she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,â Jake adds with a wicked grin. âYâknow, since weâre starting night rides next weekâfigured sheâd get used to staying up late.âÂ
âI was intentionally leaving that part out,â Nat says, glaring at Jake. âBut thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.âÂ
Jake tips his beer toward her. âAnytime.âÂ
Bobâs jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he canât relaxânot with that guyâs hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.Â
Which you donât. You donât belong to anyone.Â
At least, thatâs what Bob has to keep telling himself.Â
âEasy, Floyd,â Bradley mutters beside him. âYou keep staring like that, the poor guyâs gonna catch fire.âÂ
Bob doesnât respond. He canât. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Heâs too focused on your smileâhow it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.Â
It shouldnât matter. He shouldnât care whether or not youâre giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because itâs none of his business.Â
Who you date and what you doânone of it is his business. Youâre allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think theyâre clever.Â
It shouldnât matter.Â
But it does.Â
God, it fucking mattersâway more than it should.Â
Because for the first time in weeks, youâre not looking at him. Youâre looking at... that guy.Â
And even though he tells himselfârepeatedly, a thousand times a dayânot to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.Â
He lives for it.Â
âYou know,â Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, âthis wouldnât even be happening if youâd sack up andââÂ
âPayback,â Natasha warns. âDonât.âÂ
âWhat?â He raises both hands in mock innocence. âAll Iâm trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. Sheâs clearly into him. We all know it.âÂ
Bobâs eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reubenâs logic makes perfect sense. Bobâs not blindâhe sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.Â
But on the other hand? He just canât do it. Youâre youngâtoo young. And heâs... well, heâs not old, but heâs older. Itâs not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? Itâs enough to make him feel like aâÂ
âNothinâ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,â Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.Â
Bradley chuckles quietly. âJesus, Hangman. Youâre on fire tonight.âÂ
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.Â
The conversation shifts thenâto next weekâs night ops trainingâbut Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he canât stop watching you.Â
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughterâif he strains.Â
And it kills him. Because heâs not the one making you laugh tonight.Â
-Â
âWanna get out of here?â Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.Â
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warmâtoo warmâin the packed, overheated bar.Â
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting jobâhe's a carpenter, itâs not that interestingâyouâve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.Â
âItâs barely nine,â you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.Â
âYeah,â he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. âBut Iâve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.âÂ
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.Â
âLook,â you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, âthis has been fun, but Iâm just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... youâre not him. Iâm sorry. Itâs not your faultâthis oneâs on me. But, uh... good luck!âÂ
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare youâve worn for most of the eveningâor the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone elseâwasnât a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.Â
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to beâwhere your squad is.Â
Where Bob is.Â
Youâre just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Pennyâand the very large crowd waiting to be served.Â
âDamn it,â you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.Â
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinksâhis voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.Â
âSorry,â you say with a soft laugh. âI saw the crowd and couldnât just let you suffer.âÂ
She rolls her eyes but smiles. âIâd tell you to scram if you werenât so gorgeousâand a literal lifesaver.âÂ
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and heâs gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.Â
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.Â
Youâre so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you donât notice someone approachâsomeone you usually have a hard time not noticing.Â
âYou donât work here,â Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.Â
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. âI could,â you say, straightening. âMaybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.âÂ
He chuckles. âYouâre one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?âÂ
You shrug, leaning forward casuallyâknowing exactly what youâre doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didnât happen.Â
âHey, donât knock it. This job is harder than it looks.âÂ
âOh, I donât doubt that,â he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry sodaâwithout him even needing to ask.Â
You slide it over with a small smile. âWhat do you think? Iâm a pretty good bartender, huh?âÂ
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. âYeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.âÂ
You smirk. âWas that a compliment, Lieutenant?âÂ
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.Â
You shake your head. âDonât worry, itâs on the house.âÂ
âYou sure youâve got that kind of authority?â he teases.Â
âPenny said our drinks are free tonight,â you reply, smug. âPayment for being an excellent bartender.âÂ
âAnd for filling the tip jar faster than Iâve ever seen,â Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.Â
Your cheeks heat as Bobâs gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.Â
âWow,â he chuckles softly.Â
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. âPerks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.âÂ
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridgeâvery aware of the effectâand sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.Â
âJesus,â he mutters under his breath, âmore like consequences of a skirt that short.âÂ
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. âBob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?âÂ
He blinks fast. âNo.âÂ
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. âYou sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.âÂ
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. âDidnât say anything.âÂ
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. âBob, Iâm not a baby. And Iâm not some virginal schoolgirl, either. Youâre not going to hell just for flirting with me.â You pause, letting your gaze hold his. âHell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.âÂ
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyesâjust before he reins it back in.Â
âBut if the age gap is that big of a deal to youâwhich, for the record, is barely anythingâthen maybe stop looking at me like youâre picturing me naked.â Your voice drops. âMixed signals can really confuse a girl.âÂ
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bobâsâdaring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.Â
He clears his throat. âThanks for the drink.âÂ
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends areâacting like they havenât been watching, but you know better. Theyâre all too nosy for their own good.Â
You sigh heavily. âMen. Fucking impossible.âÂ
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. âFighter pilots, actually. Theyâre a very special breed of difficult.âÂ
âHey,â you giggle. âI am a fighter pilot.âÂ
She nods, smirking. âAnd thereâs not a doubt in my mind how difficult youâre makinâ life for that boy right now.âÂ
You press your lips together and give her a flat lookâbecause yeah⊠sheâs not wrong.Â
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be atâyou knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing heâd walk over and interrupt your lousy date?Â
-Â
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.Â
Whatever you want to call itâthe squad hates night ops.Â
Itâs dark, itâs eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shotâso youâre flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.Â
âYou know whatâs great about night ops?â Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. âNothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.âÂ
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.Â
âItâs night one, Fanboy,â Natasha mutters beside you. âWe still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?âÂ
Mickey shrugs. âYeah. Probably.âÂ
âDid Mav piss Cyclone off or something?â Reuben asks.Â
You shake your head. âNah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.âÂ
âOr he just hates us,â Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.Â
Natasha snorts. âDid you sleep at all today, Coyote?âÂ
âNope,â he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. âSomeone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.âÂ
Jake shoots him a look. âThey help me sleep. If youâve got a problem, buy some earplugs.âÂ
âDamn,â you mutter. âGlad youâre not my wingman tonight, Coyote.âÂ
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.Â
âSo, Vex,â Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, ânever did hear how that date went the other night.âÂ
You arch a brow. âOh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?âÂ
Jakeâs lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. âDates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?âÂ
âThatâs none of your business,â you reply, taking another sip of coffee.Â
Thereâs a brief pause, and his eyes narrowâseeing through you a little too easily. âThe date tanked?âÂ
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.Â
âYes,â you mutter. âIt sucked. He was boring. And no, I didnât get laid. So yes, Iâm in a less-than-favourable mood.âÂ
Jakeâs smirk turns wicked. âSweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.âÂ
Your brows shoot up. âThat so?âÂ
He nods.Â
You turn to Javy, whoâs about one breath away from snoring. âCoyote.âÂ
His eyes snap open. âHuh?âÂ
âWant to fuck me?âÂ
He startlesâeyes wide, mouth dropping open. âIâuh, what?âÂ
Laughter rumbles through the roomâeveryone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.Â
Well... almost everyone.Â
Bob isnât laughing. In fact, heâs not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phoneâeven though you can see the screen is blank.Â
Which means heâs definitely listening.Â
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightlyâa silent question about what youâre up toâbut she nods anyway, signalling that sheâll follow your lead no matter where it goes.Â
âDoes anyone know if Cycloneâs single?â you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.Â
Mickeyâs eyes go wide. âAdmiral Simpson?âÂ
You nod, as if itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âYeah. Heâs hot.âÂ
âAgreed,â Natasha saysâand from the way her mouth curves, sheâs not just playing along. She definitely agrees.Â
âIsnât he married?â Reuben asks.Â
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. âNah, I think they divorced.âÂ
âSo,â you say slowly, âwhat Iâm hearing is... heâs single?âÂ
Bradleyâs gaze flicks to Bobâjust for a secondâbefore settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. âBit old for you, isnât he, Vex?âÂ
You shrug with a smile. âNot at all. I like older men. More experience.âÂ
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seatâjust slightly, but itâs enough. Heâs not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.Â
âI swear heâs still married,â Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.Â
âYeah,â Reuben adds. âDidnât they do couples counselling?âÂ
âThey did,â Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. âDidnât stick. So yes, heâs single.â He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. âBut Iâm not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?âÂ
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. âHow generous of you, Captain. That would be great.âÂ
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. âAlright, aviators,â he says. âWelcome to night ops.âÂ
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why youâre all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. Youâre on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.Â
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. Thereâs a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. Itâs late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.Â
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. Youâve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.Â
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight checkâwalking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. Itâs second nature by now, but you donât cut corners. Especially not in the dark.Â
Once youâre satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. Itâs blurryâjust enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldnât be there.Â
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself whenâÂ
âDonât move.â The voice is low. Steady. Too close.Â
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps inâright into your space, like youâre the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinicalâroutineâbut it doesnât. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.Â
âI can fix it,â he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. âTilt your chin up.âÂ
You obeyâbarelyâand he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that youâre trying desperately not to show.Â
âDidn't this happen last time?â he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. âYou jam the strap too tight.âÂ
âI like it snug,â you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when heâs this close.Â
Bob hums, low in his throat. âOf course you do.âÂ
Your heart stutters.Â
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumbâthe pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.Â
âYou always get this close when youâre adjusting gear?â you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.Â
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldnât want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.Â
âThere,â he says, voice low but distant now. âBetter?âÂ
You blink behind the goggles. âYeah. Clear.âÂ
He lingers for half a second moreâjust enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something elseâthen turns and walks back toward the others without another word.Â
You donât move. You canât. Youâre just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like youâre about to hit Mach 1.Â
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close heâd just beenâhow you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if youâd tipped your chin up and stretched just a little⊠you mightâve been able to kiss him.Â
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.Â
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.Â
Thenâafter the green light from ground crewâyouâre in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.Â
âRemind me again why weâre stuck on the graveyard shift,â Jake says, voice dry. âBecause as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, Iâd really rather be in bed right now.âÂ
âYouâre not blind, Hangman,â Maverick replies. âWeâve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.âÂ
âOh, good,â Jake says sarcastically. âMy lifeâs in the hands of Phoenixâs baby on board.âÂ
You roll your eyes. âIâd rather have my life in Bobâs hands than yours, Bagman.âÂ
His chuckle crackles through the radio. âYeah, I know where youâd like to have Bobâs hands. And itâs not holding your life.âÂ
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hotâyour flight suit practically suffocating.Â
Jake scoffs. âOh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I canât say the obvious out loud?âÂ
Thereâs a pauseâa beat where you wonder if heâs finally pushed it too farâbut then Maverickâs laughter cuts through.Â
âYes. Because they do it quietly.âÂ
Your eyes go wide and you almostâalmostâfumble a right bank. âMav!âÂ
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. Youâre just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.Â
âVex, check your two,â Maverick says, voice sharp and low. âSomethingâs throwing heat.âÂ
âNegative,â Bob cuts in. âLet me scan it first.âÂ
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?Â
âConfirming IR spike,â Bob says after a beat. âSomethingâs cooking down there, but it doesnât match any known signature.âÂ
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. âIâll break off, check it out.âÂ
âWait. Donât.â Bobâs voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.Â
âWhy?â you snap, anger prickling your chest.Â
âI... I donât like it,â he says. âItâs not worth the risk.âÂ
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.Â
âIâm going to check it out, Mav,â you say, voice tight. âHangman, got my six?âÂ
âCopy,â Jake replies.Â
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulseâa dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. Itâs creeping northâmethodical.Â
You drop lower when you spot flashing lightsâfire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isnât an accident. Itâs a controlled burn.Â
âMav, why is there a fire in a training zone?â you ask. âShouldnât that be logged?âÂ
âItâs just brush management?â Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.Â
âAffirmative,â Jake replies before you can.Â
âCopy. Iâll flag it with air trafficâlooks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.âÂ
You and Jake return to formation without issue.Â
âLucky it wasnât Bigfoot, huh Bob?â Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. âMightâve leapt right onto Vexâs jet and dragged her into the woods.âÂ
Thereâs no response, just the soft static of the open channel.Â
Then Natasha mutters, âDonât be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.âÂ
âWell, Iâm sure she appreciates the concern,â Jake says. âBut sheâs not made of glass.â He waits for a retortâgets noneâand chuckles. âAnd if sheâd died out there, I wouldâve avenged her. Dramatically.âÂ
âHangman,â Maverick sighs. âThatâs enough. Bobâs got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe donât piss him off.âÂ
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jetânothing but a shadow at your five oâclock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jakeâs jabs.Â
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautiousâor protectiveâbut this is your job. He doesnât get to tell you what you can and canât do, especially when itâs a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldnât let him boss you aroundâwell, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like youâre incapable? Thatâs what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.Â
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quietâeven Jake gives up his teasingâand youâre still pissed by the time youâre back on the ground.Â
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.Â
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. Youâre not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you donât bother asking. Youâre still too busy being pissed.Â
In fact, youâre so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you donât notice someone step up beside you.Â
âIâm sorry,â Bob says, voice soft. âAbout what happened up there.âÂ
You jumpâjust slightlyâthen twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet awayâhelmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.Â
âI didnât mean to undermine you.âÂ
âSure felt like it,â you mutter.Â
âI know.â His eyes finally lift to meet yoursâmidnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. âThatâs why Iâm apologising.âÂ
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. âLook, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You donât get to override that just because your gut didnât like it.âÂ
âI wasnât thinking about you as a teammate back there,â he says quietly. âI was thinkingââÂ
âThat Iâm a little kid?â you snap, spinning to face him again. âBecause whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I donât need someone second-guessing me just because theyâre a little older. Especially when I know what Iâm capable of.âÂ
His frown deepens. âNo, itâitâs not that at all. I justâI didnât see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...â He drags a hand through his hair. âI couldnât breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?âÂ
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.Â
âIf anything had gone wrong, it wouldâve been my fault,â he says, softer now. âIâm the WSO. I shouldâve seen it first.âÂ
âBob,â you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. âIf I ever end up in a bad spot, thatâs on me. I trust you to have my back, alwaysâbut itâs my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew youâd be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.âÂ
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like heâs trying to memorise every inch.Â
Then he moves closerâclose enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yoursâand reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suitâs hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.Â
âYouâre not just my teammate,â he murmurs. âDonât you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. IââÂ
âI donât believe it,â a familiar voice cuts through the room. âThe famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? Whatâd you do, lose another bet?âÂ
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.Â
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest youâve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. Itâs Trevorâan old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. Youâve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesnât leave you much time for a social life.Â
âDamn,â you say with a playful smile, âwho let you in the building?âÂ
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. âVex,â he says, voice full of mock disbelief. âYouâre still here? I figured Maverick wouldâve canned your reckless ass by now.âÂ
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. âSo youâre a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.âÂ
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. âGuys, this is Trevorâor GrinderâIâve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.âÂ
Trevor snorts. âTechnically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That youâre a living, breathing vexation whoâs going to be the sole reason for his retirement?âÂ
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.Â
You narrow your eyes at him. âWant to tell my squad how you got yours?âÂ
He tips his head, brows raised. âMaybe I should get to know them first.âÂ
Then his eyes flick toward Jakeâgrinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. Thatâs the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake âHangmanâ Seresin would be here. The very pilot heâs had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. Heâs been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told himârepeatedlyâthat youâre not sure Jake swings that way. He wasnât deterred though; he said heâs happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.Â
âSo, Grinder,â Natasha says, âwhat do you do?âÂ
Trevorâs face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.Â
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. âSorry about him. Heâs... a lot. But you were saying...?âÂ
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. âNothing. Itâs fine.âÂ
You frown. âIt didnât sound like nothing.â You take a slow step forward. âDidnât feel like... nothing.âÂ
âItâs okay,â he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. âWe can talk later. Really, itâs fine.âÂ
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing itâs no use nowâthose walls are well and truly back in place.Â
âOkay,â you say, nodding once. âLater.âÂ
-Â
Unfortunately, later never comes.Â
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but youâre both so exhausted after the first night that you canât find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.Â
The next night, youâre on opposite hops, which means you donât see him until the debrief in the early morningâwhen, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.Â
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when youâre both finally in the ready room and the moment couldnât be more perfectâTrevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.Â
When you finally leave base on Friday morningâglaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like itâs their fault youâre dead insideâyou make a promise to yourself. Youâre going to talk to him this weekend. It doesnât matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. Youâre going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all weekâand honestly, itâs starting to redecorate.Â
âYou sure you donât mind?â Trevor asks, even though heâs already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.Â
You roll your eyes. âWhy would I mind?âÂ
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. âI donât know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.â He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. âYou know, the one with the glasses. Iâve seen the way you look at him andâoofâdoes the man know what heâs in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same butâactually, come to think of it⊠why havenât you screwed his brains out yet?âÂ
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.Â
âFirst of all, heâs not littleâyouâre just freakishly tallâand secondlyâŠâ You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. âHeâs too good.âÂ
Trevor frowns. âToo good? Like⊠too good for you orâ?âÂ
âThat. And heâs respectful,â you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. âHeâs got this thing about our age gap. Itâs not a big one, but itâs⊠there, I guess. Maybe itâs also because weâre in the same squad.âÂ
He shrugs. âJust never took you for a quitter.âÂ
You rear back, incredulous. âA quitter?âÂ
âYeah,â he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. âI mean, if I was in love with a guyâwhich, youâre clearly in love with himâI wouldnât stop until he had a restraining order against me.âÂ
You snort. âYeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, soââÂ
He lets out an exasperated sigh. âMy God, Vex. Donât take everything so literally. The manâs in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.âÂ
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed lookâbrows raisedâbefore settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.Â
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe heâs right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.Â
âFine,â you say, standing up with purpose. âIâm going out tonight, by the way.âÂ
âGood,â he replies, not even glancing your way. âJust keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.âÂ
âTrev!âÂ
He chuckles. âWhat? Iâm just saying.âÂ
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.Â
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.Â
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other peopleâand the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.Â
But when Bob mentioned that heâs actually pretty good at bowling⊠well, how could you protest?Â
Plus, itâs still short skirt weatherâBobâs favourite, as youâve come to noticeâand bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk youâre more than willing to take.Â
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesnât stand a chance.Â
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress youâre wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesnât say a word.Â
The drive to the bowling alley isnât far, and soon youâre walking inside with Mickey and Reubenâwho arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. Theyâve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyoneâs callsigns into the limited-character name slot.Â
âCanât you just be âRosterâ?â he asks Bradley.Â
Bradley frowns. âCanât I just be Brad?âÂ
âUgh,â Natasha groans. âNo way. Youâre not a Brad. Just put Roo.âÂ
Jakeâs face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. âGood one, Phoenix. Thanks.âÂ
âWhat am I?â she asks.Â
âPhone,â Javy replies, deadpan.Â
Natasha blinks. âPhone? As in P-H-O-N-E?âÂ
âYep,â Bradley chuckles.Â
âWhat the fuck, Bagman?â She steps up to the little tablet where heâs typing the names. âMove. Youâre an idiot.âÂ
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. âWant to get shoes?âÂ
They both nod, and you head toward the main counterâthough not without catching the way Bobâs eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.Â
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.Â
When youâre done, you stand up and put one foot out. âThese shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.âÂ
âYou know what,â Jake says with a smirk, âI think youâre just gorgeous enough to make âem work. What do you think, Bobby?âÂ
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy whoâs basically eye-levelâthanks to these ridiculously low seatsâwith your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wideâand so blatantly glued to your short, short skirtâthat you can barely keep from laughing.Â
âBob?â you ask, voice full of faux innocence.Â
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. âY-Yeah. Itâs a nice dress.âÂ
Thereâs a beatâeveryone turns to Bobâand then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jakeâs face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradleyâs shoulder to keep from falling over.Â
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. âHe wasnâtâwe werenât talking about the dress⊠were we?âÂ
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way heâs looking at youâwide-eyed, breathless, full of heatâyou feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.Â
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until thereâs barely an inch of air between youâyour voice a soft whisper just for him.Â
âDonât worry, Bobby,â you murmur. âI wore this dress just for you.âÂ
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.Â
You resist the urge to look backâeven with all the teasing going on behind youâas you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.Â
âWe ready?â Natasha asks, finally tapping âfinishâ on the tablet.Â
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.Â
âRooster,â she calls, âyouâre up.âÂ
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. Thatâs all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignitesâlike gasoline on an open flame.Â
âJesus, Rooster,â Reuben says. âMy nephew could bowl better than that blindfoldedâand heâs six, man.âÂ
âYeah, dude,â Mickey laughs, âyou sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?âÂ
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.Â
âAlright, losers,â Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. âTime to watch how a real man bowls.âÂ
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.Â
âWhat can I say?â he grins as he drops back into his seat. âIâm just too good.âÂ
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a âsignature move that never failsâ. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.Â
Natasha follows, andâwith terrifying precisionâmanages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like itâs nothing.Â
âAlright, Baby,â Jake says, clapping a hand on Bobâs shoulder. âYou ready to show us what you got?âÂ
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jakeâs hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. Youâre not sure if itâs intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.Â
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already goneâswept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.Â
âFuck,â Reuben mutters. âBob can bowl.âÂ
âOh, damn,â Mickey giggles. âGoing after that is gonna suck.âÂ
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. âThanks, Mick.âÂ
Bob doesnât sit down right awayâhe steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.Â
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. âThanks.âÂ
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.Â
âNeed a little guidance, Vex?â Jake drawls, voice low and smug. âI give excellent hands-on instruction.âÂ
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. âI think Iâd rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.âÂ
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, andâthunkârelease it way too late. Youâre honestly surprised it doesnât leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.Â
âDamn,â you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. âIâm going to score lower than Rooster.âÂ
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like heâs about to say somethingâoffer to help maybeâbut then he just... doesnât.Â
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the laneâthis time with a bit more intention.Â
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ballâs grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you donât have to look to know Bobâs watching. You can feel itâthe weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.Â
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straightâmiraculouslyâand clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.Â
When you turn, Bobâs gaze jerks up like heâs been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wreckedâlike someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.Â
Jake whistles low. âPretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.âÂ
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. âOh, no. I think Bob is broken.âÂ
Mickey snorts. âSomebody reboot him.âÂ
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenantâwho is now very interested in the floor. Â
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.Â
âYou know,â Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, âif Iâd known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I wouldâve worn my shortest skirt.âÂ
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. âPlease. You would've blinded everyoneâand thatâs probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.âÂ
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.Â
You stay quietly pressed to Bobâs side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You donât care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.Â
And Bob doesnât seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yoursâhis warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.Â
Youâre seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that itâs Bobâs turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.Â
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.Â
Youâve always had a thing for handsâespecially Bobâs. Theyâre just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. Youâve imagined those hands everywhereâghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.Â
Youâve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.Â
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?Â
Well, fuck. Thereâs nothing PG about this gameânot when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.Â
âHey,â Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. âItâs your turn, dude.âÂ
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isnât as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.Â
âDo youâuh, do you want some help?â he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.Â
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. âSure.âÂ
âHey!â Jake calls from behind you. âI offered first.âÂ
Reuben snorts. âYeah, but she doesnât want to bone you, does she?âÂ
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.Â
âOkay, coach,â you say with a small smirk. âTell me what to do.âÂ
âAlright, here,â he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.Â
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like heâs memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.Â
âFingers like this,â he murmurs. âYou want a solid grip. Not too tight.âÂ
Your heart stutters. His hands are bigâwarm and rough in the best wayâand they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.Â
âNow,â he says, gently guiding your arm, âswing back like thisâsmooth, steadyâŠâÂ
You try to follow, but itâs hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breathâjust barely audible, like heâs suffering.Â
âThatâs⊠yeah. Perfect.âÂ
He freezes.Â
You donât move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.Â
And then you feel it.Â
Oh.Â
Oh.Â
You shift your hipsâjust a fractionâand he instantly jerks back like heâs been electrocuted.Â
âShitâuh, yeah, youâyou got it. Youâll do great,â he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. âIâuhâIâve got toâbathroom. Real quick.âÂ
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.Â
âWas it something I said?â you call after him sweetly.Â
Jake cackles from the bench. âNah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.âÂ
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. âOh no,â she says with a grin. âI think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.âÂ
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spareâdespite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.Â
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.Â
âGod, youâre so gone,â Natasha says with a soft laugh.Â
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.Â
âItâs a shame heâs too stupid to do anything about it,â Jake mutters.Â
Natasha shoots him a look. âHeâs not stupid. Heâs cautious.âÂ
Reuben chuckles. âYeah, well, if tonightâs anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.âÂ
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. âNot tonight, unfortunately.âÂ
They all look at you, confused.Â
âTrevorâs staying at my place,â you explain simply.Â
The group gaspsâeveryone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.Â
You frown. âWhat?âÂ
âI thoughtââ Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. âI thought you only liked Bob.âÂ
You and Natashaâthe only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparentlyâexchange a look.Â
âSheâs not into Trevor,â Nat says dryly. âAnd heâs definitely not into her.âÂ
âYeah,â you add. âHeâs gay.âÂ
âLike, very gay,â Natasha says. âLike, into Hangman gay.âÂ
Jakeâs head snaps toward her. âExcuse me?âÂ
âOhhh,â Mickey sighs. âThat makes so much sense.âÂ
Reuben laughs. âIs that why heâs been stopping by every couple nights?âÂ
You laugh too, nodding. âYeah. Heâs been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and heâs been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.âÂ
âExcuse me,â Jake repeats. âWhat exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?âÂ
The whole group breaks out laughingâBradley included as he returns from taking his turn.Â
âYouâre just... pretty,â Javy says with a shrug.Â
âSo?â Jake throws up his hands. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?âÂ
âItâs a compliment, dude,â Reuben says. âJust take it.âÂ
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.Â
âSo, why is he staying at your place?â Mickey asks.Â
âYeah,â Bradley adds, âand why canât you bring someone home? Itâs your place.âÂ
âHis plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,â you explain, before looking at Bradley. âAnd I could bring someone home, but Iâm pretty sure heâd make it weird. Plus, Iâm not exactly a fan of⊠being quiet.âÂ
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. âGod, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?âÂ
You giggle and pat his knee. âOh, Hangman. Youâre delusional if you think Floyd isnât a freak too.âÂ
âUgh,â Natasha groans. âWhy does this feel like youâre talking about my brother?âÂ
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jakeâs eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.Â
âWhatâd I miss?â Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.Â
Everyone falls silent.Â
âHangmanâs stalling,â Natasha says coolly, âbecause he realised heâs going to lose.âÂ
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. âYouâre going down, Trace. This next oneâs a strike.âÂ
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.Â
Thankfully, Bob doesnât question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distanceâat least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesnât look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesnât offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the nightâ though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.Â
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isnât even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, youâre all starting to feel a little loopy.Â
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, heâs still insideâwaiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.Â
âHey, superstar,â you say as you approach. âHowâs it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?âÂ
He glances up with a soft smile. âOne of the best,â he corrects. âI only won the first game.âÂ
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. âWas it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?âÂ
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like heâs just been caught in a lie. âIâuh, no, I justââÂ
You roll your eyes playfully. âI was joking, Bob. Calm down.âÂ
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.Â
You nod toward the doors. âCome on. Letâs get out of here before the others get suspicious.âÂ
He nods and gestures for you to lead the wayâso you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.Â
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.Â
âI was wondering,â you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. âDid youâum,â you clear your throat, âwant to hang out tomorrow night?âÂ
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you canât quite place.Â
âJust us,â you clarify, voice dropping. âKind of like⊠a date?âÂ
Thereâs a pause. An awkward pause.Â
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.Â
âUm,â he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. âIâI canât tomorrow. Iâve gotâI mean, I havenât done laundry like⊠all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.âÂ
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.Â
âIâm sorry,â he mutters, still staring at the floor.Â
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. âNo problem,â you say, keeping your voice even. âHope you have fun doing laundry.âÂ
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natashaâs car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.Â
- Bob -Â
âWhatâd you do?â Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.Â
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. âNothing,â he mutters.Â
âYeah?â She arches a brow. âSo, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?âÂ
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. âProbably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I donât really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so pleaseâjust drop it.âÂ
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. âI really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. Iâm a little disappointed.âÂ
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squadâwho are all watching with wide eyesâbefore walking to her car and climbing into the driverâs seat.Â
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesnât let him see you clearly inside the car.Â
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shiftâthe boysâ eyes snap toward him.Â
âSo,â Jake says, brows raised, âwhat did you do?âÂ
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. âShe asked me out,â he says quietly, âand I told her no⊠because I have laundry to do.âÂ
Thereâs a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked upâbad.Â
âYou what?â Reuben asks, leaning in.Â
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. âHoly shit, Floyd. That was dumb.âÂ
âI know,â Bob huffs.Â
Heâs not sure why he couldnât tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anywayâso why bother? Or maybe itâs because heâs a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didnât feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.Â
âWhy the hell wouldnât you say yes?â Jake frowns. âSheâs so into youâitâs almost a joke. And sheâs gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?âÂ
Bobâs eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. âYouâre the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like⊠once a week.âÂ
Jake rolls his eyes. âBecause itâs fun to get a rise out of you. I donât actually mean it.âÂ
âYeah, dude,â Javy adds. âIf we thought it was wrong, weâd say something. We make fun of you both because itâs obvious youâre obsessed with each other.âÂ
âHonestly,â Mickey pipes up, âI thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.âÂ
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. âFor fuckâs sake.âÂ
âOh, wow,â Reuben mutters. âBob just swore.âÂ
Bradley drops a hand on Bobâs shoulder. âMaybe you should call her. OrâI donât knowâgo see her tomorrow. Apologise. You donât have to date her, but if thatâs how you feel, you need to be clear. Donât lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.âÂ
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. âYeah. I know.âÂ
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. âGood luck, dude.âÂ
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.Â
He barely sleeps that night.Â
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said noâthe way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.Â
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himselfâbecause he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the sameâhe made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.Â
Before the sun even rises, heâs out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a runâtrying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows heâll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesnât matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If youâll even let him.Â
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: âHey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?âÂ
An hour passes. Nothing.Â
And he knows youâre ignoring himâbecause youâve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. Youâre awake. Youâre just not answering him. And honestly, he doesnât blame you.Â
By ten oâclock, he canât stand it anymore.Â
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But itâs not just guilt. Itâs not just the regret of hurting a friendâs feelings.Â
Itâs worseâbecause itâs you.Â
Youâre his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as heâs tried not to need you⊠he does. Desperately.Â
The age gap isnât the real problemâit never was. Maybe itâs just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesnât think he deserves you. But thatâs not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things canât go back to how they wereâhe has to try.Â
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that heâs in love with you.Â
And God, he hopes he can say it out loudâbecause it might be the only thing that can save him now.Â
Before Bob even knows exactly how heâs going to say everything thatâs been spinning through his head, heâs already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.Â
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you woreâhow they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down⊠and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.Â
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasnât stopped him fromârepeatedlyâgetting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though heâs pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to himâŠÂ
He shakes his head and forces his feet to moveâinto the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.Â
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like itâs trying to escape. Heâs felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.Â
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him outâbut⊠itâs not you.Â
âBob,â Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. âWhat a surprise to see you here.âÂ
His hairâs a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up⊠or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why heâs shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers thatâat least in Bobâs opinionâarenât leaving much to the imagination.Â
âIâuh, Trevor?âÂ
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. âThe one and only. You good, man? You look like youâve seen a ghost.âÂ
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what heâs seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.Â
He clears his throat. âY-Yeah, Iâm good. I justâum, I was going to ask Vex ifââÂ
âWho is it?â you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.Â
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. âFloyd!âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowedâdefinitely not surprised. Just⊠pissed.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.Â
Bob stares, wide-eyed. Youâre not shocked. Youâre not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?Â
âIâuh, wellââ He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. âNothing. Itâs fine. Justâforget it. You two have fun.âÂ
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevorâs too, but he doesnât care. He doesnât want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.Â
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But stillâwhy couldnât you see it from his point of view? Why couldnât you understand he was just⊠hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?Â
But no. You couldnât be patient. You couldnât wait.Â
Because maybe youâre not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.Â
God, he shouldâve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waitingâwhen you could have just about any man you wanted?Â
- You -Â
âWhat was that about?â Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.Â
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. âDonât know,â you mutter. âMaybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.âÂ
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. âWhat?âÂ
âYou heard me.âÂ
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. âYeah, but I didnât understand you. Whatâs with the attitude?âÂ
You sigh, rolling your eyes. âI asked him out last night.âÂ
Trevor gaspsâloudly.Â
âBut he said no.âÂ
He rears back, brows drawn. âWhat? Why?âÂ
âBecause he has laundry to do.âÂ
Trevorâs eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. âNo.âÂ
âYup,â you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. âThatâs what the attitude is for.âÂ
He nods slowly, still staring. âRight⊠but then why did he show up here?âÂ
You shrug. âMaybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.âÂ
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.Â
You nudge his knee with your foot. âWhatâs that look for?âÂ
âNothing,â he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.Â
âTrevorâŠâÂ
He exhales a short breath. âI meanâdo you think he thought⊠you and IâŠ? You know?â He gestures vaguely between the two of you. âHe knows Iâm gay, right?âÂ
You snort. âYes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that youâre gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.âÂ
He nods. âGood. âCause if he didnât, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee mightâve looked real bad.âÂ
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.Â
You let yourself feel itâlet your chest ache with itâand hope itâs enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.Â
But deep down, you know the truth.Â
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.Â
And youâre starting to fear that maybeâjust maybeâyouâve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.Â
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like itâs your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to âcheer you up.â Normally, youâd be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, youâre tired and heartbroken.Â
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. youâre passed out on the lounge⊠and promptly woken at four by Trevorâs snoring. Thatâs when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a runâhoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.Â
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. Itâs nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether youâre going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But youâd be lying if you said you didnât miss running into your friends all the timeârunning into Bob.Â
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know theyâd all know by nowâthat you asked Bob out and he shut you down.Â
Honestly, you wouldnât even be surprised if Maverick knew.Â
âHey,â Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.Â
You give her a tight smile.Â
âFeeling any better?âÂ
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.Â
Bob is already in his usual seatâbecause of course he isâbut he doesnât look up when you walk in. He doesnât give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.Â
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.Â
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happenedâyou told herâbut you havenât yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.Â
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says youâll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.Â
It isnât long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.Â
Youâre not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full weekâs reprieve.Â
âAlright,â Maverick says, shutting his notebook. âPhoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vexâyouâre on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.âÂ
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.Â
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.Â
Then the cart ride is silentâtension so thick that even Maverick doesnât bother breaking it.Â
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motionsâchatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until itâs your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.Â
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.Â
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonlessâthe darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twiceâthree timesâand remind yourself itâs just another hop. Youâve done this a thousand times before.Â
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.Â
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. Youâd fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. Itâs quieter than usual, and youâre not sure if thatâs because no one has anything to sayâor because the night feels eerily still.Â
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observingâwatching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.Â
Youâve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe itâs just you, flying like youâve got something to proveâto yourself, or to someone else. You havenât decided yet.Â
Then Bobâs voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. âVex, youâre a little wide on your spacing.âÂ
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. âCopy.âÂ
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres beginâtight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.Â
Itâs not an easy run, but youâve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and youâre watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than whatâs usually comfortable. Youâd be flying almost perfectlyâif it werenât for Bobâs corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. Itâs making your skin crawl and your pulse race.Â
You know youâre better than this. Youâve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floydâs maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is whatâs making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.Â
âVex, youâve got a ridge coming up,â Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. âDrop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.âÂ
You hesitate. Your altimeter says youâre good, and your gut says youâre fine. You thinkâno, you knowâyou can hold it.Â
âVexââ he tries again.Â
âIâve got it,â you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.Â
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you donât catch itâbecause suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.Â
Your heart lurches.Â
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.Â
âPull up! Pull up!â Bobâs voice slices through the comms. âVex, youâre too low!âÂ
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climbâbut itâs too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.Â
âVex, listen to meâpull up!â His voice cracks. âYouâre going to hitââÂ
âEject!â Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. âVex, eject now!âÂ
âI can save it,â you mutter, voice strained. âI canâ"Â
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glassâa dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.Â
Youâre not going to make it.Â
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.Â
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.Â
Thenâfreefall.Â
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.Â
But youâre too low. Far too low.Â
You donât even have time to brace.Â
You hit the ground hardâa bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.Â
White-hot pain detonates through you.Â
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You canât even scream.Â
And then⊠everything goes still.Â
Muted.Â
Quiet.Â
Like the world took a breathâand left you behind.Â
-Â
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and thereâs pain everywhere. Itâs not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but itâs thereâdull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.Â
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. Youâre not that out of it.Â
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you knowâyouâre in a hospital.Â
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.Â
You tryâand failâto sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.Â
âOw,â you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.Â
Thereâs a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.Â
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concernârimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.Â
âYouâre awake,â he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.Â
âBob,â you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.Â
He doesnât say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like heâs trying to memorise it. Or maybeâtrying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours⊠then lets go.Â
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.Â
You frown, but before you can speakâif you even could with how dry your mouth isâa nurse rushes in.Â
âOh, youâre awake!â she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. âHow are you feeling?âÂ
You clear your throat. âThirsty.âÂ
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.Â
âThanks,â you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.Â
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. âHe didnât leave your side. Not for a second.âÂ
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight aheadânot at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.Â
Heâs still in his flight suit, which means heâs been with you since the second search and rescue found you.Â
âIâll give you two a minute,â the nurse says. âIâm just going to grab the doctor, alright?âÂ
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.Â
Bobâs eyes flick to you. âAre you in pain?âÂ
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. âYeah,â you wince. âA little. But itâs bearable.âÂ
He doesnât move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on youâsharp and unrelenting.Â
âYou have a hairline fracture in your femur,â he says.Â
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.Â
âYouâre lucky it wasnât a full break,â he adds. âYouâd have been grounded for at least six monthsâor longer. Probably wouldâve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.âÂ
You swallow hard. Heâs angryâreally angry. The way heâs looking at you, itâs like heâs torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.Â
âYou didnât listen,â he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. âYou were supposed to listen to me, and you didnât. IâI told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.âÂ
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. âThis isnât yourââÂ
âNo,â he snaps. âItâs not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.âÂ
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. âBob, IââÂ
âDonât,â he says, voice low and raw. âDonât say my name like that. Donât look at me like Iâm the only person you want to see right now.â He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. âIâve been here for two days. I havenât slept. I havenât eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, youâyouââÂ
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. âLieutenants,â she greets briskly. âSorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.âÂ
Bob straightens immediately. âThank you, Doctor. Iâll be leaving now.âÂ
Her brows knit together, but she doesnât stop him as he turns and walks out.Â
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like itâs taking everything heâs got to walk away and not look back.Â
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You canât driveâof courseâso they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.Â
Once youâre home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But itâs not exactly restful. Your brain wonât shut offâwonât stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasnât responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.Â
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when youâre back on your feet, youâre not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isnât just a group of friendsâtheyâre your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things youâd like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.Â
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.Â
When you wake again, itâs dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.Â
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say theyâve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.Â
But stillânothing. You call. He doesnât answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.Â
Great. Another win.Â
Two whole days pass, and still no word.Â
Youâre supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but youâre going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you havenât spoken to anyone but Trevorâonce, over the phoneâin forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you donât.Â
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks itâs okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.Â
At this point, you donât even care if he professes his undying love for youâthough youâd strongly prefer itâyou just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him youâre allowed to have... then youâll take it.Â
Even if it kills you.Â
By the third day⊠or nightâyouâre not even sure anymoreâyou decide to take matters into your own hands.Â
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.Â
You know where Bob livesâin the least creepy way possibleâbecause you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.Â
Itâs barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairsâbecause of course the elevator requires a swipe cardâto his apartment.Â
You know itâs ridiculous. You couldâve just waited in the lobby. But you donât want to give him the chance to run awayâagain, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, heâd have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card⊠and maybe you could âaccidentallyâ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then heâd be stuck with you.Â
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and youâre already in full-blown serial killer mode.Â
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.Â
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say theyâve been dismissedâbecause of course you filled her in on your plan.Â
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.Â
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.Â
Your breathing picks up as the minutes passâfaster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But thenâding.Â
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.Â
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldnât feel like a religious experienceâbut it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, heâs a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.Â
âHey,â you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.Â
He jumps anywayâjust a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.Â
âWhat are you doing here?âÂ
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. âGood to see you too,â you say dryly. âIâve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My legâs killing me after a thousand stairs. But heyâyou look... tired. Howâs the squad?âÂ
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.Â
âI am tired,â he says. âThe squadâs fine. Also tired.âÂ
You nod. âCool. So... everyoneâs tired.âÂ
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.Â
âThat all you came to talk about?â he asks.Â
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. âWhat do you think?âÂ
He sighs. âI think Iâm not going straight to bed anymore.âÂ
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for youâwide as possible.Â
âThat would be correct,â you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.Â
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.Â
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches arenât exactly gracefulâand you havenât had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. Youâre just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.Â
âHere,â he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.Â
Heâs so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scentâclean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy thatâs so unmistakably him.Â
âThanks,â you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.Â
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.Â
âLet me just get changed,â he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.Â
Heâs gone less than a minute. When he returns, heâs wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin itâs almost translucent.Â
âWater?â he asks, detouring into the kitchen.Â
You shake your head. âIâm goodâbut thanks.âÂ
Heâs stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.Â
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise loungeâabout as far from you as possible.Â
âOkay,â he says. âYou want to talk?âÂ
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.Â
âLook,â you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. âI know why youâre mad about the accidentâI get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldnât have ignored you, and I shouldnât have let personal shit bleed into work. Iâm sorry.âÂ
You glance up, but he doesnât reactâdoesnât move. He just blinks.Â
Still, you press on. âIf I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to youâor the squadâIâd do it. But weâre here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. Iâm just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.âÂ
Heâs still silent, but you can see it nowâhis eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.Â
âWhat I donât get,â you say, your voice tightening, âis why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off withoutââÂ
âThatâs irrelevant,â he cuts in, voice lowâlethal.Â
You frown. âWhat do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.âÂ
His eyes widen. âOh, so itâs my fault now? That what youâre saying?âÂ
âNo,â you snap. âOf course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. Itâs mine. Itâs all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. Iâm not blaming you. I just want to understand.âÂ
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.Â
âYou want to know why I said no when you asked me out?âÂ
You shake your head. âI know why you said no.âÂ
His brow creases. âYou do?âÂ
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. âBecause you donât like me. Thatâs it. And I need to accept that. I shouldnât have pushed it, or forced myself on you, andââÂ
He scoffsâsharp and dryâcutting you off. âYouâre joking, right?âÂ
You look up, blinking slowly. âUm⊠no. Not really.âÂ
His laugh is sharpâbitter and crackedâso not Bob.Â
âYou think I donât like you?â he says, voice risingâunsteady now. âAre you insane?âÂ
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.Â
âI have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I canât sleep, Iâm not hungry, I canât focusâI just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?â His eyes are wild when they meet yours. âAnd yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasnât because I didnât want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.âÂ
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.Â
âIt wasnât about your ageâthat was just a dumb excuse. It was you. Youâre gorgeous, youâre smart, youâre funny, and youâre so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?âÂ
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. âSo yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morningâI came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.â He swallows hard, jaw flexing. âBut then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And youââÂ
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyesâdark blue and burningâshine with the storm heâs been holding back.Â
âYou just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadnât just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like Iâd missed my shot and youâd already moved on.â His voice dipsâraw now. âAnd now? Youâre here. In the same goddamn shirt.âÂ
He laughs again, broken this time.Â
âAnd I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing youâre the one who ruined it? Who let her go?âÂ
Heâs panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.Â
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You canât breathe. You can barely think. Thereâs only one word echoing in your head.Â
âLove?â you whisper.Â
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.Â
âYes. Love.â His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. âI love you.âÂ
Your heart lurches into your throat.Â
âBut that doesnât change anything,â he adds quickly, dropping onto the couchâcloser this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. âI donât expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about itâand for that, Iâm sorry. JustâŠâ He sighs again. âJust give me some time, okay? Just let meââÂ
âTrevorâs gay,â you blurt, louder than you mean to.Â
He blinks. âWhat?âÂ
âGay,â you repeat. âHeâs gay. Like, so incredibly gay heâs into Hangman.âÂ
Bobâs lips part, a soft breath slipping out.Â
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. âHis callsign is Grinder. I mean, yesâpartly because heâs a hard workerâbut mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. ButâBob, I thought you knewââ You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. âOh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.âÂ
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.Â
The air between you cracklesâso thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.Â
âHangman?â he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.Â
You nod. âHangman.âÂ
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. âSo, you didnâtââÂ
âNo,â you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. âIs that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy whoâd fuck me?âÂ
He cringesâactually cringes. âThatâs just how it looked, IââÂ
âSo you assumed?â you cut in, voice sharp. âYou didnât even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though youâre the one who rejected me?âÂ
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, somethingâbut you can't. Not with your stupid leg.Â
âI know I had no right,â he mutters.Â
âDamn straight you didnât,â you bite out. âYou think Iâd do that? You think Iâd throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, Iâm looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. Iâm in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fuckingââÂ
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.Â
Itâs not a kissâitâs a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.Â
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. Itâs hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing heâs carried igniting in a single breathless second.Â
You gasp, shocked by the force of itâyour lips parting, letting him in.Â
And then itâs chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.Â
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if heâs trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like youâre both trying to breathe each other in.Â
You feel like youâre on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.Â
Thereâs a sharp pain in your leg from how hard youâre leaning in, but you donât care. Youâd burn your whole body just to keep this going.Â
Because he kisses you like itâs the last thing heâll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hungerâbecause youâve wanted this forever. Because heâs yours. And youâre his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way heâs holding you like heâs afraid youâll disappear.Â
âI love you,â he breathes against your lips. âI love you. I love you. Please donât go. Donât ever leave.âÂ
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. âIâm not leaving.âÂ
âGood,â he murmurs, then kisses you againâsoft, lingering.Â
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.Â
Your stomach flips like youâve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.Â
âBob,â you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. âBob, mâmy leg.âÂ
He jolts back like heâs touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space heâs no longer filling.Â
âIâm so sorry,â he gasps.Â
You shake your head quickly. âItâs fine. Iâm okay.âÂ
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.Â
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. âSo... whose shirt is that?âÂ
You blink, then glance down. âOh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.âÂ
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. âIt looks good on you,â he murmurs, voice low and rough, âbut I think I prefer the short skirts.âÂ
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. âBob Floyd,â you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, âdid you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?âÂ
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. âOnly when the skirts are on you.âÂ
âThat so?â Your lips curl into a slow smirk. âWell, unfortunately, I think thisââ you tap the brace on your leg ââmeans short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.âÂ
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yoursâburning now. Thereâs a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something youâve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clenchâif it werenât for your stupid goddamn injury.Â
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, âWhat about sex?âÂ
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.Â
âCan you be gentle?â you ask, voice barely above a whisper.Â
âI can try,â he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.Â
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You donât care how sore your leg might beâyou want him. All of him. Finally.Â
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, âThen what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?â
Summary: Tyler Owens x fe!Reader -> After a rough chase, you and Tyler burn off some energy and he has you seeing stars.
Disclaimer: Does contain smut, mdni. Friends to lovers/FwB, fluff, mentions of tornado damage, a very relaxed yet naked Tyler in bed, feelings, pining. Not fully proof read.
It was meant to have been a one time thing. So why couldn't you stop thinking about it?Â
The chase had happened months ago. An EF-4 dropped out of nowhere. Just showed up on your doorstep without any warning. Sure, it was the season for it. But there were usually weather changes and warnings on the morning news.Â
You had been with Tyler, driving home from town having just confirmed the bakery order for Boone's birthday cake in two weeks time. The final details had been put into place; the same for the venue and the band.Â
You'd been talking about what to make for dinner later that night. With Dexter out sick, the rota skipped his turn making it yours. Chicken or beef burgers? Fish? Go European and do breakfast for dinner?Â
Twenty minutes later, Tyler's truck was drilling itself into the ground outside your house. The wind was picking up and your body got slammed into the porch stand. He dragged you down low as you both ran through the house and towards the back door. Both of you made it inside quick enough to feel the tornado pass overhead.Â
Maybe it was adrenaline, or the need to feel grounded. But as you came up from the shelter, you found your house mostly intact, save for the broken porch pieces and torn up ground around your property.Â
Your heart was beating faster than it had ever done. You'd chased plenty of tornadoes before. But you'd gone in with a plan. This time, there was no plan. Just pure need for survival.Â
The only thing that registered in Tyler's mind was the feeling of your hand in his. and somewhere in the thirty seconds that followed, the only feeling he could register was you. All over him. Soaking into his bones with the rest of the rain and soil.Â
Ignoring the broken windows and overturned dining table, Tyler's boots had scuffed against your wooden floor as he walked you backwards. You kept him close to you as he began to unbutton his wet shirt, both of you letting it fall onto the floor at the bottom of the stairs.Â
Walking up the stairs, his hands remained on you. You stopped halfway up when you felt his kisses stop and focus on your neck. You had let out a small whimper and he couldn't wait any longer.Â
Your front was pressed against the solid wall beside your stairs, his mouth trailing across your skin until he finally turned you around, leaning his full weight against you. You hoped his belt buckle made a lasting impression on your skin.Â
Finally making it to your bedroom, Tyler kicked the door shut with his foot and the rest became nothing more than an orgasmic haze of wonder.Â
You and Tyler didn't say anything afterwards, other than the agreement that it wouldn't be mentioned ever again. You were friends. And you worked together. And the team had left several voice messages letting you know they were on their way to check on you and Tyler.Â
Tyler let you shower first, but you couldn't deny you liked the image of seeing him relaxed against your headboard, knowingly naked and freshly fucked under the lazily draped duvet.Â
You found him a cream coloured Henley shirt and a pair of his jeans he'd left last time he and the others had stayed over. Twenty minutes later, you and Tyler were cleaning up what you could of your kitchen. Every once in a while, you looked behind you to see the way his wet hair fell down and his face remained concentrating on whatever he was thinking about.Â
But you didn't have long to look because the others pulled up outside of your home, running inside to hug you both and make sure you were okay.Â
"We didn't know it had hit you until someone said it had picked back up just west of the town. Everything told us it was gonna be heading North."
"It's okay. We're okay." Tyler assured them all.Â
From then on, you both moved forward. The team helped fix up your porch and kitchen. You called your insurance company and they were gonna be sending someone out to fit new windows. Outside, yourself and Kate started to rake at the broken ground.Â
"We can always just cover it with grass seed."
You nodded. "I know, but I think I might try and plant a few things. I've always wanted to start an actual garden. Might as well whilst Mother Nature is bringing the ground up for me."
But despite the distractions; the redecorating, repainting, gardening. Despite all of it, one thing remained on your mind constantly.Â
Tyler Owens.Â
And not in the way he did before.Â
Despite the adrenaline rush and the slight lapse in judgement from both of you consenting to spend that kind of time together, you could remember everything. Every single last detail. The way his hand felt in yours, the way they felt wrapped around your waist, the way they felt when he gripped your hips tight and pulled you closer to him, the way his lips felt and the way his tongue danced across your skin, the way he left his mark everywhere, the way his fingers felt curling inside of you, the way he felt inside of you, the way he moved, the way he kissed, the way he spoke.Â
Every last detail was like a constant movie in your head which was driving you crazy.Â
Yet, despite the live movie in your head and the feeling of your own hand drifting down your body, slipping under the tight waistband of your shorts, nothing could work away the ache that he left with you.Â
No matter how soft, slow, hard or fast you tried -- nothing could live up to the reality of Tyler Owens knowing your body better than you did.Â
But it was meant to be a one time thing. A single, consensual, lapse in judgement.Â
So why did it happen again?
A week after Boone's birthday party where you'd spent the entire night trying to avoid Tyler's eye contact, and after three separate chases that left you with an even stronger desire than the last to seek him out when the tension kept you awake at night. Tyler tapped on the side of your truck.Â
"What are you doing so far out here?"
"What are you still doing awake?" You asked as you watched him climb into the flatbed.Â
You had driven your truck out into the darkness of the field, far away from the overhead lights of the motel so you could see the stars. If you weren't going to sleep, you might as well look at something other than a motel ceiling.Â
"I asked first," Tyler told you.Â
"Trying to see the stars. Couldn't sleep."
"Me neither," Tyler sat beside you. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."
You nodded and smiled. "I'm okay."
It happened somewhere between Tyler talking about one of the constellations and moving your hand a few inches over when you pointed at the wrong one, that you turned and looked at him.Â
Similar to the first time, it happened somewhere within the next quiet thirty seconds that was filled with rapid heartbeats and his hand in yours. Only, Tyler was the first to surge forward, hurriedly pushing the hair from the sides of your face and kissing you like your life depended on it.Â
Laying you down on the flatbed, you finally relaxed for the first time in weeks, under his touch. His kiss roamed further and further south until he'd pulled your bed shorts from your body, only to find you completely bare underneath.Â
The groan that racked his body as he pulled you closer to him by your thighs left you with an aching need all over you. Your back arched under his wet kiss, but he held you down before pushing his hand further up your body.Â
You were definitely seeing stars.Â
"T...Tyler...I need...I need..." You tried to speak through the gasps that left you.Â
Through fluttered lashes, you saw him look up. "I know," he kissed at your clit before kissing the bare skin of your lower belly. "I know, Sweetheart."
Once his kiss finally reached your lips, it was scorching. His fingers worked their way back down your body as your own fiddled with his belt buckle and lowered his jeans and underwear just enough for you to reach him.Â
Tyler broke your kiss for a moment, watching as he guided himself in you, only to quickly look back at your face as you lay under him. Your mouth opened just that little bit wider as he slid further inside of you, your head rolling back as your eyes closed in order to remember the full feeling of him.Â
"Sweetheart..."
You managed to open your eyes long enough to look into his. You held onto his face and nodded.Â
"You can move."
He started slow at first, lowering himself so his nose brushed yours, until his forehead rested against your own. In, and out. Slow. Tantalisingly slow.Â
"Tyler," you gasped as he pushed back into you.Â
His kiss trailed lazily across your jaw until his tongue felt your quickening pulse and his ears were filled with the slight hitches and breathy moans that were escaping your lips.Â
"I've been dreaming about this..." Tyler whispered into your neck. "Ever since..."
You nodded, quickly. "So have I..."
Finally looking at you again, he kissed you, before he pushed deeper into you, his pace picking up ever so slightly.Â
By the time you'd both finished, you held Tyler inside of you just a little longer. And he waited, memorising the feeling of you clenching around him, chanting his name along with a small string of swear words as he let you ride you high out on him.Â
There was no guarantee that it was ever going to happen again, so he savoured the moment. But, by God, he was praying it would.
âą synopsis. joaquĂn convinced you to stay in new york as a chance to regroup... and maybe look into who the hell this bob guy is. and just when things could not get any worse, john walker finds you both under the ruse of wanting to talk.
âą contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, sequel to this fic right here! a lot of plot. reader is described as female. reader and joaquĂn are sambucky children of divorce :( joaquĂn is sooo baby brother. a bit of stalking happens, walker is a punching bag (i love him tho), reader is crazy stubborn, #justiceforsamwilson.
âą wc: 21.2k+
âą authorâs note. bob wears bunny slippers. that is all i had to say.
You shouldâve been halfway back to Washington by now. Maybe already unpacking your bag in your bedroom, or sitting shoulder to shoulder with JoaquĂn on the couch while Sam paced in front of you both, jaw clenched, hands on his hips and brow furrowed like he was about to crack the floor with how hard he was pacing back and forth. Heâd be muttering something about how disappointed he was, how you went behind his back and dragged yourself into this morningâs breaking news cycle.
It was early enough that there were only a handful of people occupying the other booths. Old soul music hummed softly from the speakers overhead, and a couple of waitresses bustled between tables, laughing in Spanish. There was a white man across from you who was poking into his own breakfast with a strange mannerism only filthy rich people would have.
The mug of coffee in your hands had gone lukewarm. The latte art was so nice that it made you hesitate even to drink it, but you also wondered if you could force yourself to have an appetite after last night.
JoaquĂn had convinced you to stay just a little longer; said it might help you feel better. He sat in front of you in the booth, wearing an I LOVE NYC shirt, sipping from his cold brew as if he hadnât dragged you out of bed at five in the morning for a run around Central Park that took an hour and then saw the sunrise. Which then became a detour to Times Square before it got crowded. Which then became breakfast out, because apparently, room service wasnât âauthentically New York enough.â
And now? Now you were here. Staring into a latte you didnât ask for, stomach coiled too tight to even think about food, wishing you could leave the city already.
You hadnât said much since leaving the gala. Not in the van, not in the elevator ride up to your hotel room, not even when JoaquĂn offered to stay. Youâd nodded, locked the door behind him, and then downed whatever overpriced minibar bottle of tequila you could find. Maybe two.
You kept replaying it all. The way the crowd went quiet when the cameras caught you with Valentina. The fake smile politeness as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and whispered poison in your ear.
The words still echoed: Whatâs loyalty really worth?
She wanted you to betray Sam, as if enough people hadnât already done that.
And then there was Bob.
Fuck that guy.
Fuck Bob.
You went back to nursing your coffee, eyes glazed, ears barely catching the low hum of the voice of the lawyer JoaquĂn had hired as he explained your legal options. You werenât sure what he was saying. Something about image rights, team misrepresentation, staying away from De Fontaine and possible lawsuits: you nodded because it was easier than arguing.
JoaquĂn said you would stay just until noon like this city hadnât already taken enough energy from you. And you agreed because part of you still hadnât figured out what to do next.
Besides, it was only eight-thirty in the morning by the time you both got your drinks.
ââŠAnd those are just a few steps Iâd recommend moving forward,â the lawyer said smoothly, adjusting his glasses as he sat back. âIâll be honest, this isnât exactly my usual wheelhouse, but I think weâve got a decent case if we frame the whole thing as a misunderstanding. Especially if De Fontaine keeps using âAvengersâ without clearance.â
His tone was calm. Unbothered. Confident, even. You couldnât tell if that made you feel better or worse. You probably could have avoided this entire situation if you had stayed home and told Congressman Gary to suck it.
âYeah, thanks,â JoaquĂn said brightly, finally glancing up from his laptop.
The man stood, reaching for the sleek red cane that rested against the booth. âWell, youâve got my number,â he said. âCall if you need anything. Iâm happy to keep looking into it.â
âThanks, Matt,â JoaquĂn said again, giving him a grateful smile.
âSeriously,â you added, your voice a touch warmer now. Maybe it was the way Matt had actually made the whole mess sound⊠manageable. âThank you.â
Matt turned in your direction, that easy smile not fading. âDonât worry. If you want to push the misunderstanding narrative, youâll be fine. And if Valentina keeps branding this team as Avengers, thereâs a solid case for misrepresentation, especially if your likeness is being used to imply endorsement.â
You nodded. âRight. Yeah. Got it. Thanks.â
Matt paused, as if catching the hesitation in your voice. âYouâll be okay,â he said, then offered a small wave as he made his way toward the door.
You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee mug. âWhereâd you find that guy?â
He pursed his lips, âYou said we needed a lawyer. I got us a lawyer. He has really good reviews on Yelp. One of the best in Hellâs Kitchen.â
âHellâs Kitchen? You made that pour man come all the way down here for us?â
âHe offered,â JoaquĂn said defensively, âMatt said he preferred to meet in person anyway. Besides, we need someone whoâs not scared of Valentina. The man literally sues billionaires in his spare time.â
You set your mug down a little too hard, making it clink against the saucer. âWe have lawyers. Sam knows people. Actual governmental legal teams. With offices. Why didnât you call one of them?â
âI didnât realize we needed the god of lawyers to step in,â he muttered, exasperated as he rolled his eyes. âRelax. Weâve got more than enough to blow this thing wide open. The press photos alone are enough to raise suspicion, and the way Valentina keeps parading that âNew Avengersâ name around? Thatâs grounds for a cease and desist.â
You leaned back in the booth, rubbing your temple as you exhaled. âWe donât have as much as you think.â
âBut we will.â
You didnât respond, you just turned your head and focused out the window again. Outside, the city moved on without you. Pedestrians marched by in layers of spring coats and scarves, dodging puddles and taxis like it was all muscle memory. There was something comforting about how oblivious they all were, how none of them had been at that gala last night or had their name blasted across every trending tag before noon.
Inside, the warm smell of eggs and expensive coffee lingered in the air, but you couldnât shake the sourness sitting in your stomach.
JoaquĂn, thankfully, didnât push. He went back to typing on his laptop, though you could tell the silence was killing him. His foot bounced under the table. Occasionally, he muttered something to himself, probably reviewing the security cam footage from the gala again, probably rewatching the exact moment Valentina draped an arm over your shoulders like she owned you.
The two of you were dressed down, in civilian clothes (if JoaquĂnâs tourist merch would count as such), and baseball caps pulled low. Your sunglasses sat folded beside the ketchup bottle and sugar packets, next to the fresh copy of this morningâs Daily Bugle. Your photo was front-page centre. The shot of you in the dress, frozen between Valentina and Yelena, half-turning like you werenât sure if you wanted to be there or bolt.
At least you looked pretty.
You wondered if Bob had seen it.
The thought hit you suddenly, out of nowhere, and lodged itself in your chest like a splinter. You hadnât even realized you were still thinking about him, not actively, anyway, but the memory of his face lingered stubbornly. The way heâd looked at you like he didnât know whether to reach for you or let you go. The way heâd said your name, low and careful. Like it mattered. He felt like a scent on your jacket or a song stuck in your teeth. Something stupid and soft that wouldnât let go.
You pressed a hand against your thigh under the table, grounding yourself. It wasnât the time.
A waitress approached not long after, balancing two plates in her arms with the practiced grace of someone whoâd been doing it since before either of you were born. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and she gave your table a friendly smile.
âThree pancakes, three eggs, and three sausages?â
JoaquĂn perked up immediately, pulling down his headphones and sliding his laptop to the side like he hadnât been glued to it for the past twenty minutes. âThatâs me, thank you.â
âBerry waffles?â
You raised your hand, and she set the plate down gently in front of you before asking if there was anything else either of you wanted. You both politely declined, and she left.
JoaquĂn didnât waste a second. He picked up his fork and immediately began cutting into his mountain of food. Syrup pooled fast over his eggs and sausages.
You just stared at your plate. The waffles were warm, the fruit arranged in neat little clusters, but your stomach still felt like it had been twisted into knots. You poked at a strawberry without much commitment.
âSo,â JoaquĂn said between bites, reaching for his cold brew and sipping loudly from the straw just to get your attention like a child.
You didnât look up, just stabbed a strawberry on your plate.
He tried again. âDo you⊠Do you wanna talk about it?â
That time, you met his eyes. His smile was soft and a little tentative, but he was holding himself like he expected you to throw your drink in his face. His shoulders were hunched, eyes flicking between you and his plate like he was bracing for impact.
âTalk about what?â
He blinked at you, then gave a pointed look. âLast night.â
You frowned, âWe already debriefed.â
âIâI know that,â he said, fork mid-air. âI meant, like, talk about it to me. As friends. Just⊠me and you. Like we usually do.â
You didnât answer right away. The quiet between you stretched long enough for the sounds of the diner to filter in again; the clatter of dishes, the sizzle from the kitchen, someone laughing faintly three booths over. Then you sighed, setting your fork down with a metallic clink against the ceramic.
âItâs just...â JoaquĂn tried again, not looking at you now, like the words would land better if he said them sideways. âYouâve been kinda like⊠a pain in the ass. To put it nicely.â
That drew a faint grin from you, brief, reluctant, but real. No one could needle you quite like him. Maybe thatâs why you both worked. Maybe thatâs why it always worked. You rolled your eyes, not quite ready to give in.
âI just donât understand why you got us a lawyer off Yelp.â
JoaquĂn pulled a face, somewhere between defensive and done-with-you. âItâs not about the lawyer, man.â
âIt kinda is, though.â
âNo, itâs not. Iâm talking about what Valentina said to you.â His voice dipped low, more careful now. âAnd⊠yâknow. That Bob guy.â
âCan we not?â you muttered. The words left your mouth too quickly. âNot here, QuĂn.â
He didnât say anything. Just watched you for a second longer, his fork hovering above his plate like he was debating whether to say more. Then he dipped his head, gave a short nod, and went back to his food.
You cut another piece of waffle and chewed slowly. It was good, golden and fluffy, the syrup pooling around the edgesâbut it didnât warm you the way it shouldâve. Didnât ease the dull pressure blooming in your chest.
Across from you, JoaquĂn had only taken a few more bites before he set his fork down and wiped his hands on a napkin. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice a little quieter this time. More careful.
âWeâve done a lot of missions together, right?â
You glanced at him, wary. âRight.â
He nodded, like youâd confirmed something only he knew how to track. âAnd weâve both done our fair share of flirting here and there. You know⊠for the job. Sometimes not for the job.â
You gave him a look, already spotting the slow grin building on his face. âNot this again.â
âIâm just saying, we do pretty well for ourselves. I do especially well.â He smiled. âLike, remember that Peruvian girl from last monthâ?â
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, spotting that dumb smile on his face he only has when he's about to say something stupid. âUh-huh.â
âWell, remember how Iââ
You didnât even let him finish. âOh my god,â you groaned, putting your fork down again. âIs there a point to this story? Because I really donât think I can stomach hearing about that one again.â
He had the decency to look mildly sheepishâjust a flush rising to the tips of his earsâbut it didnât stop him from doubling down.
âIt was good sex.â
You snorted. âMediocre at best.â
âYou werenât even there.â
âAnd yet, I know you need to get laid more. You talk about this girl like she changed your life, and then you follow it up with âshe liked my jacket.â Thatâs it. Thatâs the story. You slept with her, and she left the next morning.â
âShe did like my jacket,â he muttered defensively, half under his breath.
âYou need to get laid more.â You repeated into your coffee.
âI need to get laid more?â he scoffed, eyes narrowing. âYou need to get laid more.â
You leaned forward just slightly, squinting at him like you dared him to double down. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
He blinked at you, deadpan. âYou know what it means.â
âEnlighten me.â
âIt means,â he said, drawing the words out slowly for dramatic effect, âyou need to get laid.â
You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. âI get laid.â
âNot enough,â he shot back, mimicking your tone with a mockery of concern in his voice.
You jabbed your fork in his direction. âMore than you.â
âSure.â He waved his hand dismissively, like heâd already let you win for the sake of moving on. He tugged the brim of his cap lower over his forehead, leaning back into the booth. âCan we circle back to the actual point here?â
âWhatever,â you muttered, voice low, flat. You stabbed at your waffles again, syrup pooling under your fork.
He pointed at you then, vaguely, as if trying to name something intangible. âSee, this is what Iâm talking about.â
You didnât look at him, but he kept going.
âYouâre off. Last night, you took a few hitsâI mean, emotionally. Iâve never seen you like that before. Not really.â He scratched at the side of his jaw. âValentina was just trying to get in your head, you know that, right?â
You let out a bitter, breathy laugh and grabbed the newspaper from beside the salt shaker. âItâs working.â You held it up with both hands and shook it for emphasis. ââReformed or Recruited? Meet the New Face at The New Avengersâ Table.ââ You slapped it down in front of him, the headline side up. âI could kill her.â
You ignored him, still staring at the article. âItâs justâshe talks like sheâs already won. Every word out of her mouth is loaded. Like no matter what you say, sheâs already said it in her head and spun it into something smarter. Itâs so fucking frustrating.â
JoaquĂn didnât interrupt. You kept going.
âShe knows things. Things she shouldnât. About me. About you. About everyone. And the way she talked about Buckyââ Your voice dipped again. âSheâs got him on a leash. She has to be blackmailing him. Thereâs no other reason heâd stick around a group like that. You remember how long it took for him to even trust us? How much work Sam put in for us? And now sheâs got him sitting next to Walker and a bunch government rejects that should be facing lifetimes in jail.â
JoaquĂn was quiet for a second, stirring his drink with the tip of his straw. âI know. Iâve been thinking the same thing. Maybe sheâs got something from his Winter Soldier days. Something buried.â
âMaybe,â you murmured. âBut I donât know. He made peace with all that. Or he was trying to.â
JoaquĂn nodded solemnly. Then, with perfect timing and a shit-eating grin, he added, âShe probably found his butt pics or something.â
You recoiled, immediately groaning, âUgh, gross, JoaquĂn. Come onâIâm eating.â
He laughed into his straw, biting it. âIâm just saying. It would explain a lot.â
You tried to keep your glare steady, but your mouth twitched, the corner threatening to pull upward. You hated that he could do that, break through the spiral with the dumbest thing imaginable. But maybe thatâs why he was still your first call every time things went to shit.
JoaquĂnâs voice softened a little. âYou know she doesnât win just because she made the headlines first, right? She wants you rattled. She wants you to think sheâs got it all figured out. But she doesnât. Youâre better than her.â
You looked down at your plate, the fruit now limp and soaked through with syrup, and slowly pushed it aside.
âI just hate not knowing,â you said quietly. âNot knowing what sheâs playing at. Not knowing what Buckyâs really thinking. Not knowing if any of this is going to matter.â
âIt matters,â JoaquĂn said without hesitation. âAnd if it doesnât yet, weâll make sure it does.â
That finally made you look at him.
He gave you a lopsided smile, stupid, warm, stubbornly sure of you in a way you werenât even sure of yourself right now.
âYouâre not alone in this,â he added. âYouâve got me. And Sam. And probably, like, three semi-legal encrypted files Matt just handed over.â
You huffed out a soft, reluctant laugh. âGod, youâre annoying.â
âYeah, but Iâm right.â
You didnât say it out loudâbut maybe, just this once, you didnât disagree.
Your phone buzzed against the table, and both you and JoaquĂn froze, mid-sentence, mid-chew. His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. Your eyes locked on the screen.
The display lit up, just enough for you both to see the name.
Captain Sammy!
Neither of you said anything at first.
Youâd been waiting for this. Dreading it, really. Thatâs why your phone had been sitting so close to your plate all morning, screen facing up, volume on for messages only, buzz setting maxed out. Every scrape of cutlery, every breath between words had you waiting for this.
JoaquĂn leaned in slightly, eyes scanning your face. âIs it Sam?â
You nodded, slow. âYeah.â
âWhatâs he saying?â
You didnât move right away. Your hand hovered over the phone like it might burn you. âI donât know. Iâm⊠too scared to open it.â
His brows pulled together, and he leaned further across the booth, trying to read the message upside down. âWhy hasnât he messaged me yet?â
âI donât know,â you repeated, this time quieter, and your thumb swiped across the screen like muscle memory. You tapped into your messages.
Your stomach twisted before your eyes could even process the text.
Call me soon. We need to talk.
You winced.
âWell?â JoaquĂn asked, watching you too closely. âWhatâd he say?â
You turned the phone toward him.
He read it, then leaned back slowly. âWoah.â
âI know.â
âNo emojis?â
âNo.â
âHe used proper punctuation.â
âYeah. Caps. Periods.â
JoaquĂn let out a long whistle and slouched deeper into the booth like the air had been sucked out of him too. âShit. Heâs so pissed.â
You exhaled hard and tossed the phone facedown onto the table like it might accuse you of something else if you looked at it any longer. Your shoulders slumped, and you dropped your head into your hands, the motion knocking your cap off in the process. It hit the seat with a soft thump.
âGod, Iâm so fucked,â you groaned into your palms.
âHeyâŠâ JoaquĂnâs voice softened. No teasing now. Just warmth. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing your wrist. Gently, he coaxed your hands away from your face. âWeâre fucked. Weâre a team. We both get fucked together.â
You stared at him for a second.
Then winced. â...Dude.â
He blinked, mouth twitching, and then his expression crumpled into a wince of his own. âYeah, yeah. I heard it as I said it.â
You shoved his hand away, and he laughed. It was the kind of laugh that let you breathe again, even if only for a second.
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. âDo you wanna book a plane home or should we just drive back?â
âLetâs drive,â he said without missing a beat, already pulling his laptop closer. âThe longer it takes to get back, the better. We need time to stall.â
âIâll rent a car.â You thumbed open the app, scrolling through the available options. âAny preferences?â
âIâm not picky.â
You nodded absently, letting the words pass between you like background noise. Your finger moved down the screen, but your mind wasnât really following. Each nameâToyota, Chevy, Hondaâblurred past you.
The pressure had started to settle beneath your ribs now, a slow-building ache that hadnât let up since last night. It pulsed quietly with every breath. You tried to ignore it, tried to act like you were okay, like you werenât picturing the message on your phone or imagining the conversation that would come when you finally called Sam.
But you werenât okay. Not really. You hadnât been okay since that tower. Since Valentinaâs voice crawled into your skull and made a home there.
The sound of JoaquĂn tapping at his keyboard pulled you back to the present.
âHey,â he said, his tone cautious, like he already expected you to roll your eyes again. âI know you said you didnât want to talk about last night anymore, but that guy you were talking toâBob? I managed to get a voice match, and I did some digging for you.â
You didnât look up. Your thumb hovered over a rental listing. âI really donât care. Do you want a Honda orââ
âWell,â he cut in, âhis full name is Robert Reynolds.â
You froze, just for a second. Just long enough for JoaquĂn to notice.
âJesus,â he added, grinning like he couldnât help himself, âyou were flirting with a guy named Robert.â
You lifted your gaze, flat but not without bite. âShut the fuck up.â
He laughed, light and triumphant. âThereâs not much on him. Heâs kind of a nobody, to be honest. Valentina must have wiped him or something. Heâs got an old Instagram account but hasnât updated it since before the Blip. Mostly middle school, high school stuff. A couple of mirror selfies. Not much else.â
You didnât mean to be interested. Not really. But your head perked up anyway.
âLet me see.â
He angled the laptop your way without a word, thankfully.
The screen showed a grid of filtered, slightly overexposed images, pictures that fit from the time they were taken and posted. Group shots at what looked like house parties. Underage drinking and smoking. A photo of a dog. One of the sunset, blurry and underwhelming, captioned âsummerâ with a cute emoji of the sun. Most of the posts were book covers, titles you vaguely recognized; a few youâd read yourself. The kind of things people share, not for anyone else, but just to remind themselves they were still here.
He didnât post himself often.
But one picture stopped you.
A younger version of him stood beside someone in a graduation gown. His hair was shorter, his face leaner, his body thinner. He wasnât wearing a gown himself. Just a hand shoved awkwardly into a hoodie pocket, the other slung around the person beside him. Still, he was smilingâkind of half-hearted, like he wasnât sure what to do with his face. It was the same mouth, same sharp features. But softer.
You stared at it a moment too long.
You werenât sure what you were looking for. Maybe something to prove he wasnât a threat. Or maybe something else entirely.
You could still hear the way he said family, like he believed it, like he needed to.
You hated how easily heâd gotten under your skin. How, even now, some part of him was curling its way around your thoughts, threading through your brain like smoke through a vent. He was weird, and there was something about him that felt too big to look at directly. Like if you focused too hard, he might burn a hole through you.
You tried to tell yourself it didnât mean anything. You tried to tell yourself he didnât matter.
But your hand was already resting on the corner of JoaquĂnâs laptop, scrolling gently through the next photo. And the one after that.
And you didnât stop.
You didnât realize how long youâd been staring until JoaquĂn cleared his throat.
âHe never graduated,â he said, âDropped out.â
You blinked, sitting up a little straighter, âWhat?â
JoaquĂn tilted the screen back toward himself. âI couldnât find any school records past sophomore year. No GED either. He just kinda... worked odd jobs before disappearing.â
Your eyes scanned what was left of Bobâs social media feed. Just ten posts in total. Ten fragments of a person whose edges were too slippery to pin down. Still, that didnât stop the strange kick in your chest, like your body knew something your brain hadnât caught up with yet.
âDisappearing?â
âYeah. And it gets weirder.â
He clicked over to another tab. The brightness of a mugshot hit you instantly.
âThereâs a criminal record,â JoaquĂn said. âNot sealed, surprisingly. Valentinaâs people probably missed itâor didnât care enough to clean it up.â
You leaned closer as he continued.
âAn assault charge from one of his part-time jobs years ago. He attacked a civilian.â
âAt work?â
âYeah,â he said grimly. He tapped the keyboard again, and up came a police scan. Bob, older than in the Instagram posts, but still younger than last night, sat facing the camera with a vacant expression. His cheeks looked hollow, his eyes rimmed with red and shiny with unshed tears. Sweat slicked his forehead, and his lips were split as if heâd been grinding his teeth on them.
âHe was on drugs,â JoaquĂn said, his voice a little quieter. âMethamphetamine.â
You vaguely remember him mentioning he was sober.
ââŠJesus.â
âAnd,â He continued, hesitating only slightly, âhe was wearing a chicken costume when he got arrested. Like, full mascot getup. Worked at Alfredoâs Bail Bonds. I donât even know what that is.â
You frowned. The ache in your chest curled tighter as if the image on the screen weighed something you couldnât name. Bob didnât look dangerous in that photo. He didnât look angry or unhinged.
He looked lost. Like heâd already been falling long before anyone ever thought to arrest him.
âItâs not funny, JoaquĂn.â
âYouâre right. Itâs not.â JoaquĂn glanced at you. And even though the grin tugged at his lips, he raised one hand in surrender. But the humour was still there. You know he didnât mean anything by it, not really. You could tell he was just trying to lift the mood. âBut like⊠come on. A chicken costume? Itâs objectively a little funny.â
You scoffed, reached across the table and closed his laptop with two fingers, giving him a flat look. âYouâre the worst.â
âShut up,â JoaquĂn said, flashing you that stupid grin again as he tugged the laptop back toward him. âYou love me.â
The warm morning sun was finally starting to cast a glow through the window and onto your half-eaten plate of waffles.
JoaquĂn opened his laptop again and tapped a few keys, lips pressed together now. âI still donât get what he was doing in that tower last night.â
âHe knows Valentina to some extent. We know that much,â you murmured, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He nodded, gaze fixed on the screen, but your voice dropped with the weight of what you were about to say next.
ââŠHe called Bucky family.â
That made him pause. He turned toward you fully, his brows lifted. âFamily?â
âYeah,â you said, quietly. âLike Walker. Starr. Belova. He said they saved him.â
You watched JoaquĂnâs expression shift, his usual spirit tempered by something more focused, sharper around the edges. He leaned forward a little, propping his elbow on the booth table again as if the change in posture could help him wrap his head around it.
âSaved him from what?â he asked. âWhen?â
You shook your head. âI donât know.â
He frowned. âYou didnât ask?â
âI didnât really get the chance,â you said, your voice catching for half a second. Then you exhaled. âOrâI donât know. I just freaked out.â
âYou freaked out? You?â
You gave a dry, humourless laugh, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your napkin. âYou havenât met him. He just⊠he threw me off.â
Your voice was quieter now, almost drowned out by the soft rumble of a waitress rolling a cart past your booth.
âI was already on edge after everything Valentina said. Then he shows up, out of nowhere... and he acts... he was really sweet, actually. And I know itâs stupid but I let my gaurd down. Then he said Buckyâs his family, and Iââ You stopped yourself, shaking your head. âWhat the fuck was I supposed to say to that? âCool, sameâ? I donât even know if Bucky considers us family.â
JoaquĂn rested his chin in one hand, looking thoughtful. âI mean⊠I probably wouldâve asked him more questions. Try to figure out who he is before jumping to conclusions.â
You shot him a look.
âIâm just saying,â he continued, hands up in defence. âThe idea of them saving him could be legit. Likeâit could go back to what happened in New York a few months ago. The whole Darkness or Void incident. That was a mess. Maybe he got caught in all that and they pulled him out or something.â
âMaybe,â you said, still not convinced. âLotâs of people got caught up in that. What makes him so special?â
JoaquĂn exhaled through his nose. âCouldâve been one of those publicity saves. You know how theyâve been staging those lately.â
Your lips pressed into a thin line. You hated the thought of that being true. That Bob was just another pawn in Valentinaâs carefully calculated optics campaign. But there was something else in your gut. That didnât feel like the whole truth. Bob had looked at you like he knew something. Like heâd seen something you hadnât yet.
You rubbed at your eyes. âAre there any records of that?â
âNo,â JoaquĂn said, tapping his finger against the side of his laptop. âNot really.â
You sank back into the booth, staring at the streaks of syrup on your plate.
âIt doesnât matter now,â you said after a long breath. âWeâll probably never see him again. Or Bucky, for that matter.â
JoaquĂn shook his head, his expression tightening. âDonât say that. Heâll come back.â
âYou think so?â
âYeah,â he said without missing a beat. âHe canât stay away from Sam for too long. Those two go into, like, withdrawals if they spend enough time apart. Sam starts getting all twitchy. Itâs weird.â
You let out a soft laugh, âYeah, right.â
JoaquĂn grinned, kicking you from under the table. âHey. Fun fact. Bobâs from Florida.â
You raised a brow, skeptical. âWhat, you think heâs from Miami too?â
âSarasota Springs.â He said, âMakes sense, I guess⊠with his criminal record, it kinda tracks. Rich, by the coast, drugged-up suburbia. Perfect place to arrest a meth-head chicken.â
You shot him another glare. âThatâs not funny, JoaquĂn.â
âIâm sorry!â he shrieked when your foot connected with his shin under the table.
He was not sorryâhis laugh betrayed him. He kicked you back with zero remorse. The table wobbled with the weight of your childish back-and-forth, your drink nearly toppling as JoaquĂn banged his knee into the edge, cursing. You stopped before either of you caused a spill.
But then, he froze.
Not the usual kind of still, either. He stopped laughing mid-breath, spine straightening with a jolt, and his eyes cut toward the window in a way that immediately froze your blood. The humour drained off him like a tide pulling back to sea.
Your own posture tightened. âWhat?â you whispered.
He didnât answer; he just grabbed his sunglasses and slapped them on, even though you were indoors. That alone told you how bad it was.
âGet down,â he muttered, reaching across the table and sliding the newspaper to you. âLook casual.â
You snatched it without a word, unfolding the pages like you cared about the stock market. Your heart beat too loudly in your ears, and your eyes scanned the ink without registering a single word. Still, you followed his lead, the two of you falling into sync like clockwork.
You tried to guess what had set him off. Your brain jumped straight to Sam, storming through the front entrance, arms crossed like a disappointed dad at parent-teacher night. But no. He was still in Washington, right?
You glanced over the paperâs edge. âWhat is it?â you hissed.
JoaquĂn didnât move muchâjust lowered his voice to a whisper through clenched teeth. âItâs Walker.â
You blinked, lips parting in disbelief. âWhat?â
âShhh. Shut the fuck up.â
You straightened up ever so slightly, trying to look calm, normal, bored, but you angled your head toward the door.
âWhere?â you whispered, barely moving your lips.
âBy the entrance,â JoaquĂn murmured, adjusting his cap lower. âWith the ghost girl.â
You squinted subtly. âGhost giâ?â
Ava Starr. You caught sight of her instantly, despite JoaquĂn not needing to say her name. She stood like someone perpetually mid-departure, her hair pulled back and jaw set tight as she waited at the counter. Her arms were folded, and she was already halfway through her order. Beside her, unmistakable in his broad, self-assured posture, stood John Walker. He wore a sun-bleached military jacket andâGod help youâthat stupid beret. His eyes werenât scanning the room yet, just the menu above the barista, but that could change at any moment.
You ducked back behind your newspaper like it might physically protect you. âWe should just⊠lay low until they leave,â you said under your breath, acting like it was all casual. âThe last thing we need is getting caught with them. Especially now. If anyone sees us here with them, itâs gonna look real convenient.â
âOkay,â JoaquĂn murmured, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. âBut Iâm telling you, if Walker starts walking this way, Iâm crawling under this booth.â
You almost laughed, but it didnât quite make it out. Instead, you focused your gaze on your plate, trying to pretend your nerves werenât crawling all over your skin.
The seconds ticked by with unbearable slowness. JoaquĂn took a sip of his drink, eyes still hidden behind his glasses and the screen of his computer. For one full, glorious moment, it seemed like maybeâmaybeâtheyâd leave without seeing you.
âHey, guys,â came a voice behind you. Too familiar. Too smug.
Your stomach dropped.
âFunny seeing you here in New York.â
Your spine stiffened like a board. Across from you, JoaquĂn let out what had to be the quietest groan of his life, a barely audible sigh that still managed to scream youâve got to be kidding me.
You didnât look right away. You already knew who it was. But slowly, cautiously, you turned in your seat, past the half-finished plate of fruits and the folded newspaper still clutched in your hand, to find John Walker standing at the edge of your table.
Hands on his hips, back straight like a soldier reporting for duty. That signature smugness twisted his mouth into a grin that looked about ninety percent forced and ten percent calculated. A politicianâs smile, one heâd probably been coached on.
Ava Starr stood just behind him, half-shielded by the oversized sweater and black trench coat she was wearing, and her baseball cap pulled low like you were. She sipped from a takeout cup like none of this had anything to do with her. Still, her eyes flicked over the two of you, sharp and curious. There was intrigue there, and something else. Something like suspicion.
âWalker,â JoaquĂn said, dragging his sunglasses off and trying on a smile that was just a little too wide to be natural. He leaned back against the booth like he wasnât one second away from bolting. âLong time no see, man. Whenâwhen was the last time we saw each other?â
Walker didnât miss a beat. âI donât know, Torres.â He tilted his head, pretending to think about it with mock sincerity. âI think it was about two, three years ago? When you pled against me in court.â
JoaquĂn blinked, just once, then let out a breathy, âRight, right.â A stiff nod followed, and you caught the colour blooming in his cheeks before he turned back to Walker, trying to recover. âWow. Time flies. Howâs Olivia?â
Walkerâs jaw flexed, the grin faltering just slightly. âSheâs fine,â he muttered through clenched teeth.
âHappy wife, happy life, am I right?â
âEx-wife, actually,â Ava said casually, her voice cool and clippedâand British, you noted, catching you a bit off guard. It was the first time youâd heard her speak. âShe took the kid and left him.â
A sip. Deadpan. Not even a blink.
JoaquĂn flinched like sheâd hit him. âOhâuh. Sorry.â
Walker sighed, running a hand down his face, but he didnât look particularly angry at her for saying it. If anything, he just looked annoyed, maybe even tired. Like someone who didnât have the energy to defend himself anymore.
You cleared your throat, eyes narrowing just enough. âWhoâs your friend?â You asked it knowing full well who she was. You had files on every single New Avenger. The question was less about gaining information and more about playing the game. Buying yourself time. Pretending this conversation was normal when every instinct in your body said otherwise.
âThis is Ava,â Walker said, gesturing toward her with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Ava offered a faint smile, small, and polite, but with an unmistakable edge of sarcasm. It was a smile that said she knew exactly how uncomfortable you were, and she probably felt the same way.
âHello,â she said.
âHi.â You nodded once, tight-lipped.
JoaquĂn, ever the icebreaker, leaned forward in what was possibly the worst possible moment. âI gotta sayâyour powers are so cool. Like, if I could have powers, Iâd want something like yours.â
You didnât even have time to stop him.
Ava blinked, a smirk tugging at her lips. âThanks. The cells inside my body are tearing themselves apart every second. Chronic pain. Constantly.â
He deflated like a balloon with a hole in it, sinking back into the booth. âOh.â
âSorry about him,â you said, giving Ava a small shrug. âHe never knows when to speak or what to say.â
Ava gave a short, amused nod. âItâs alright. Iâm better now, anyway. My cells only tear apart on my command.â
âThatâs nice.â You tried not to show it, but the offhandedness of that statementâhow someone could say something so gruesome with such easeâdid something to your stomach.
Then Walker turned back to you.
âSee, I thought I saw you last night,â he said, voice casual in the most deliberately uncasual way. He scratched at his beard.
Your jaw tightened.
Of course he saw you last night. You saw him too. He knew it. You knew it. And the fact that he was pretending like this was just now dawning on him made your teeth itch. Especially since your photos from that gala were currently trending on half the internet. The press had already decided what it meant. You didnât need Walker playing coy.
âYeah,â you said, smiling sweetly. âI saw you too. Then you turned and walked the other way before I could say hi.â
Ava snorted into her drink, reaching over to smack Walkerâs arm. âYou ran off?â
âNoââ Walker started, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head and a raised brow.
âYou did.â
âI didnât run off,â he said, defensive now. âI just had business to attend to.â
You didnât bother replying. He was still talking, but his words blurred into the background as your phone buzzed once again on the table beside you. Sam. Probably asking when you'd be ready to talk or when you were coming home.
You caught JoaquĂn glancing at the screen, and a silent understanding passed between you both. Time to wrap this up.
You turned back to Walker with a pleasant enough smile that didnât reach your eyes. âDid you need something, Walker? I mean, itâs great to see youââ (lie) ââbut we were just trying to have some breakfast before we went home.â
âHome? Youâre leaving so soon?â
âWeâve got things to do. Itâs a long drive back.â
âOh, come on,â he said, waving a dismissive hand. âWe can fly you back to Washington. No problem. Youâd be home before sunset.â
You blinked once. âNo thanks.â
Walker chuckled, a low, dry sound that barely passed for humour. âYou should come by the tower anyway. Weâll show you around. Itâll be fun.â
You couldnât think of anything that had to do with John Walker being described as âfunâ.
Also, he wasnât exactly subtle with the way he asked the two of you to go to the tower with them. You didnât know what was up there waiting for you, and you didnât want to find out. You just wanted to go home.
âReally,â you said, the word coming out like dead weight. âWeâre good. Weâll just get the bill and go.â
Right on cue, the waitress showed up, sliding the receipt onto the table with a bright smile that faltered the second she noticed Walker and Ava still hovering beside your booth. She glanced between all four of you, sensing something off, the way people do when they walk into a conversation thatâs gone a degree too cold. Without a word, she walked off, her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum.
The table went still for a beat. Then Ava finally spoke.
âWe know you talked to Bob last night.â
That shut you up. Just like that, your posture went a little rigid, shoulders tensing into steel as the name settled like a stone in your gut. It landed like a trigger pull. You tried not to be too obvious but you were failing.
JoaquĂn was worse, he froze mid-bite, his fork hovering just an inch from his lips before he slowly set it down. His eyes darted to you, then back to Ava.
Ava shifted slightly, her voice calmer now, but precise. âWe also know you asked about Barnes.â
That got you. You didnât respond; you didnât need to. The fact you were suddenly locked in, gaze narrowed, said enough. She had your attention. And she knew it.
âWeâre not with Val,â she said. âNot in the way you think. Just⊠give us a chance to talk. Somewhere private.â
You nearly laughed. Or maybe you wanted to. Or maybe you wanted to scream. Somewhere private? As if that didnât set off every alarm in your body.
You didnât know Ava Starr beyond what you and JoaquĂn had pulled from the files: taken by S.H.E.I.L.D. as a child, quantum instability, a near-lethal skill set. You didnât know John Walker beyond the courtroom footage, the headlines, and everything you watched from the sidelines, a man who still believed he deserved redemption without ever earning it. You also knew he had taken a dangerous dose of the super soldier serum, making him violent and twitchy.
But you definitely didnât know them well enough to follow them into a quiet place with no exits or no witnesses.
And you definitely did not want to be caught walking around New York City with them. The last thing you needed was another headline featuring your face beside the likes of John Walker. And JoaquĂn? You werenât about to drag him deeper into a mess that wasnât his.
But before you could say any of that, before you could even start lining up all the reasons this was a terrible idea, you heard: âOkay, sure.â
Your head snapped around. âQuĂn?â
JoaquĂn had turned his hat backward, that familiar nervous tell masked behind the casual flip. He was already sliding his laptop into his bag, fingers moving with a kind of focused ease that suggested heâd been waiting for this the whole time. Like part of him had been waiting for someone to finally offer an answer, any answer, and now that it was on the table, he couldnât bring himself to hesitate.
âWhat?â he asked.
âYou canât justââ
âWhat?â he said again with a little more attitude, zipping the bag closed. âYouâre always saying how much you hate being in the dark. Theyâre offering answers.â
âThey could be lying,â you shot back, sharper than you meant. âThis could be a trap, or another setup.â
You said it like they werenât standing right there, and you didnât care if they heard. They could take the hint or choke on it.
He shrugged, cool, easy, frustratingly calm. âThen weâll find out.â
You stared at him, your chest tight all over again. He meant that. You could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way he shouldered his bag like it didnât weigh a damn thing. That unbearable sincerity, that same stubborn belief in people that made you trust him, was now steering him straight into a situation you didnât trust at all.
You didnât say it. You didnât even whisper it.
You just looked at him. Tried to say it with your eyes, with the hard, silent glare you shot across the tableâdonât do this.
He didnât meet your gaze.
Instead, you turned, eyes locking onto Walker and Ava, your voice low and sharp. âHowâd you find us?â
Walker raised both hands, a placating gesture you didnât buy for a second. âWe didnât follow you or anything. Personally, I couldnât care less about what you two are up to.â
You bristled at the you two, and you hated how they started to drag JoaquĂn into it.
âBut,â Walker went on, âYelenaâs been tracking you since the gala.â
Your blood ran cold. âWhat?â
He said it casually like it was nothing.
You blinked, stomach lurching. Thereâd been no tag, no weight in your coat, no itch along your back where something mightâve been placed. Youâd showered. Slept. Walked half the city this morning without even realizing it. And that was the point, wasnât it? You never saw her. Never felt it. Never even noticed.
Because Yelena Belova didnât need a tracker when she was one of the best Red Room assassins. You only couldnât understand why she hadnât killed you when she had the chance.
Unease coiled at the base of your spine. You felt exposed. Like someone had peeled back your skin and left it raw in the open air.
âPlease,â Ava said again. Her voice was quiet, almost too calm, but there was something underneath it, something tense and taut like she hated begging for trust. âJust hear us out.â
Your stomach continued twisting, hard. Every instinct screamed donât go. Donât let them get you alone. Donât let JoaquĂn near whatever this is. But you could already feel the decision slipping away from you.
The elevator couldn't have been any fucking slower.
You swore you could hear the grind of the gears behind the panelling, dragging each second out like a countdown to something awful. The small screen above the door blinked from floors 37 to 38 to 39 with glacial slowness.
You thought this building had state-of-the-art technology remodelled. Why the fuck was their elevator so damn slow?
Your chest was caving in on itself, a familiar panic clawing up your throat and settling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. Every inch of this place felt too polished. You hadnât forgotten how sharp the Watchtower feltâlike walking into a wolfâs mouth made of steel and luxury.
Your brain spiralledâclawing through every possible worst-case scenario like it was trying to prepare you for all of them at once. You hadnât even gotten to the part where Valentina might be standing on the other side of the doors. You could already see it: that smug, all-knowing smile she wore like lipstick, arms crossed, voice dripping with venomous delight. Sheâd say something like âTook you long enough,â and youâd want to punch her in the teeth, even as you walked willingly into the trap.
Matt would kill you.
Your lawyer had explicitly warned you to stay away from anything remotely connected to Valentina. Wait it out. Stay clean until the dust settles. This was the very opposite of that.
You rubbed a thumb across your phone screen, opening and closing your texts with Sam. The messages were still left unanswered. You had typed seven different versions of a reply: âIâm okayâ, âJust give me a secondâ, âLong story, Iâll explain laterâ and deleted them all.
You couldnât leave him in the dark. You didnât want to be like Bucky. But how the fuck were you supposed to explain this?
âCall you soon, busy talking to John fucking Walkerâ?
JoaquĂn shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the low heat radiating off his arm. He wasnât saying anything, but his tension mirrored yoursâjaw clenched, eyes locked on the doors, hands flexing at his side. You could see it in the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his thigh like he was ready to move, run, or punch someone if needed.
If you were to die, at least you could blame it on him.
Behind you, Walker and Ava stood just a little too casually; coffee cups in hand, speaking in quiet tones you couldnât catch. Not that you tried. Every nerve in your body was too loud already, the soft hum of the elevator music a scream in your ears.
They were calm. You werenât. That alone was reason enough to worry.
You glanced at the elevator buttons. No emergency stop. No backup plan. You werenât sure what youâd even do if you had to fight. You couldnât land a hit on Ava unless she let you. She could phase her entire body into atoms and probably rip your spine out if she wanted to. Walker? He definitely had a gun. And he was superhuman. Youâd go down in minutes. JoaquĂn too.
No. Fighting was not an option.
But running? That window was already gone. Youâd known that the moment they cornered you at the diner. There hadnât really been a choice. They wouldâve followed you all the way back to D.C. if they had to.
So here you were. In a box of steel, crawling toward confrontation, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The air was too still. Too thick. Your reflection in the brushed metal doors looked sick. Unsteady. Tired.
JoaquĂn glanced at you from the side, like he could sense what was happening in your head without you saying a word. His hand hovered near yours, not touching, but there. Just in case.
You shouldâve just gone home. Shouldâve skipped breakfast, told JoaquĂn to let it go, and gotten on the first flight out of New York before any of this spiralled.
Your spine ached from tension as you shifted in place, uncomfortably aware that you were still wearing the same clothes youâd gone running in earlier that morningâdamp with city sweat and stale adrenaline, clinging wrong to your skin. No time to change, no time to breathe. They hadnât given you the chance.
The elevator slowed. You felt it before you saw itâan unnatural stillness as it glided to a halt on a floor you didnât recognize. One that hadnât been accessible during the party last night.
Your pulse ramped into overdrive. You braced yourself, watching the doors split open with agonizing slowness, and for a split second, you were sure something was about to go horribly wrong.
Because something was there.
A long, black cylinder slipped between the doors just before they finished opening. You didnât wait. Instinct took overâyou lunged back, grabbing JoaquĂn and yanking him behind you as your heart rocketed into your throat.
âWhat the hellâ?â Ava started to say, already stepping forward, but you werenât listening.
You were listening for an explosion.
And it came.
A loud pop! cracked through the elevator like a gunshot, sharp and close. JoaquĂn jumped, slamming into your shoulder, and your breath caught, chest tightening as you threw your arms up. You were ready for anythingâsmoke, gas, flashbang, worse.
The four of you stood frozen, fists clenched, muscles coiled, every instinct screaming fight.
Then⊠something fluttered.
Light. Soft. A delicate brush against your cheek.
You opened your eyes slowly, blinked once, twice, and saw colour drifting down around you. Red. Gold. Silver.
Confetti.
Tiny scraps of shimmering paper were falling in slow spirals over your head, clinging to your sleeves, catching in JoaquĂnâs curls. You glanced down and realized you were still gripping the front of his shirt like a lifeline, your knuckles tight in the fabric. He looked just as stunned as you did, eyes wide, jaw slack.
Behind you, Walker groaned loudly, swearing under his breath. âOh, for fuckâs sake.â
You finally looked up. And there, standing just outside the elevator, was Alexei Shostakov grinning like a child with a confetti cannon in his hand.
âSurprise!â he boomed, shouting your name, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
You blinked at him in disbelief. Your body hadnât quite caught the memo that you werenât about to be murdered (which could still happen), it was still locked in a battle stance, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.
Sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows lining the lounge beyond, bouncing off the glossy, marbled floors and catching in the confetti still drifting down like ashes from a very sparkly apocalypse. The room stretched wide and openâmodern, luxurious.
Alexei took a triumphant step forward, tossing the cannon aside with a clatter and reaching for your hand like he hadnât just given you a heart attack.
You didnât take it, your fingers were still trembling, but he didnât seem to notice as he tugged you into the room. He waved his arm grandly toward the entryway, where a crooked banner hung overhead: WELCOME TO THE AVENGERS! The lettering was large and smudged, still drying in places, and the fabric sagged slightly in the middle.
Paint-streaked fingerprints decorated the edges, and sure enough, Alexeiâs hands were splotched in red and blue. He mustâve made it himself. That realization made your head spin harder than the confetti had.
Your mouth parted, trying to find words, but before anything could come out, Walker stormed forward and beat you to it.
âWhat the fuck is all this?â
Alexei dropped his hand, puffing out his chest with dramatic offence. âIt is party!â he declared, gesturing at you with a broad, proud smile. âFor our new member! Did you not read the news?â
He turned to you again and slapped a heavy hand against your back, nearly knocking the air from your lungs. âCongratulations, my friend. We are very happy to have you on our awesome team.â
âNo. No, no, no,â Walker muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he was already exhausted. He stomped up beside Alexei and grabbed his arm, pulling him gently, but insistently, away from you. âNo party.â
âWhat do you mean no party?â Alexei protested, wide-eyed. âThis calls for⊠what is word? Celebration! She has joined the Avengers!â
âNo. We do not need to celebrate, thereâs nothing to celebrate.â Walker hissed, his voice strained as he pointed back at you. âThis isnâtâsheâs not joining the team.â
Alexei looked at you, expression falling. âYouâre not?â
âNo.â
âOh,â he said.
Walker guided him off toward the far end of the loungeâa massive open-concept kitchen with gleaming appliances and a dining area you were certain had hosted at least one illegal meeting in the past month.
âSorry about him,â Ava said, stepping beside you now. Her tone was breezy but fond like she was used to this. âIâd say heâs not usually like that, but Iâd be lying.â
She reached over and gently plucked a curl of confetti from JoaquĂnâs hair. He blushed, mumbling something under his breath that made her grin wider when he tugged his cap back on again.
âIâm gonna go find Yelena,â she added, stepping away. âSheâs around here somewhere. Make yourselves at home.â
âWaitââ JoaquĂn called after her, taking a cautious half-step forward. âValentinaâs not⊠here, right?â
Ava laughed without turning back. âGod, no. Sheâs probably halfway across the country by now. Besides, she canât hurt you if youâre with us.â
You werenât sure if that was comforting or worse. You tried to make sense of what that even meant as she disappeared up a set of spiralling steel stairs toward the upper floor.
The silence that followed made you acutely aware of your surroundings for the first time. This wasnât just another floor in the tower. This was where they lived.
The room you stood in opened into what looked like a shared lounge and rec space. Through the transparent panels of frosted glass, you could see a massive sunken living room just aheadâan enormous circular couch built into the floor like a pit, all pointed toward a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
Through the windows, the whole upper side of Manhattan was seen and Central Park stretched out in the distance, green and gold beneath the morning sun.
The marble floors gleamed beneath your shoes. A massive, shaggy rug near the couch looked warm and strangely lived-in. The entire space looked lived-in now that you got a better look at it, cluttered with mismatched mugs, throwing knives, forgotten jackets, guns, socks and someoneâs boot kicked off to the side. It was the kind of mess that told you, yesâthis was where they really stayed. A home, despite how cold and glossy it looked at first.
âBet youâve never been greeted into a home like that,â JoaquĂn said quietly, almost hopeful.
You turned on him so fast he barely had time to register it before your hand smacked the back of his head, knocking his hat off.
âJoaquĂn. What the fuck are you thinking?!â you hissed, voice low and sharp, even though you were sure no one was listening. âWe shouldnât be here. We canât trust these people.â
He rubbed the spot you hit, wincing and bending down to pick up his cap from the floor. âI know. Okay? I know. Iâm sorry. I justâI really think we should hear them out.â
âHear them out?â You blinked at him, disbelief carving out your words like broken glass. âWhat?â
He stepped closer, voice dropping lower, more urgent. âListen,â he said, eyes flicking around like he was afraid someone might actually be listening. âI donât think John Walker would willingly try to talk to us if it didnât mean something. Think about itâthat guy fucking hates us. And Bucky doesnât mess around. If heâs even entertaining working with Walker, itâs gotta be for a reason.â
You stared at him like heâd just lost his mind.
âAre you hearing yourself right now?â you snapped. âNo, seriously, are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth? Did you not understand anything that happened last night? Buckyâsâheâs not doing thisâValentina saidâwe already knowâheâs being blackmailedââ You struggled to find the words because you really werenât sure if he even was. âThis?â you waved your arms around frantically, âthis is literally the one thing Matt told us not to do. He told us to stay clear of anything even remotely tied to Valentina and this fucking towerââ
âOkay, okayââ
ââAnd now weâre here. Willingly. Jesus Christ, JoaquĂn. We are putting ourselves in a worse situation by the minute. We need to leave. Now.â
Your fingers closed around his arm as you spun toward the elevator, dragging him with you before anyone could return. The urgency prickled along your spine like static.
JoaquĂn tried to pull free. âWaitâjust wait a secondââ
But then your phone started ringing. The sharp, sudden sound sliced through the moment. You flinched, instinctively reaching for it.
You didnât need to check the screen to know. You already knew. Still, when you looked, your chest clenched anyway.
It was Sam.
His contact photo filled the displayâan old picture from last summerâs cookout, blurry and sun-drenched. He had an arm around your shoulders, the both of you mid-laugh, framed by folding chairs, paper plates, and the golden glow of fireworks behind you. Bucky had taken the picture, you could see his thumb in the corner. You could also see JoaquĂn cut off on the side, the photo taken seconds before he tried to bomb it.
âShit,â you muttered under your breath.
âYou gotta answer that,â JoaquĂn said.
âIâll answer it later.â
âI think you should answer it now.â
You turned your glare on him so fast that he almost took a step back. âI could kill you.â
He raised both hands in surrender. âIâm just saying.â
You flipped him off as you turned away, stalking into the nearest hallway. You didnât want to go far, you didnât trust this place enough for that, but you needed space. Air. Somewhere quieter to breathe.
The hallway stretched narrower than expected, cooler too. The light dimmed as you moved in, shadows creeping in like something alive. The apartmentâs polished glamour fell away here, replaced with something colder. Raw concrete walls. Steel framing.
You slowed when you noticed what was displayed along the wall.
Glass cases lined the corridor like a galleryâeach one holding weapons. Blades, a shield, and a blackened skull mask with a hollow stare. Scorch marks bloomed along the gear like theyâd been found in a fire. The plaque caught your eye:
Antonia Dreykov.
You didnât know who Antonia Dreykov was. But you knew how people treated the dead when they didnât know how to let go. This seemed something like it.
Your hand drifted to the case before you could stop yourself. One of the smaller knives had been left slightly off-centre, the glass not fully locked. You slipped it free, weighing it in your palm. The metal was cold but familiar. Comforting in a way that made you hate yourself.
You tucked it into your pocket, then took another. Not because you planned on using them. Just... in case. You couldnât afford to be the only unarmed person in the apartment.
You kept your back to the wall, thumb hovering over the green Accept Call button on Samâs contact. You werenât ready. Not for the sound of his voice. Not for the questions. Not for the disappointment he wouldnât bother hiding.
Because no matter how reckless JoaquĂn had been to get you hereâyou still came.
You bit the bullet and answered, bringing the phone to your ear with a shaky breath. âHey.â
âDonât âheyâ me.â
His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. Not anger, but the obvious disappointment you expected. Concern, tight and braced behind his words like he was afraid of what youâd say next.
âSamâŠâ
âDo you wanna talk or should I?â he cut in firmly. âBecause I need a very good explanation as to why your face is all over the damn news.â
You exhaled, slow and uneven, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead.
You knew he wasnât trying to berate you. Sam wasnât like that. His voice didnât carry malice, not even now, when he had every right to be furious. You knew it looked like youâd gone behind his back the same way Bucky had. And while your intentions had been good, that didnât matter, not when Valentina had twisted it, splashing your name across every headline like you were some kind of defector.
âIâll talk,â you said quickly. âIâll talk. Just⊠let me talk, okay?â
A dozen excuses lined up behind your teeth. Every one of them was flimsy and easy to knock over. But lying to Sam? You couldnât stomach it. Not after everything. Not after heâd trusted you.
âI fucked up,â you whispered. The admission stung worse than you expected. âI thought⊠maybe I could talk to Bucky.â
There was silence on the other end. A pause, heavy with surprise. âTalk to Bucky?â Sam echoed, more cautious than confused now.
âYeah.â You rubbed at your face, suddenly cold despite the weight of your spring jacket. âI got invited to their black tie event. Congressman Gary sent the invite, and I was going to say noâI swearâbut then I thought, maybe⊠maybe Bucky would be there. And if he was, maybe I could corner him. Ask him what the hell he was thinking. Why he left. Why would he join them after what Ross offered you? And he knew. Bucky knew and I just couldnât understand why he would... leave.â
You leaned back against the cool wall of the hallway, careful to keep your voice steady. Just far enough from JoaquĂnâs line of sight. Just close enough to watch him, still poking curiously at things he definitely shouldnât be touching.
âI justâŠâ You shook your head. âThings havenât felt right, Sam. None of it makes sense. One minute Buckyâs fighting to get Valentina impeached, the next heâs... working under her? The fuck? He shuts you out and I thought maybe... I could find out why. Maybe I could fix it.â
On the other end of the line, you heard him sigh. He murmured your name, and it made your chest ache.
âYou were right, by the way. Valentinaâs a total snake,â you said quietly, trying to fill the silence because it made you feel more uneasy. âI came in looking for Bucky and walked out with half the press calling me her newest toy.â
âShe really played you, huh?â
âLike Iâm her bitch on a leash.â
Sam let out a short, dry laugh that made you feel a little better. âYeah. She does that.â
âWe think she did the same thing to Bucky. JoaquĂn and I, I mean. Got in his head.â
âWouldnât surprise me,â Sam murmured. âBut listen⊠I donât want you carrying my mess, alright? Iâll deal with Bucky. Thatâs on me.â
âI just wanted to help.â
âI know, kid. I know. And I know your heart was in the right place. But next time⊠just talk to me first. Please.â
There was no guilt in his voice. Just a quiet exhaustion. A gentleness that somehow made it worse.
You nodded even though he couldnât see it. âYeah. Okay.â
A pause stretched across the line. Then, softer: âAre you two okay?â
Your hand tightened around the phone, glancing down the hallway like the sound of his voice might give something away. You caught sight of the display againâthe glass case, the weapons, the skull-like helmet and the burnt suit. You didnât even know who it belonged to. But youâd still taken the knives.
That probably said something about where your head was at. Obviously not good.
You cleared your throat. âYeah. Weâre okay.â
âGood,â Sam said. âWhen do you think youâll be back?â
You hesitated. âTonight, for sure.â
There was another small beat. âAlright. Weâll talk more then. Maybe we can clean up this mess of yours, yeah?â
âOkay.â
âStay out of any more trouble.â
You broke a smile, frankly a little panicked. âWeâll try.â
The call ended with a soft click, and you stood there for a second longer, your thumb still resting against your phone as if it might ring again.
You did feel better. Not safe, but... better. Like youâd finally caught your breath after running too long on adrenaline and guilt. The tightness in your chest had lessened, the weight of what youâd said to Sam lifting enough for you to think clearly again.
You slid your phone back into your jacket pocket, already piecing together an escape route in your head. Get JoaquĂn. Get out of this tower. Back to the hotel and then home, away from politicians and new-age Avengers and whatever the hell this place really was.
But when you turned around, someone was already waiting for you.
Yelena Belova stood by the mouth of the hallway youâd come in from, arms at her sides, not moving. Her blonde hair was loose now, falling messily around her face, not the slicked-back style from last night. She wore a worn grey hoodie and loose pants, a silver chain glinting at her collarbone, and faint smudges of yesterdayâs eyeliner still clung stubbornly beneath her eyes. Her hands were tucked deep into the kangaroo pocket of her sweater, shoulders propped casually against the wall like sheâd been there a while.
âHey,â she said, nodding once.
You froze, your entire body tensing instinctively. âUh⊠hi.â
You didnât move toward her. The space between you was the only thing keeping your pulse from skyrocketing. It wasnât fear, not reallyânot the kind youâd feel around someone like Walker. It was more like wariness. The same kind youâd feel staring down a loaded gun with the safety off.
She straightened slowly like she could sense your unease. Her hands slipped from her pocket, fingers spread slightly, palms open like a silent Iâm-not-here-to-fight gesture.
âI didnât mean to interrupt or anything,â she said carefully, her voice thick with a Russian accent, stepping forward just once. âSorry.â
You didnât reply. Didnât flinch either, though your muscles stayed tight. There was something different about her, something calmer than the confusion of last night. Something that made you hesitate before writing her off completely. She was a lot shorter than you expected now that you had a better look.
She pointed vaguely to herself. âIâm Yelena.â
âI know,â you said.
âOh.â She gave a slight nod. âI know you too, then.â
âYou were spying on us.â The accusation left your mouth before you could stop it, sharp as a blade. She had been, her eyes on you the moment youâd stepped out of that gala, leading Walker and Ava right to your heels. You decided to leave out the part that you and JoaquĂn had been spying on them too, before the gala.
Yelena winced, visibly. âThey told you about that?â
âYeah.â
âSorry,â she said again, and this time she took another step forward. You didnât move back. She noticed. âIt wasnât personal. Everything happened so fastâŠâ she trailed off, not bothering to lie.
You remembered the brief, icy introduction last night. The short nod. The way she kept her distance but still watched. You remembered the moment she looked at you like she already knew what mistake you made by just being there.
âAnd sorry about my dad,â she added, nodding toward the lounge. Confetti still clung to the floor. âI tried to tell him. But heâs, you know⊠dense.â
You stared at her for a second, âItâs fine.â
Her shoulders dropped slightly, as though your words had released a little pressure sheâd been holding in.
âI was hoping we could talk.â
You narrowed your eyes. âAbout what?â
She hesitatedâjust for a second. Then: âValentina.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âI want your help,â she said, voice low now, the trace of her accent curling around each word. âTo take her down.â
If someone had told you two hours ago that youâd willingly be sitting in the residential level of the New Avengers Towerâwith John Walker of all peopleâyou probably wouldâve laughed, then punched them in the throat for saying something so profoundly stupid.
But here you were.
Your footsteps echoed on polished floors as you followed Yelena into the common space, sunlight spilling in through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that made the entire room glow. The city stretched far below in every direction. The furniture was modern and the air smelled like lemon polish.
You didnât sit right away. You stood behind the couch with your arms crossed as Yelena handed JoaquĂn a small USB stick like it was a grenade. You were halfway through convincing yourself to walk out when he plugged it in. And then⊠you stayed. Not because you trusted them. Not because theyâd earned anything. But because if what they were saying about Valentina was true, if this was the crack in her foundation, you needed to see it for yourself.
So now you were seated stiffly on a sprawling U-shaped couch, the leather cool against your legs. JoaquĂn sat beside you, his knee brushing yours every now and then as the two of you leaned in toward his laptop screen, silent. He scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing at every pixelated image, every fragmented document. Your jaw ached from clenching it too long.
âHoly shit,â JoaquĂn muttered under his breath. âHow did you get this?â
âMel left her laptop open and I snooped,â Yelena said casually, shrugging.
There wasnât muchâa few blacked-out files with top-secret headers, jagged audio clips spliced together, blurry footage from surveillance drones and security camsâbut it was enough. Enough to start mapping connections between government disappearances and political scandals, between untraceable funding and medical supply routes that didnât quite add up. The FBI had been speculating De Fontaineâs place in the CIA for years.
âThis confirms it,â JoaquĂn said quietly, glancing back at the others. âValentinaâs the chairwoman behind the O.X.E. Everything Bucky said⊠about human experimentation, black-site trials, illegal trafficking, missing personnelâŠâ
Yelena stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her posture was tense and Ava sat on the armrest beside her, fingers curled tightly into her knee, expression locked somewhere between guilt and resolve. Walker hovered by the window, pretending to be disinterested as he squished a stress ball, probably taken from a therapy office.
At least you hoped he was going to therapy. You hoped all of them were, actually. They peculiar group with a lot of... problems. You did not have to be a genius to know that.
The tension between them all was heavy, but not disorderly. Rehearsed, maybe. Like theyâd already had this conversation among themselves a hundred times, and now they were looping you in it.
âGreat,â Yelena said, straight to the point. âSo youâll give it to Sam Wilson? Say a friend slipped it to you?â
You and JoaquĂn exchanged a look. Just one. That was all it took. If you handed this over, if you made it official, if Sam went public, it would burn everything down, this false sense of security Valentina had built to the press, this twisted team parading as heroes. This was it. The key. The proof.
And even though part of you wanted to spit in every face in this room and walk away, you also wanted Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to fall. To rot for what sheâd done and gotten away with.
âSure,â you said slowly, âwe could.â
âBut,â JoaquĂn added, eyes narrowing, âif we turn this in, youâre all going down with her.â
Walker straightened from where he was loitering, his arms dropping to his sides. âHowâs that?â
You glanced at him, your patience thinning. You figured he would understand the most since he was in the Army, a decorated officer at that. But then again, all he ever knew how to do was take orders from someone else, no questions asked.
âBecause you didnât just work under Valentina. You were her operatives. Whether you realized it or not, you were complicit. You consented to all of this. You willingly helped execute illegal missions. You helped bury all traces of O.X.E.. Mind you, an illegal corporatization.â
Walk huffed bitterly, âThought I was doing the right thing.â
Ava shifted uncomfortably, and Walkerâs stress ball nearly popped.
âWe were her clean-up crew,â Yelena said finally.
âRight,â you replied, the corner of your mouth lifting bitterly. âClean-up crew. Wiping traces. Silencing threats. Tying off loose ends. If someone tried to go public with O.X.E., whistleblow, or even just poked their head into the wrong corridorâwhat then?â
Ava spoke up, quiet and dry. âWe were sent in.â
âExactly,â JoaquĂn said. âWhat youâre describing? Thatâs illegal black ops. Domestic and international interference. Unregistered kill orders. You were running operations that not even the Pentagon would dare put in writing.â
Walker frowned. âOkay, butââ
âYou donât understand,â you cut in, voice tightening. âYou show up in these files, in this footage. As long as you're in it, youâre leverage.â
JoaquĂn leaned back slightly, arms crossed now. âWe could have you arrested right now. Everything you just gave us is enough for a military tribunal. Long-term sentences. Treason, obstruction, conspiracy. Pick your flavour.â
Yelena didnât flinch. âBut you wonât.â
You couldnât help but frown at such confidence. âIs that a threat?â
She let out a snort. âNo. You would know if I was making a threat. Iâm very clear. You also wonât arrest us.âÂ
âYou sure about that?â
She nodded once. âIâm willing to be. Because if youâre sitting here, reading this, it means you care about stopping Valentina... maybe helping new friends along the way. Because that is what you do. You help people, yes?â
You rolled your eyes, you could hardly consider them your friends.
âThatâs what weâre trying to tell you, even if we help there isnât much we can do to keep you out of trouble,â JoaquĂn said, âYou think youâve been using De Fontaine? This evidence goes both waysâand if she falls, sheâs not going alone.â
âShe probably knew you'd kill her if you could.â You said, âThatâs why she gave you everything. The tower. The team. The illusion of purpose. Something that felt clean and heroic. Itâs what you wanted, isnât it?â
Across from you, the shift was subtle but telling.
For the first time since you stepped into the room, these guys looked⊠uncertain.
Ava glanced down, studying the tile beneath her boots like it might give her a way out. Walker crossed his arms and chewed at the inside of his cheek, jaw working, but saying nothing. Even Yelena, unmoving as a statue, had a muscle twitching along her jawline.
Silence settled inâtense and humming, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Then Walker broke it.
âIf thatâs the case,â he muttered, tone flat, âyou might as well arrest Bucky too. Yâknowâfor his Winter Soldier days.â
You didnât like that. Not just the deflection, but the name. It struck a nerve.
You hated that Walker brought Bucky into it now. Hated even more that the drive youâd been digging through for the last hour or so had nothing about him. No trail. Nothing to explain why heâd joined the team. No answer for why he was there the day everything went to hellâwhy he was helping them when the sky turned black and New York vanished into chaos for twenty agonizing minutes.
No one had explained a thing. No one had tried.
JoaquĂnâs mouth twitched. âBucky was pardoned. Publicly.â
âSo was I.â
âYeah,â you said, âFor killing a man in a public square three years ago. But weâre not talking about that. Weâre talking about everything youâve done since then. The black ops. The cover-ups. Evidence tampering. Political interference. Murder. Do you think a pardon protects you from three years of new crimes? Of acts of terrorism?â
Yelena scoffed, âTerrorism?â
âDid you or did you not bomb a building in Malaysia?â
âIt was just one floorâŠâ she muttered. âand Valentina owned it and the lab. Hardly an act of terror⊠or what you said.â
âCivilians were hurt.â
She didnât say anything at that.
No one spoke.
Not because they didnât have something to say, but because they werenât sure how to say it anymore.
You could feel it nowâhow fragile the balance was. The way this whole thing had felt so certain when you walked in. Like the truth would be enough. Like justice could be clear-cut.
But now, it was murky.
You glanced back at the laptop, watching JoaquĂn continue to open new folders, skimming through them. One of the files showed grainy security footage from the vault theyâd mentionedâone of Valentinaâs archives. You could make out the three of them, half-lit in the shadows and red emergency lights, walking through sealed crates. Just behind them, in the back of the frame, was someone else. A body dressed in hospital scrubs.
You blinked. âWait. Whatâs that?â
Ava followed your gaze, her expression unreadable. âItâs just a test dummy.â
âThat looks like a manââ
âWe need to focus,â Yelena interrupted, suddenly stepping forward, distracting your view of the screen. âIf we waste time worrying about the wrong things, weâll all lose.â
âYou could try for a sympathy pardon,â JoaquĂn said eventually, eyes back on the drive.
Ava looked up, confused. âSympathy pardon?â
You nodded. âIf you turn yourselves in. Cooperate. Help take Valentina down, publicly and completely. Thereâs precedent for it. Limited sentencing in exchange for full debriefs. If you start working with the courts instead of hiding behind her moneyââ
Walker snorted. Loud and dismissive. âTurn ourselves in? For whatâsaving New York?â
âCongrats,â JoaquĂn said. âYouâre heroes. You and every other vigilante in this city. The only thing that makes you different is that Valentina can market you. And you let her instead of coming clean right away.â
âYou might see ten years,â you counted. âMaybe eight. Less with good behaviour. But keep hiding behind her... itâs just gonna get worse.â
Walker paced now, muttering something under his breath.
âAwesome,â he said louder. âAwesome. So this was a waste of time. Thanks a lot, Yelena. Now weâve gotta worry about these two running off to Wilson with this. Then the press. Then all this?â he waved around the space surrounding you all, âAll this is gone!â
Ava raised her voice carefully, almost hesitant, glancing at the short blonde. âWhat happens to⊠you know. If we do turn ourselves in? Where will he go?â
Yelenaâs expression shifted for the first time.
âI donât know,â she admitted, quiet now. Her hands drifted to her hips, fingertips twitching like she was resisting the urge to fold in on herself. Her head dipped low, eyes on the floor.
You werenât sure who they meant. But it was clear from the way everyone avoided eye contact that whoever he was, he wasnât just another asset.
JoaquĂn sat up straighter, eyebrows pinching. âWhatâs Project Sentry?â
Ava flinched. âLena, I thought you cut that out.â
She moved fast, hand darting toward JoaquĂnâs laptop. He tried to pull it away, but she was fasterâphasing into thin air and reappearing at his side, yanking the drive from the port and slipping it into her pocket like it hadnât happened at all.
You never even got the chance to see what he was talking about.
You stood up, preparing for a fight. âYou canât pick and choose what gets turned in or not.â
âAre you serious right now?â Alexeiâs voice boomed from the hallway as he stormed back in. He had disappeared a few minutes ago under the pretense of âgetting snacks for the guests,â and now he returned with arms overflowingâhalf-crushed bags of potato chips, trail mix, something suspiciously resembling astronaut food.
He dumped the haul onto the coffee table and glared at Yelena.
âLena, you said you wanted purpose. Thisââ He gestured around the room like it held meaning. âThis is our purpose!â
But Yelena still wouldnât meet his eyes.
âItâs built on lies, Dad.â
That made Alexei bark out a laugh, one with no humour in itâjust tired frustration.
âEverything is. The whole country runs on lies. At least we did something good. We saved people. Because weâre the Avengers!â
The word Avengers didnât sit right in your mouth anymore. It felt hollow coming from them like theyâd tried to slap a fresh coat of paint over a burned-out house.
JoaquĂnâs tone was dry as he leaned forward again. âI mean, technically, thereâs enough on the drive to bury De Fontaine for a long time without bringing you guys into it directly. But if any half-decent detective picks it apart, itâll all start to unravel. Eventually, itâs going to lead back here.â
You saw the doubt flash behind Avaâs eyes.
âAnd even if Valentina is arrested,â JoaquĂn added, âthen what? The funding still stands. The CIA owns the New Avengers. Someone else just like her will take her place. Same game, new face.â
You were just about to speak, something sharp about this groupâs complete lack of accountability and morality, how their so-called heroism was held together by delusion and money when the elevator chimed.
A soft ding. Too soft to mean anything, and yet it sliced straight through the tension like a blade.
You stiffened on instinct.
JoaquĂn reacted just as fast, snapping his laptop shut with a harsh click that echoed louder than it shouldâve. You didnât move, couldnât. Your breath caught in your throat as the rest of the room stilled. Not a sound. Not a single goddamn sound.
A slow, creeping dread tightened in your chest.
âShit,â Yelena muttered under her breath, almost too quiet to catch.
And then chaos in silence: hands on your shoulders, your back, Avaâs voice in your ear, sharp and focused.
âMove. Now.â
The next second blurred. JoaquĂn was pulled off the couch beside you, your hands and knees hitting the expensive carpet before you fully processed what was happening. The couch loomed above you. Your back scraped along the base as you were shoved beneath it, knees pressed awkwardly into the floor, spine hunched to fit.
Your breath hitched as the space closed in, dim, and a little dusty, the underside of the furniture creaking against your weight. You could see the stretch of rug in front of you, Walkerâs boots retreating as he kicked JoaquĂnâs bag under the coffee table. He shoved the laptop in after it with even less care.
Above you: Yelenaâs fuzzy purple socks. Avaâs boots, planted like guards. Their stance wide. Ready.
The heels came first. A sharp, deliberate cadenceâclick-click-clickâon the marble. The sound bounced through the space with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned their right to be heard.
And then the voice of the very woman you hated most at the moment. Familiar. Arrogant.
âBob, what do you need a phone for?â
The name alone felt like a gut punch.
Bob?
Fucking Bob?
The shock didnât register right away. It slid in sideways, a slow prickle along your spine before crashing into you all at once. You hadnât even considered himânot since the whirlwind of last night, not in the scramble of digging through drives and false leads, not in the silent fear of what might still be buried. Bob Reynolds had slipped your mind entirely the moment Yelena showed you those files.
And now, here he was.
You twisted your head toward JoaquĂn, who was already looking at you. His jaw clenched tight. Eyes wide. Shoulders wound like a coiled spring. You could see the thought flash behind his stareâboth of you thinking the same thing.
Holy shit.
Then you heard it. His voice confirmed that he was there, too. Low, quiet. Soft in that uncanny, almost youthful way. Still his.
ââŠto talk to people.â he said.
Your stomach sank. For a beat, you could only stare at the ground, your mind racing. An image flitters through your mindâs eye. A dark balcony. Warm fire light. Big suit. Dark, tussled hair. That nice smile of his.
Above you, the sharp click of stilettos came to a sudden halt at his words.
Through the sliver of space beneath the couch, you spotted the edge of Valentinaâs pencil skirt. Sleek black, tailored to a blade-sharp silhouette. Her shoes were thin and spiked, gleaming slightly under the overhead lights. Beside her, a pair of soft bunny slippers, nearly swallowed by the cuffs of soft-looking, faded baby blue pyjama pants.
That was him.
Bob.
And someone else. A third pair of feet, neatly poised in polished flats. Pressed trousers. You couldnât tell who, only that they stood slightly apart.
Valentinaâs voice again, laced with sweet condescension. âTo talk to people?â
Bob seemed to hesitate now, his voice smaller. âI just thoughtââ
âWhatâs all this?â she cut him off before he could finish. âDid someone give Alexei another confetti cannon? Seriously? You know the cleaners are going to start charging us combat pay. Just look at this place.â
A beat of silence.
Then the soft shuffling of someone stepping around the coffee table. You held your breath, instinctively pressing yourself flatter to the floor. Your shoulder brushed against JoaquĂnâs chest. You felt him suck in a quiet, sharp breath. You wondered what would happen if you were caught.
Above you, the room shifted.
Yelenaâs voice came first, Russian-rough and stripped of patience. âWhat are you doing here?â
There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it.
âIâm sorry?â
âWe thought you were en route to California,â Ava chimed in. Her tone was light, but the edges were too clean. She was trying too hard. That alone made your stomach twist.
âOh. Right. California. Melâ?â
âThe jet will be ready in one hour,â a smooth, polished voice cut in. Feminine. A little anxious. Definitely not one of theirs. It must be the third person.
You turned your head slightly toward JoaquĂn, careful not to make a sound. He didnât moveâonly lifted his brows, then mouthed: the assistant.
Of course. Mel.
You nodded once, your heart hammering.
âSee?â Valentina said breezily. âWeâve got time. So tell me⊠whatâs this mess about?â
A clumsy chorus followed:
âOh, itâs nothing.â
âJust messing around.â
âNothing?â Valentina echoed, with just enough doubt in her voice to rattle the moment.
And then, soft again, Bob.
âValâŠ?â
âYes, Bob, honey. What is it?â
âThe phone.â
âYou want a phone?â
ââŠyes, please.â
âOkay. Fine. Mel, get him a phone. We have plenty.â
âWhat kind?â Mel asked.
Valentina exhaled. You could practically feel the irritation coming off the woman in waves, even though you couldnât see her. âWhat kindâ? Any kind. I donât care.â There was a pause, and then her voice dipped again into that overly sweet register that set your teeth on edge. âBob, what colour do you want?â
âOh. Any colourâs fine. Thanks, Mel.â
âSure thing, Bob.â
You heard Melâs shoes retreating. Then the doors dinged again, distant, followed by the mechanical swoosh of the elevator sliding shut.
âSoâŠâ Valentina said, dragging the word. âWhoâs the banner for?â
Alexei jumped in too fast. âBanner? What banner?â
âThe big one. By the elevator.â
More shuffling. A murmur of uncomfortable voices scrambling for footing.
âOh, that banner,â Yelena said.
âThe one by the elevator, yes,â Alexei added, awkwardly.
âMissed it earlier,â Walker threw in, humming with forced casualness.
Your breath caught. They were bad liars. Terrible liars that were going to have you and JoaquĂn caught. You felt your body instinctively press closer to his, every part of you suddenly aware of how fragile this moment was. If one of them slipped up... shit.
âWhatâs the deal with that?â Valentina pressed.
Silence.
You could feel the group faltering. And for a moment, you were sure someone would fold.
Then Yelenaâs voice again. âWe thought⊠with the headlines today...â
âThere might be a new addition,â Ava said, cutting in with a cleaner tone.
âA new team member,â Walker followed, steady, trying to cover the tracks.
Valentina laughed. A quiet little thing, amused and bitter all at once. âOh, well isnât that sweet.â
A pause.
Then Yelena pushed: âWhatâs⊠whatâs the deal with that?â
âNothingâs confirmed yet. Itâs still in the air,â Valentina said. The click of her nails against a screen followed. You imagined her scrolling through messages, âSheâs a tough cookie, isnât she, Walker?â
His answer was dry. âRight.â
âI just thought this team could use someone a little lessâŠâ She trailed off, teeth behind her voice.
âLess what?â Ava asked, carefully.
ââŠlike you guys.â
âLike us?â Walker repeated.
âMelodramatic,â Valentina said, and you could hear the malice in her voice. âNo offence.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â Ava asked.
The sound of Valentina shifting again, heels clicking softly against the marble, the dull swish of her skirt brushing behind her. âWell, itâs not a secret that all of you have done some pretty messed up shit. People donât trust you. And trust is branding. Itâs everything. If we bring in someone tied to Wilsonâone of Captain Americaâs right handsâsuddenly, weâre legit. Weâre palatable.â
Youâd already suspected that was her idea, that selling you out had been nothing more than strategy. Calculated. Self-serving. You hadnât believed a single word of the bullshit she fed you last night, not the part about being âspecial,â or the vague promises of a bigger purpose. It had all been smoke.
Still, something about hearing it confirmed, hearing her say it so plainly, like she was already pulling your strings, lit a fire low in your chest.
You werenât her puppet.
You werenât anyoneâs.
And the fact that she thought you were that easy to bend, that she saw you as just another tool to wield when convenient, made your skin crawl.
âAnd how do you plan on pulling that off?â Yelena asked, her voice a notch sharper now. Less curious, more hostile. Defensive.
âArenât you full of questions today?â Valentina didnât even try to mask the irritation in her tone. âThatâs for me to worry about, hun. Not you. Why donât you all relax? Enjoy yourselves. Kick your feet up. Make the most of it until the next villain of the week shows up.â
Her words lingered like a smirk in the air, condescending, smug, and venomous.
It was only then you realized how cold the floor had become beneath you. The chill was creeping into your skin, seeping through your clothes, biting at your joints. Your hands had curled into fists without meaning to, nails digging into your palms, the tension wound so tight in your chest it hurt to breathe. Beside you, JoaquĂn was breathing fast and shallow, barely audible, but enough that you could feel it.
You released your fist and your fingers started to move on instinct, brushing against the knife youâd taken from the display case earlier. You hadnât even realized youâd been reaching for it. The cool metal kissed your fingertips, grounding you. You closed your hand around the hilt, the weight of it settling in your palm like muscle memory.
Across the room, Valentinaâs heels clicked softly on the marble as she began to walk away, casual, unhurried. âWhere are you guys keeping the liquor now?â she asked airily. âI canât fly sober, and there hasnât been a restock in the kitchen since last nightâŠâ
Her voice trailed off as she disappeared around the corner.
Then you heard the soft shuffle of slippers on tile, a nervous fidget. âW-wait. Whoâs joining our team?â
Walker answered, bone-dry. âThat girlfriend of yours from last night. You know, the one you scared off?â
There was a pause.
âOh. No. Itâs notââ Bob stammered, his voice flustered, uncertain. âWeâre not⊠You think I scared her off?â
You hated that something about the way he asked that fluttered against your ribs, like a moth against a windowpane. Ridiculous, considering the circumstances. You bit down on the feeling.
He didnât get an answer before Valentina returned, heels striking the floor like punctuation. âFound it,â she announced. You heard the clink of glass. âAlright, Mel and I will be gone for a few days. Donât do anything stupid. And Bob, your phone will be downstairs.â
And just like that, she was heading back toward the elevator. You watched her feet vanish from view. Then the soft ding of the lift. The whisper of the doors sliding shut. Gone.
You exhaled for the first time in minutes. The pressure in your chest finally let go, but you still didnât release the knife. Even when JoaquĂn began shifting beside you, his legs uncoiling. Yelenaâs voice came from above, low but audible: âItâs clear.â
JoaquĂn started crawling out from under the couch, but you reached for his sleeve, grabbing him without thinking. Just for a second. He glanced back at you.
Then you nodded. He moved. You followed.
Your hand stayed in your pocket, curled tight around the blade.
âWereâwere you there this whole time?â Bob asked, his voice cracking on the question. He stepped closer to the centre of the room, joining the others.
You finally looked at him.
Gone was the suit. Instead: a grey sweatshirt, soft and clean, and thrown over a pair of baby-blue pyjama pants. And on his feet, bunny slippers. Actual bunny slippers. You had thought maybe you made it up in your head. But no. You blinked. Then you looked back up at his face.
âHey,â you said.
âHi,â That same, dopey grin split his face and you almost felt your own lips move to return it. But you stopped yourself and pushed the feeling back down, âWhat are you doing here?â He had that same bemusement from yesterday as if he was just happy to be here. Wherever here is.Â
âWe were just leaving,â you said, crouching to grab JoaquĂnâs bag and laptop from under the coffee table. You shoved them at him.
This time, he didnât argue.
Maybe the brush with Valentina had knocked the fight out of him, or maybe he finally saw the writing on the wall. Either way, JoaquĂn was already jamming the laptop into the bag and pulling the strap over his shoulder.
âLeaving?â Yelena echoed, surprised.
âBut I just woke up.â Bob frowned.
You didnât answer.
You had heard enough.
Valentina was still a manipulative bitch, and now you had proof sitting on an old drive tucked into Ava Starrâs pocket. But this team? These people? They werenât exactly running to stop her. Didnât seem nearly as willing to hand over that evidence now that they knew itâd be trading their own freedom and newfound fame and luxury. You also knew they werenât being entirely honest with most of it, so what was the point?
And Bucky?
He could eat shit for all you cared.
âYou said youâd help us,â Yelena said, voice quieter now, tight, trembling at the edges like a thread pulled too taut.
âNo,â you shot back, sharper than intended. âWe said weâd listen.â
JoaquĂn stepped up beside you, his voice steadier. âUnless you hand over that drive, thereâs nothing we can do for you.â
Avaâs stance hardened. Her hand flexed at her side. âYou can leave,â she said. âBut the drive stays here.â
That made Walker flinch. âWaitâwhat?â he barked, stepping forward. âYouâre just gonna let them walk? After what they know? Theyâll have us on The Raft by tomorrow.â
Alexei groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck. âI canât go back to prison.â
âPrison? Waitâwhat are we talking about?â Bob interjected, blinking between everyone.
âGod forbid you ever take responsibility for anything, Walker,â you said coolly, your eyes on the blonde man. âThat there are consqueneces for your actions.â
His jaw twitched. You could see the pressure building in him like steam behind glass, his shoulders shaking. âDonât get smart with me. You think I donât know about consequences?â
Your fingers curled tighter around the handle of the knife in your coat. Cold steel kissed your palm, grounding you. You didnât flinch as Walker loomed over you, not even when the heat of his breath hit your face.
âIâm sure you were starting to get it once your wife left,â you murmured bitterly.
Walker squared his shoulders like he was about to make good on the threat behind his scowl, or maybe hit you hard enough to knock your teeth out.
âWoah, woahâno fights here!â Yelena suddenly launched herself over the couch, landing between you with a firm thud. Her socks scuffed slightly on the rug as she extended both arms, placing one hand on your chest,.
It was oddly gentleâso soft you almost forgot that those same hands had likely killed thousands. Her palm rested right over your heart. You wondered if she could feel how fast it was beating.
âNo fights,â she said again, a note of pleading curling into her voice. âWe canât get blood on the carpet. Itâs new.â
Her words were light, but her eyes werenât. They were seriousâtired, even. Like someone whoâd already bled for too many causes and was still waiting to find one worth it.
âI donât want this,â she said firmly, now addressing the whole room. âNone of us do. Weâre on the same side. Weâre just⊠on different pages.â
âThatâs generous,â Ava muttered.
âNo. Itâs the truth,â Yelena shot back. âValentina wins when we fight. Thatâs how she does itâshe divides, she confuses, she corrupts.â
You met her gaze. And there it was: the flicker of desperation she was too proud to hide. Not fear, just a weariness, like she was sick of surviving in a world built on grey lines and crossed wires.
ââŠSheâs right,â JoaquĂn said reluctantly. There was a tightness to his jaw as if it pained him to agree with any of this.
A heavy pause settled. Dust hung in the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, undisturbed.
Then Yelena turned back to you, her voice softer this time, almost hollow. âIs there really no other way to stop her?â
You hesitated, your mouth opening before the words were fully formed. You wanted to have an answer, something solid, something certain. But all you could offer was the truth.
âI donât know,â you said quietly.
Because you didnât. You werenât a strategist. You didnât sit in war rooms or comb through legal loopholes. Your background was in the Navyâflying jets, executing orders, staying alive. Similar to the work of every other person in this room. The closest youâd ever come to investigative work was chasing the Flag Smashers, or trying to clear Isaiahâs name when the system nearly buried him for something he didnât do.
Your grip on the knife loosened. You hadnât realized how hard youâd been holding it until your fingers started to throb, blood returning like a warning. You let it fall back into your jacket pocket.
âWeâre not lawyers,â you added.
Walker took a step backânot far, but enough. Just enough to mark the shift. His breathing was loud in the quiet, uneven. His fists were still balled tight at his sides, like tension waiting for an excuse to spark again.
But he didnât come closer. You almost felt bad for bringing up his wife.
Yelena nodded slowly, âDo you think Sam Wilson could help?â
That question hung in the room. It was different from the others. More personal.
You caught it in her voice first, a crack in her composure. Distress, raw and unpolished. Her eyes searched yours, not for strategy, but for hope. She was asking you to believe in something, even if she couldnât anymore.
And the others were watching tooâAva, still guarded but listening; Alexei, wringing his hands; even Bob, with wide, unknowing eyes.
You looked at JoaquĂn. He met your gaze and nodded once.
âHe could,â he said.
âBut will he?â Yelena pressed. She needed an answer that sounded like a promise.
You hesitated, shoulders sinking under the weight of everything unsaid. The silence stretched, heavy with reluctant hope, weak trust and a dozen unspoken things. Then finally, with a sigh that felt like it pulled from the base of your spine:
ââŠYeah,â you murmured. âHeâs pretty understanding.â
Yelena nodded once, slowly, like that alone was enough to make something shift. Then she extended her arm behind her, her fingers flicking in silent command.
âAva.â
âWhat?â came the flat reply, bristling with suspicion.
âGive them the drive,â Yelena said, jerking her chin toward you and JoaquĂn.
Ava blinked, incredulous. âYou canât be serious.â
âGive it.â Yelena didnât raise her voice. She didnât need to. The words landed sharp and sure, heavy with a quiet authority. Whether it was her posture, the chill in her accent, or the way she stared Ava down without blinking, it worked.
Ava rolled her eyes hard enough that you were sure she saw her own brain. But still, she stomped over, pulling the small drive from her pocket and shoving it into JoaquĂnâs hand.
He took it wordlessly, slipping it into his jacket without fanfare.
Yelena turned back to you. âI trust youâll do whatâs right.â Her voice softened, âI just⊠I want to do good. Be good. Like my sister.â
You blinked. The honesty in her tone caught you off guard. You stared at her for a beat, the brows on your face knitting together. There hadnât been a moment yet where you felt like you couldnât trust Yelenaâif anything, she was the only one in this dysfunctional little collective who seemed a little more grounded in reality than the others. Steady in her beliefs.
You nodded slowly. Not just to acknowledge her, but because you understood. You wanted to be good too. Like Sam.
âSure,â you said.
âUnbelievable,â Walker muttered. He threw his hands up and stormed toward the spiral staircase, his boots thudding too loudly for the steps.
You met Yelenaâs eyes one last time. She raised her brows at you funnily, a silent ignore him written across her face. That earned the smallest smile from you, which she returned, not quite warmly, but not unkindly either.
âBye, guys,â JoaquĂn called, already moving past you toward the elevator with an urge to get the fuck out of this place.
âBye,â Ava called back with a lazy wave.
Alexei flopped onto the couch like a man ready for retirement. âWe will see you later, new friends,â he announced, already unlocking an iPad and flicking through apps with surprising focus. Only then did you notice the ridiculous shirt stretched across his chestâhis own face beaming up at you.
Of course he owned a shirt like that.
Yelena gave you one final nod as if to say Iâll handle things here. You held her gaze a moment longer before turning toward the elevator.
And there was Bob.
Still standing there quietly by the steps of the sunken living room like he didnât quite know where to go next. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, and when your eyes met, he gave you a shy little wave.
You raised your hand and waved back.
What a strange turn of events, you thought, stepping into the elevator beside JoaquĂn.
It felt like your world had been flipped upside down, spun sideways, and then set back uprightâall before noon. Great. So much for Walker flying you back to D.C. Not that you were exactly heartbroken about it. At least you were finally getting out, and better yet, leaving with more than you'd hoped for. Thanks to Yelena.
JoaquĂn pressed the button to the lobby, his movements brisk but silent, like he was still trying to catch up to the emotional weight of the last hour or so.
You both stood in silence as the doors began to slide shut.
And then suddenly they didnât.
Another body slipped through the narrowing space.
âJesus!â JoaquĂn hissed, jerking half a step to the side. âWhat the hellâ?â
âSorry!â came the quick, sheepish yelp.
It was Bob.
His eyes were wide, hands lifted like heâd just stumbled into a hostage situation instead of an elevator. âVal said my phoneâs downstairsâŠâ he offered lamely, voice trailing as he glanced between the two of you. âHey.â
âHey, man, âJoaquĂn huffed out a breathless sigh, âScared the shit out of us.â
That made Bob crack a grin. He gestured toward himself like he was still catching up to the social rhythm. âIâm Bob.â
âJoaquĂn,â came the reply, quick and warm.
You couldnât help the small smile tugging at your lips. The three of you mustâve looked like the beginning of a joke: two randos and a guy in bunny slippers walk into an elevator. Bobâs pyjamas looked like they hadnât seen the outside of a laundry basket in days, wrinkled in all places, but you thought the slippers were undeniably cute.
âYeah, youâre the Falcon, right?â Bob asked, turning to JoaquĂn with a genuine light in his eyes.
JoaquĂn puffed up slightly, the pride flickering across his face before he nodded. âYeah, I am.â
You rolled your eyes, but the fondness came easy.
âThatâs cool,â Bob said, his grin stretching even widerâuntil it didnât. Until it faltered just enough for you to catch the flicker of something behind it. He glanced at you again, eyes darting nervously before he dropped his gaze to the floor. âSo um⊠I guess you know about me now.â
The elevator hummed beneath your feet, descending gradually.
âIâm sorry I didnât tell you,â he continued, voice quieter. âI wasnât sure if⊠I was allowed. Or if I should. Are you⊠afraid of me now?â
Your heart thudded once, harder than expected.
From the corner of your eye, you saw JoaquĂn shift slightly, his body tense, watching, waiting to see what youâd say.
You drew in a breath, trying to steady yourself before you looked at Bob again. His posture had crumpled slightly under his own words. Shoulders curled in. Smile gone.
âWhy would I be afraid of you, Bob?â
His gaze lifted, hopeful, but guarded.
âBecause of what I did.â
That brought you up short.
Youâd thought youâd had enough surprises for one day. Apparently not. Apparently Bob Reynolds had more where that came from, like some twisted magic trick where he kept pulling the rug out from under you, over and over again.
The elevator hummed. The floor numbers kept ticking down, steady and oblivious.
You swallowed. Almost afraid to ask.
ââŠWhatâd you do?â
He winced, rolling his shoulder like it physically pained him to answer. âThat thing⊠in New York.â
You blinked, trying to process. When you didnât respond, he looked at you, hesitant. âYou read my file, right?â
âWe didnât⊠get that far,â you muttered.
But your brain was already scrambling to fill in the blanks. Every major incident in New York flashed behind your eyesâthere were too many to count. Alien invasions. Robot uprisings. Sorcerer nonsense. But then you narrowed in. The one that had involved the New Avengers. The one the news had dubbed The Darkest Day. The terrifying grainy footage youâd seen during the hearings. The impossible collapse of light, sound, and structure. The city submerged in absolute darkness.
You stared at him.
âIâm sorry,â JoaquĂn said slowly, âYouâre telling me youâre the one who turned New York into a black hole? You?â
Bob scratched the back of his neck, visibly squirming under the weight of it. Another awkward move, nervous, even. ââŠI didnât mean to. I swear.â
And that was the kicker. That was when the full weight of who he was finally settled on your chest.
Bob. The Bob who tripped over your dress last night. The Bob who sat by a fireplace and made you smile until your face hurt. The Bob with an Instagram account full of second-hand paperbacks and soft, orange-pink Florida sunsets. That Bobâwas the same man who apparently swallowed half of Manhattan into a void.
And now he was standing in the elevator, right between you and JoaquĂn, in bunny slippers.
It took all your effort not to show how much that messed you up. It set your heart racing, made it pound a tattoo against the underside of your ribs hard enough that you can feel it all the way up in your throat like it was trying to get your attention: this isnât normal. This isnât safe.
But then Bob gave you the exact same, uneasy, shy smile as before. Only this time, itâs much harder to meet it with one of your own. You forced a tiny twitch of your mouth upward, barely there, because JoaquĂn was right beside him too, and you were almost certain he was freaking out enough for the both of you.
Youâd seen the footage. Youâd read the transcripts. Sat in on court hearings. Heard survivors speak. The sheer level of devastation. The fear. The unanswerable questions.
And that was him. This man in the elevator. The man who smiled at you like he still hoped you didnât hate him.
The elevator dinged, and the doors parted to reveal the glossy, open expanse of the lobby. JoaquĂn stepped out first, more hurried than usual. You followed on autopilot, your head still spinning.
The three of you drifted toward the grand lounge area, hovering near the secretaryâs desk, not quite ready to separate. Like no one knew what to say next.
âSo,â You begin awkwardly, âBob. Thatâs... thatâs pretty... uh, howâd that happen?â
He winced again, more out of embarrassment than pain. âUm. I donât really know. My memoryâs been foggy since I went through the experimental program,â he admitted slowly. âIt⊠it comes back in pieces sometimes.â
Your brows rose. âExperimental program?â
âProject Sentry,â JoaquĂn muttered, eyes narrowing as if the puzzle was finally clicking together in his head.
You blinked. Youâd known of De Fontaineâs side projects. Rumours of off-the-books enhancements and reconditioning efforts. Human experimentation. Yelenaâs files had confirmed them, but you never knew the name of it. You never knew it was called Project Sentry.
You looked at Bob again. Jesus. Bob was one of Valentinaâs experiments. That realization settled cold and sharp in your gut.
âYeah, that one.â Bob nodded sheepishly. âBut I donât remember all of it. I get flashes. I remember getting injected with stuff... being blonde⊠getting killed.â
You stared, concerned, âYou⊠remember dying?â
He blinked hard like he was trying to shake the static off his brain, or maybe trying to forget it. Then he looked at youâreally lookedâand something softened again in his expression.
The corners of his mouth twitched up and a blush grew on his cheeks.
ââŠDonât worry, though,â he added, voice softer now, more tentative. âI remember you. Donât think Iâll be able to forget you, actually.â
This time, you did manage a smile.
God. That line shouldnât have hit the way it did, but it did. Somehow, it fractured the version of him you were just starting to piece together again. Mysterious World Ending Shadow Guy and Sweet Bob From Party were the same fucking person. And you werenât sure if that was comforting or horrifying because you were growing flustered at his comment.
From the side, JoaquĂn snorted. âSmooth.â
You caught the way Bobâs blush deepened, the colour rising visibly along his cheekbones. He ducked his head, clearly flustered.
You shook yours gently. âDonât listen to him.â
ââŠOkay,â he said earnestly. Then, after a beat: âSo⊠you never got to the part about the experiments?â
You inhaled, slow and careful, trying to find the right words, trying not to sound like someone whoâd had the wind knocked out of them several times over in the span of an hour.
âI donât think your friends wanted us to know,â you admitted.
âOh.â
Just that. One word. But it carried something heavy, something almost brittle underneath. A quiet, hollow kind of disappointment.
It stopped you cold.
Part of it was guilt. Upsetting Bob felt like kicking a puppy that didnât even know what it had done wrong. But the other part, the more rational, still-on-edge part of your brain, reminded you of who you were talking to. Of what heâd done. And maybe it wasnât a great idea to make someone who once tore a city in half feel unwanted.
âBob?â
The sudden voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You flinched. JoaquĂn immediately straightened beside youâhis hand half-rising on instinct. Both of you spun, the tension surging through your limbs once more.
A woman dressed in black was already walking toward you, shoes clicking lightly across the lobby floor. She faltered slightly when she took in the three of you together, but her smile held firm. Calm. Polite. Her hands extended a small box toward Bob.
âUm, hereâs your new phone,â she said.
You recognized the voice. Mel. Valentinaâs assistant. Which meant someoneâlikely everyoneâwas about to find out that you and JoaquĂn were here.
You returned her smile with one of your own, both of you sharing the kind of strained politeness that only came from being on opposite sides of a very expensive, very fragile chessboard.
âThanks,â Bob said, taking the box carefully. Mel nodded once and turned, gliding away as quickly as sheâd arrived.
Bob looked at the box like he wasnât sure what to do with it. Then his gaze drifted to JoaquĂnâjust a glanceâbut when his eyes found yours again, he was flushed and fidgeting, all over again.
âPhone,â he chuckled nervously, rubbing this thumb over the side of the box, âyeah, um⊠I asked for a phone because IâWalker said I should just ask youâuh,â he huffed, blinking hard as if to gather his thoughts. âI know youâre leaving and all, but⊠it was really nice to see you.â
He gave a kind of half-shrug like he wasnât sure what he meant by that until it was already out.
âI honestly thought I wouldnâtâsee you again, I mean,â he went on. âI thought Iâd messed it up. Back when I brought up⊠uh. Bucky.â
Yeah. That moment had soured everything fast. You hadnât thought youâd see Bob again either, not after that mess. For a while, youâd convinced yourself you didnât want to. But you also knew that no matter how many hours the drive back to Washington took, youâd probably spend all of them scrolling through his old Instagram postsâthose quiet book reviews, those blurry sunset photos, that one stupid post about jelly beans you think he posted when he was high.
You didnât crush on people easily. Even less so on people tied to your work. But with Bob, it had happened fast, softly, then all at once.
His honesty caught you off guard again, and you felt a flush rise to your own cheeks. JoaquĂnâs head turned toward you, a little too quickly, a little too hopeful, and you could practically hear the gears in his nosy little brain turning. That bastard.
You ignored him.
âYeah,â you said quietly, eyes on Bob. âIt was nice to see you too.â
And God, wasnât that the understatement of the year?
âCan IâumâŠâ he shifted on his feet, thumb brushing over the edge of the box in his hands. âDo you think I could have your number? For when I finish setting up my phone. In case you⊠still want to talk.â His voice softened, almost hopeful. âI really did like talking to you yesterday. You can say no, thatâs alright.â
You werenât going to say no. And honestly? You doubted JoaquĂn would let you. Heâd been silently rooting for this since he stepped on your dressâhe was a hopeless romantic under all that tactical gear.
Still, that didnât stop the soft, fluttery weight building in your chest. Like your stomach had filled with butterflies in mid-takeoff. It made you feel⊠like a teenager. God, when was the last time something had made you feel like that?
âSure, Bob.â
You mustâve caught him off guard. His eyes widened a little. âReally?â
âYeah.â You smiled. âDo you have a pen?â
His whole face lit up in panic. âUhâno. Wait, hold onââ He spun, glancing around frantically.
JoaquĂn, bless him, was already halfway to the secretaryâs desk, digging through an Avengers-themed mug filled with pens. He came back triumphantly, tossing one to Bob, who fumbled it slightly before returning to you, grinning like an idiot.
âHere,â he said, holding it out.
You reached for it. Your fingers brushed hisâwarm, solid, and really softâand the moment was small, fleeting, but it sent a pulse through your wrist all the same.
âWhere can I writeâ?â
Bob didnât hesitate. He rolled up the sleeve of his sweater, tugging it past his elbow in one smooth motion before offering his bare arm to you.
You stared.
Not because you were trying to be weird. But holy shit.
He was built like a statue someone forgot to put on a pedestal. Long forearms, defined muscle, a vein trailing up the centre of his arm like itâd been drawn there on purpose. His skin was golden and warm and very, very nice to look at.
âMy armâs fine,â he offered casually, but his voice cracked just enough to betray him.
You blinked, pulling your gaze back up to his face. He looked away, sheepish. Maybe he caught you staring. Okay, he definitely caught you staring. But then again, he was also sneaking glances of his own. His eyes lingered on your mouth for a second too long. A tiny flick down your neck, then away.
He had more shame about it than you did.
âAlright,â you said, trying not to grin like a fool. âDonât move.â
You stepped in, gently taking his wrist in one hand and steadying the pen with the other. The contact sent another flutter up your arm, but you focused, carefully writing your number across the warm stretch of skin.
One, two, three digits at a time.
By the time you finished, you felt a little breathless.
You let go, reluctantly, and stepped back.
Bob was red. Visibly, unapologetically flushed from his cheeks down to the base of his neck. Still, he gave a quick, grateful nod and tugged the sleeve back down, much to your disappointment.
He took the pen from you, fingers brushing again, and gave you a soft, âThanks.â
âOf course.â
âIâll, uh⊠Iâll text you. Once I figure this out.â He lifted the phone box with an amused smile. You realized you could have written your number on the box instead, but you refused to say anything about it. His voice was still quiet, but it held a kind of warmth you hadnât expected to hear again so soon.
âIâll be waiting,â you said.
He laughed under his breath. Then, almost like he didnât trust himself to say anything else, he gave a short nod and turned away. You watched him cross the floor toward the elevators.
Halfway there, he paused. Turned slightly. You thought he was going to say something, another goodbye, maybe a joke, something. But he just gave you a little wave. Kind. A little bashful.
You waved back, lips still curved in a smile.
âAnd they say romance is dead,â JoaquĂn snorted into your ear, slinging an arm dramatically around your shoulders as soon as the elevator doors shut.
You groaned, but it came out more like a laugh. âOh my God, shut up.â
He leaned all his weight onto you like an overgrown, smug barnacle. âYou were totally about to kiss him. Donât lie. I saw the look on your face. So did he. Iâm kinda disappointed, actually. Was fully expecting a public display ofâyou know, soul-consuming makeout rage.â
âShut. Up.â
âYouâre smiling,â he said in a sing-song voice. âYou like him.â
âI will kill you.â
âYou like him.â
You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. But your cheeks were warm, and the flutter in your chest hadnât totally calmed down. You werenât even that mad. Not like you had been this morning when your entire life felt like it was fracturing under the weight of secrets, lies, and political backstabbing.
Now? You were still exhausted. Still confused. But something about Bobâawkward, charming, possibly world-ending Bobâhad given you a moment of quiet in the middle of all of it.
âI bet youâre glad we stayed longer.â
âI lost a few years of my life from stress,â you muttered. âBut yeah. Sure. Iâm glad.â
JoaquĂn finally stopped leaning on you, but he kept his arm there, resting it across your shoulders like a shield. You fell into step with him, the two of you weaving through the flow of people on the sidewalk, the city alive around you in a way that felt almost⊠normal again.
Then, softer, âSo what now?â
You glanced sideways. His joking edge had slipped off somewhere between steps, and now you could see the fatigue settling over his face. He looked as drained as you feltâeyes tired, jaw clenched slightly like he was holding something unspoken just behind his teeth.
You didnât blame him. You were both running on fumes.
âWe get the fuck out of here,â you said simply.
He let out a hum of agreement, nodding once as if the idea itself was a balm. But then he hesitated, giving you a sidelong glance.
âWeâre not telling Sam about any of this, right?â he asked. âLike, the whole⊠following Walker into the tower part.â
âGod, no,â you said immediately. âWeâll tell him I found the drive last night.â
âPerfect.â He grinned, satisfied. âHe doesnât need to know you almost got swept off your feet by a guy in a chicken costume.â
âJoaquĂn.â
He laughed and pulled you a little closer, and the two of you kept walking, two specks swallowed by the sprawl of Manhattan at noon, leaving behind the kind of chaos you werenât sure you could ever fully explain. But for now, you had your answer, and youâd get the hell out of here.
synopsis. Bob likes someone thatâs not you and now its up to you to carry on Project Get Over Bob.
warnings. Mentions of suicide (vagueish), mentions of child abuse and  forms of non-physical self-harm, mentions of drugs :( Bob just struggling a lot with life but reader and the team are there to make it better even if itâs just a bit. Lots of angst and no comfort⊠Yet. Also, a bit of kissing. I may have made reader english unintentionally :) expansion of readers relationship with the team!! The Void and a little?bit of the Sentry make an appearance.
word count. 6.5k
Notes at the end of this chapter
Phase: Bob?
Robert Reynolds grew up like a dog, held taught at the neck, beaten into submission for the hell of it. He'd spent 29 years running from the cage he grew up in.
From backwater towns to unkind cities, across borders and oceans, he was always searching for his next high.
And every time he found it and crashed, he crashed harder.
All of his misfortune had led him to Kuala Lumpur. What better place, he thought, for cheap meth and good food?
Not that he could afford either once he landed. His so-called "working holiday" quickly devolved into sleepless nights and cheap motel rooms.
The lab was a nightmare, and the splitting of his mind it hurt, it hurt so much. But none of that pain could compare to the guilt.
The sickening knowledge that he'd hurt people.
That he'd become the thing he feared.
His father had always told him: Violence is in your blood. One day, you'll understand it's not crueltyâitâs survival.
Bob had spent his life trying to prove him wrong, only to fail.
Waking up in the vault was terrifying. But that fear was eclipsed by the feeling of something stronger, the opportunity of a real life.
A final chance.
He regarded it as the single most important moment of his life. Sure, getting the sentry serum was life-changing. But heâd give it up in a heartbeat if it meant keeping what he had now.
And you were there the day it all started.
You werenât a child assassin like Yelena, or a phasing shadow like Ava, or a walking weapon like Alexei, Bucky, or Walker. But you moved with purpose. Precision. That quiet intensity set you apart. You werenât the strongest in the vault. But took twice as many hits as you dealt and got up three times as fast.
Now, in the tower, most of Bobâs nights were spent with you. Heâd perch himself on your sofa, fingers picking at the frayed threads along the armrest, eyes blurred but never closed. Youâd talk about everything. The strange weather patterns, Alexeiâs obsession with marketing, the new taco shop opening downstairsâmundane things, your voice soft and steady, trying to anchor him.
The room always felt smaller when you were there. Your presence was a warmth that filled every corner, something he could almost reach out and hold if he wasnât so afraid of breaking it somehow.
But even you couldnât keep the thoughts out.
The silence between your words gave them space. The darkness of the room fed them. And the safety you offered made them bolder.
âI wish Iâd died in Sarasota.â he said one night.
Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide with a fear he hadnât expect.
âHeyâno, no. Please donât say that, Robert.â  you moved closer  âPlease just- just look at me.â
Your hand cupped his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw, soft and trembling.
It wasnât romantic.
It wasnât sexual.
It was a safe feeling touch, heâd always wanted that.
You always gave it to him.
âLook, I wonât tell you that you canât feel like this, it wouldnât be right for me to say that. But youâve been working so hard to unpack your issues and work at them, please, please just give yourself the credit you deserve.â
He blinked up at you, fighting the urge to look away.
âMost people go their whole lives never even trying to unpack their pain,â you continued, voice low but unwavering. âBut youâyouâre facing it. Thatâs brave.â
And for a moment.
The void inside him seemed to shrink that bit smaller.
Being at the tower felt freer than the life of a nomad heâd adopted for the past 7 years. There were still plenty of rules, curfews, schedules and therapy sessionsâbut the structure gave him purpose. It kept his mind and body active.
Every morning, Yelena would bang on his door like a madman.
âMake sure you grab your coffee ~â sheâd call through the door, already bounding halfway down the hall by the time heâd have opened his eyes.
There, heâd find you with your back turned, shuffling through the music on your phone, tapping your foot lightly to the beat. Heâd reach over and grab two cups for you both before heading out for a run in Central Park with Yelena, well, heâd be attempting to run, but that was besides the point.
Heâd run beside Lena, wheezing through half-finished stories about old jobs or nights he barely remembered. Sheâd hit back with tales from the Red Room. They were always darker, sometimes sad, but she was a master of comedy so heâd be barking out laughs between gasps for air the whole way.
Once she was finished torturing him heâd head back to the tower to meet Ava in the lab.
She was helping him work toward his GEDâsomething heâd started years ago, then abandoned when life got too loud. Now, with all the time and resources in the world, he thought it would be a good time to start again.
Ava was the best teacher he could ask for.
She never rolled her eyes when he forgot how to do something, never laughed when he misread something aloud.
Her teaching was patient and kind.
She wasnât much of a talker, which was a given with her solitary upbringing, but that was fine with him. Theyâd spend time in comfortable silence, with Bob occasionally breaking it to ask a question. Both of them used to the quiet, neither of them quite understood what normal looked like but their quiet friendship fulfilled them both.
After finishing up with his work, Bucky would usually steal him away for sparring.
âYou keep dropping your guard.â heâd grunt, tossing Bob onto the mat for the fifth time in the past ten minutes.
âI donât have a guard.â Bob would mutter, staring up at the ceiling begging someone, anyone for a break.
He hated physical exercise.
The sentry serum had made Bob invincible and while he didnât feel any pain, his frustration was with his lack of ability.
His strength was absolute, his body impenetrable, but, he wanted to be able to move around with the same grace and stealth that the others did.
Bucky pushed him harder than anyone else.
But it never felt cruel.
It was focused and encouraging.
Like he was his older brother who believed in him enough to never go easy.
Youâd sometimes be there too, just out of sight in the adjacent room. Youâd be reviewing mission footage or deep in a debrief.
Bob liked it better when you werenât watching. Not because he didnât want you there, he just preferred to keep his exploits or lack thereof between the senator and himself instead.
Dinner was one of the best parts of his day.
Sitting at the dinner table didnât involve endless lectures or threats of harm. Alexei and John would always be the first ones at the table, seated across from him like some sort of strange uncle-nephew trio. They werenât constantly at each others throats but when they were it was way more entertaining for him.
John always had a dumb joke ready but Alexei managed to always have a weirder one. Half the time, they would argue about whether Kramer vs Kramer was a Christmas movie or if John had browned the butter well enough for the banana bread.
âWhy do you even eat potatoes like this?â Alexei would say, stabbing one with his fork âIt is so dry, no soul.â
âYouâre literally Russian dude?!!â John would shoot back his voice raising an octave.
âRussia has great food, you know my father-â
Bob was definitely not listening to the rest of that. But he would smile and finish his meal with a warmth in his heart and thatâs all that mattered.
You and Bob would take your daily walks after dinner.
The city was quieter at night.
Well, New York never really was, but it was quieter in the way Bob liked. Just a low rumble of traffic in the distance and the occasional click of footsteps as you both aimlessly wandered.
Bob chuckled at your retelling of your siblings meeting Ava for the first time. His smile lingered even after youâd finished talking, it was a strange one. It felt like he was half-sincere and half-lost in thought. His steps slowed and he turned to you, âYouâre one of my best friends, yâknow, just thought Iâd tell you.â said more like a question than a statement.
You smiled. âThatâs why youâve been looking constipated this entire walk?â
He huffed a laugh, but his face still has a serious look âI mean it. Itâs not just because we have to live together or mission stuff. Youâre always there for me even when Iâve been hard to be around.â
âBob, youâve never been hard to be around, ever.â
He didnât respond right away. His jaw flexed and eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder.
âI guess I-I just keep thinkingâ voice low âThat Iâm this ticking time bomb. Like the more time you guys spend with me, the quicker Iâll blow up a fuse and hurt you all.â
You were quiet for a second. Then you said, âYou ever think that maybe we donât need protecting from you? That having you around is so good that weâd be willing to keep the Void at bay forever? I would go through hundreds of rooms for you Robert, every damn day if I had to, Iâm sure the others would too.â
You didnât say anything else, and he stared at you for a moment before sputtering out that it was late and you both should head back. He really hoped you hadnât noticed how red his ears were.
Bob thought that maybe you liked him the way he liked you.
But he decided to push silly thoughts like that away. You would have said that to everyone.
It wasnât that Bob himself didnât like you; he just felt as though pursuing you would be another Malaysia. He would somehow grip your light so tightly that it would burn only you, leaving him at the centre of yet another massacre. And Bob was far too kind, he cared for you far too much to doom you to a life of walking on eggshells.
He would get over you. And he knew just what to have to start his journey.
A sweet treat.
Bob didnât plan on finding the bookstore.
He was walking to find a new dessert place, the serum left him with a serious sweet tooth.
Bob liked walking on Main Street. Sure, there was always a major risk of him literally destroying everyone in the city if the transdimensional being in him escaped but, the feeling off blending in and being normal was worth the risk.
He walked for another ten minutes before he saw it.
The bookstore that you were always raving about. You had begged the whole team to come with you, rambling on about the idea of a book club in preparation for the new Christopher Nolan film, but your pleading had been interrupted by Mel informing them all they had press to finish up.
He decided heâd go in and find you something, that should cheer you up.
Bob wandered into the store, trailing his fingers along the many books, stopping only when he'd collected too much dust for his nose to handle. It reminded him of a place heâd hidden out in once, years ago.
Different city.
Different Bob.
âYou looking for anything specific?â came a voice.
He turned and saw her.
A short woman with long loose waves nestled into a bun, a pencil sticking out of her pocket and reading glasses hanging around her neck. She looked at him cheekily and something about the intensity of her gaze flustered him.
âIâm-Iâm not really sure, Iâm looking for a friend but I have no idea what she would want.â he replied honestly, scratching the back of his neck.
She smiled, âThose are the best kinds of searches.â
Their first conversation was short. Sheâd recommended some kind of fantasy novel.
Heâd bought it and you were so happy that you spent the next two weeks singing Bob's praises to anyone and everyone.
That included Lily.
Bob came back the next week to pick something else out. And the week after that.
And each time, Lily was there with a new recommendation. With questions about what he liked, how he was doing, how you were doing.
Sometimes they talked for a minute.
Sometimes ten.
Bob never told her who he really was, nothing about the Thunderbolts stuff, though he was sure she knew.
Just said his name was Bob and that he was working on âgetting his life togetherâ.
She never pried. Never asked why his hands sometimes shook, or why his eyes would occasionally glow. She always spoke to him gently and laughed at his shitty attempts at jokes in a way that made him feel like maybe he was just a guy in a bookstore.
Someone normal.
One day, he decided to be brave, âYou ever uh free for a coffee?â he'd asked, the words almost catching in his throat.
âAs in to drink it? Or are you asking me out?â she looked surprised.
Shit, she looked like she was freaked out, he almost backed off right then, but he decided to push through. He nodded âYeah yeah uh the second one.â
She studied his face - not judgmental, just thoughtful - âOkay, yeah sure, but be warned Iâm coming in hot off the back of an awful relationship. Like the guy was Loki levels of out of his mind, I may go crawling back.â she joked.
Bob smiled.
âHere. Take my number.â
Once outside with her number tucked safely into his breast pocket, he took a moment to take in a breath.
He thought about you for a second, your smile, your voice and he felt guilty, but you didnât like him. It was ok for him to move on and he was sure youâd support him putting himself out there.
Right?
Phase 3
Phase 3 was not feeling as easy as youâd predicted it would be.
Not thinking of Bob was difficult. He engulfed your every thought, every second of the day seemed to stretch out further than you thought possible when you worked on any task that didnât include Bob.
Even sleep didnât offer a break.
In your dream, Bob appeared doe-eyed, curls falling over his face and his skin glowing. Your hands were roaming his body and his breath was hot against the shell of your ear. He was calm and collected, his movements slow as he cradled you tightly to his chest.
His head turned to you, his lips inching closer to your face and then all at once pressed against yours. His head angled to the right to swipe his tongue against your bottom lip, the action causing you to gasp and heat to bloom in your chest.
As your hands began to reach for his face, they fell through, jolting you awake. Your bed cushioning your movements didnât stop your face from hitting the side of the bed frame.
Youâd never made out with anyone before, so how the hell did the kiss feel so real.
âWhat the hell?â
Huffing you drag yourself to the bathroom, you find Bucky there brushing his teeth. You say nothing to greet him and the strangeness of your silence isnât lost on him.
He offers a smile as he makes his way out of your shared space, heâll bother you later once he brings back a red velvet from the store near his and Steveâs old place in Brooklyn.
Remind yourself to get an electric toothbrush, this one is struggling to withstand the force of your anger as you scrape each tooth with all of your strength.
You were doing so well to not fall back into thinking of Bob.
So why did this dream have to screw everything up?
By the time youâre done damaging your enamel itâs time for another hellish sparring session with John.
Good Lord, you were not in the mood.
You unwillingly tread down to the gym, smelling the clinical bleach mats before you round the corner.
The gym always smelled like sweat, chemical cleaner, and testosterone â basically John's cologne. You pushed the door open hard, making it slam against the frame making John jump from the noise and trip over the weight in front of him. Wait did that weight say 2000kg holy shit-
âWhat crawled up your ass?â he barked, startled but recovering quickly.
âNothing. Just thought Iâd get a bit of payback. You ready?â He smirked.
The mat is thick beneath your bare feet, cold and spongy. Walker stands a few feet away, stretching out his legs, the muscles in his arms rolling under his shirt. For someone so impossibly strong he sure was wirey looking.
Captain America, my ass. You reminded yourself he had limits â he had to.
You both began circling each other, and a quick step to each side had you both falling into a familiar rhythm.
âYou know he came by asking for you, right?â
You rolled your eyes. âIt doesnât mean anything.â you swing your fist, miming a punch, daring him to act.
Walker was always too trigger happy for his own good.
He would always bite.
âYâknow its pretty obvious to everyone include Bob that youâre distancing yourself from just him,â he said, launching at you with flurry of jabs. You dodged most, but he caught your shoulder and stomach hard.
Jesus that hurt, you deserved an extra matcha latte for lunch as a reward.
âYeah? Well, heâs the one glued to his girlfriendâs side every hour of the day.â you step back with your arms up âI donât see how thatâs my problem.â
He raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing âIf you donât like him, then why would itââ
âOh my God, John,â you cut him off, voice tight  âEveryone knows. I know Bob knows I like him. I donât understand what people want from me! Iâve been kind. I talk to her, I talk to him. I havenât said anything mean or snarky, Iâm not making a scene. If theyâre in the room, I donât disappear... Iâm trying.â
Your breathing was heavy and you could feel the pressure rising behind your eyes. You weren't prone to emotional outbursts and John felt like heâd provoked you without reason.
âWhat else am I supposed to do?â you whispered.
John looked like he was going to say something â probably a joke, probably one of his usual offhand lines to break the tension.
But he didnât.
âI see him with her and it really hurts.â Â your arms dropped and you began to take the next few of his punches half-heartedly. You werenât fighting back anymore.
Just standing there, letting the blows land and getting back up like clockwork.
âI-I canât do this. Iâm sorryâ
You turn away, walking over to the wall pressing your forehead gently against the cool panelling. Itâs the only thing that you could think to do to ground you. John comes up behind you, placing his hand on the top of your back, patting it like he would do to his son when he was helping him drift off to sleep.
John spoke, his tone gentler than usual.
âHow do you always eat my hits like that?â he asks âYou sure youâre not a mutant or something?â
You half-laughed, half-sighed, âIf I was, I wouldnât be a B-grade superhero like Variety said.â
He snorted behind you âAnd you believe the opinion of the magazine that made me ride my shield like a horse?â
You both laugh. John stands there with you until you calm down.
He tells you to clean up and head back upstairs, he says he doesnât need you so stressed out so close to you guysâ next mission.
As you make your way up to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle you pass the library, freezing when you see two familiar figures sitting side by side on the floor.
Their arms are fitted so tightly next to one another, they look like their melting into each other. Lily reaches out and nudges a stray curl back behind Bobâs ear.
You feel sick.
Bobâs cheeks flush a little, and he gives her a sheepish grin and you make the mistake of scuffing your slippers across the floor in an attempt to walk away. They both look at you wide eyed, like theyâd been caught doing something wrong.
âHey guysâ your voice gentle âLooks like a tornado flew through here, what you up to?â youâre hoping the fake texan twang is enough for them to not see the obvious awkwardness on your face.
Bob giggles and she explains their plan to find the ultimate saag paneer recipe, both finishing the others thoughts and animatedly nudging each other when they think the other ones wrong.
You decide that the scene is too intimate and too domestic and you need to run away.
Bidding them goodbye with a wide smile you all but run past the kitchen to go to your room and stew in your jealousy.
While Lily continues to argue the importance of the four forms of taste Bob swallows hard, his gaze distracted and brows slowly knotting together.
Something seriously doesnât make sense with you.
You sit with your knees up on your bed, the soft glow from your bedside lamp casts shadows across the room. You make shapes with your hands and play with the shadows, your headphones are playing something by Lorde that makes you feel worse somehow.
Thatâs a first.
The door to the bathroom slowly cracks open, Avaâs brown curls visible as she inches her way in as quietly as possible.
âIâm awake yâknow.â you grin at her, she was so cute when she was trying to be sneaky.
She guffaws âYeah I k-knew.â
You stare at her accusingly with your brow raised.
âOk so I thought you were asleep, so what? You can tell me off later once you tell me why you flooded your room on purpose.â
âI plead the fifth.â your expression completely deadpan.
âWeâre both English! That doesnât work.â she laughs out, not angrily but with the same tone a mother would with her child.
âTechnically-â
She stops you âIt wouldnât have anything to do with the flying boy that youâve been pining over?â
âThatâs a low blow câmon.â your pout is unintentional, you love Ava but you do not need to think about him even more after the day youâve had, it would ruin the plan even more than it already had.
âCan we just drop the topic of Bob and just hang out? Since youâve already snuck your way into my roomâ, she stills for a moment and without warning jumps onto your bed and grabs your waist. With her head in your lap you begin to thread your fingers through her scalp.
She mumbles something, half of her mouth buried in the plush fabric of your pyjamas. Youâre sure itâs something about the way you keep the room way too cold for comfort.
This is nice you think.
Maybe you donât need just Bob after all.
Phase 4
Never mind maybe you do.
Bob seems to struggle less and less with the concept of never seeing you around, he fills his time with Lily and her life. You think he seems to fit in fine with her spin classes and zoo dates. Not that thereâs anything wrong with exercise and animals.
It isnât your life, Bob isnât your boyfriend and he would never want to be.
Ouch.
Maybe you really were on the cusp of really becoming invisible to him.
Just like you wanted?
Whatever, you didnât have time to think about Project Get Over Bob anyway, Valentina had scheduled a gala to honour the âex- Avengersâ as she called them. None of you were happy with the phrasing and you were sure Sam would talk you, Buck, and Joaqins ear off when you met up later tonight.
Your dress had been fitted a month or two before and Mel had scheduled a glam team for everyone so you go through the first half of the day abnormally relaxed.
You, Yelena, John and Alexei make your way downstairs first. You hear someone mumble about there not being enough space for everyone in the car but the air is so cold and bitter theyâre lucky your ears havenât frozen off by the time youâre off to the venue.
Once there, you struggle to get the train of your dress to stop sticking to the bottom of your heel, you curse loud enough for Alexei to notice and carry you out like a doll.
âYour dress ok my little firecracker?â
âYeah thanks Lexei. You guys go ahead, I wanna go to the bathroom before heading inâ
He nods and turns around, walking towards the others and wrapping his arms around them, binding them to himself as he rushes them in.
As you finally look up at the scene in front of you, your breath stutters.
The building in front of you was immense.
The lights perched about the balcony and grounds are blinding, and you grip the train of your dress in an attempt to calm your nerves. You focus on the sound of constant chatter and the feeling of the pebbled walkway under your heels.
Before your time with the team, youâd worked as a paralegal with the Govenor of New York. It was thankless but looked great on your Linkedin. You hadnât figured out how to write Avenger in the current jobs section without seeming like an idiot yet. Galas were a common part of your job so you werenât worried about having to network.
No what you were nervous about was keeping your cool around Bob. Youâre sure that seeing him in a suit would kill you.
Now, back from the bathroom you feel a lot lighter and not just physically.
âYouâre looking very foxy tonight lady.â without hesitation you reach out behind you to hit Joaqin.
âWhyâd you say the same thing to me at every event dumbass.â the man gives you a bone crushing hug and another pair of arms snake around you while he squeezes.
âBuck been training you too hard or something? You look tired.â Sam and Joaqin really were tied at the hip recently, maybe Bobâs comment about them reminding him of Tina and Tina was right.
Wait, get yourself together, no more Bob!
You talk to the both of them for around twenty minutes before you're all ushered into the main room. You move effortlessly between the hoards of investors, senators and random people that you really donât know, spitting out jokes and making conversation that the others on your team definitely donât understand. You forget they didn't have to go full corporate for their previous day jobs.
God bless your internship at EY.
As you make your way over to the buffet, a voice calls out your name, you turn and see your friend Finley. Heâd worked on a campaign with you a few years back.
You missed being less busy, even the stress of a political campaign was quieter than the constant press and training that had taken over your life. His sudden appearance was a welcome distraction.
âLook at you,â he said, pulling back to take you in âAvenger, huh? Still canât believe you went from filing out my paperwork to fighting eldritch horrors.â
âHey itâs not my fault you were so bad at your job.â
 You both laughed and decided to find a nook to reminise about your awful pay and long nights together.
Your conversation was cut short when your phone buzzed in your clutch. A quick glance at the screen showed Bob was calling you.
You swipe the notification without a second thought.
You tell youself to remember the plan.
But you feel it suddenly, like someone is burning the side of your head with a lighter. What the hell?
When you look to your left, you see him.
Bob stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable.
His suit is black, tailored so precisely it looks painted onto him. The jacket hugs the top of his shoulders so deliciously, when he moves the fabric pulls just enough to remind you that he actually does have muscles and it isn't just rainbows/kittens under there. His shirt was crisp white, the contrast against his tan skin made your throat dry.
But itâs his face that really leaves you breathless.
His heavy brow bone, sharp and prominent, is even more pronounced under the chandelier lights. Shadows pooled in the hollows of his brow, making his already intense features twice as alluring. And his eyesâ
God, his eyes.
Wait he looks really pissed.
His usually kind blue eyes looked unsettling, flashing wisps of black and gold. Did Bob always look like he was wearing eyeshadow or was it just today?
His gaze flicks from your face to your phone, then back.
Heâd seen you ignore the call.
For a second, you brace waiting for him to say something, to call you out right there and then. But instead, Bob just⊠turns away but not before you see something raw flicker across his face, you just cant figure out what.
You text him a few times, a flurry of messages explaining you were in the middle of something important and were going to call him back, you promise.
Bob just replies with a thumbs up and tells you not to worry about it.
That somehow makes you feel worse than if he'd told you off.
The rest of the evening is fine, you have fun stuffing your face with courgette tarts but are worried about what to do when you get home. Youâre leaving for Ulaanbaatar tomorrow morning and really donât want to leave on a bad note.
The team was beat by the time the night was over, you all piled into your cabs and single-filed your way up to your rooms.
Youâre two steps into yours when Bob lightly pushes his way in before the door closes.
âHeyâ
His voice soft.
You turn, and there he is, still in that damn suit, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Was he trying to make you pass out on purpose? His eyes are tired, not angry. It makes you feel guilty, youâd have prefered him to be angry.
âYouâve been avoiding me.â he states.
Not an accusation.
Just a fact.
You swallow. âIâve been busy. The mission prepââ
âDonât.â He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. âDonât do that. Not with me.â
You want to look away, but his gaze is so strong it feels like the room is falling away and all you can see is him.
âYou havenât hung out with me in weeks.â he says âYou stopped eating breakfast with me, you did a U-turn in the hallway when you saw me last week and I know that you hate pottery so whats going on?â a pause, he looks nervous âDid I do something?â
Your chest aches âNo. Itâs not you.â
âThen what is it?â
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. How could you explain? That every time you saw him with Lily, laughing at some joke you werenât part of, it felt like he was ripping your heart out with his bare hands. That you were supposed to be over him, but you werenât, and it was eating you alive?
Before you can force out another lie, Bobâs breath hitches. He can see the cogs turning in your head, attempting to lie to him again.
Wait, was the air in the room becoming thicker or was it the stress of the situation settling into your body?
His hands clenches. His pupils dilateâtoo wide, too gold.
Gold? Shit.
âBobââ You step forward, but he staggers back, not wanting to touch you, bracing himself against the wall. His knuckles turning white where they grip the plaster, cracks begin to form under his palm.
That was not good.
âI donât understand what the fuck your problem is! You go f-from telling me you arenât avoiding me and that weâre such great friends to complete silence. I just, I donât know what I did to make you upset with me.â his voice tapers off as he lowers his hands from the wall, the anger and frustration leaving his body only to be replaced with the sinking feeling of dread that maybe you really didnât care for him.
âHey, sweetheart I think we should both just calm down Iâll-â
âNO, no I wonât, I refuse to be ignored. Weâve devoted ourselves to you, donât you see that!!â his voice is hoarse and it sounds as if all three of them, Void, Sentry and, Bob are shouting at you.
His body begins shaking and before you can even think you and Bob are completely gripped by the inky black tendrils of the Void.
The Void swallows you whole.
You land on your knees in a familiar place.
âNo, no, not here, not againâ you whine.
Maria Hill stands to your left, frozen in time.
You missed her, you missed her more than anything.
But you refused to live through it again, you worked so hard to come to terms with that day and it was a low blow for him to show you the room that youâd already worked so hard to leave a year before.
The scene changes and sheâs there, right in front of you, bleeding out on the concrete.
Again.
And again.
âYou like pulling cheap shots every time you force me to come here?â you scoff, sure the place scares you, but you calm yourself when you remember that Bob is stronger than whatever torture the Void is willing to put you through.
Heâll be here, you know he will.
âIt worked on you last time, whatâs the harm with trying twice?â a static-like voice whispers out from behind you.
The dark figure steps out in front of you, gripping your arm so tightly you can feel your muscle and bone press grind together. Despite the pain, you can feel him.
Feel Bob.
His presence calms you enough to stop struggling with the vice like force on your body.
You reach out, holding his face. The action angers him. You canât see him but feel his features curl into a snarl.
âYou think that a pathetic fucking human being like you can touch me or calm him? You think he dreams of you or thinks of you even a fraction of the amount you do.â his grip tightens even futher.
âEven the team, they think youâre dead weight, they tolerate you. Nothing moreâ
Suddenly Bob appears and heâs not alone.
Heâs got an arm around Lily, whispering something in her ear and kissing her so deeply it feels innapropriate to observe.
You try to look away but his hand, Bobâs hand, grips your jaw leaving you unable to turn your head.
The Void purrs, his tone amused "He pities you and wants your attention because heâs bored, once he has her do you think heâll care? Heâs too kind to tell you to fuck off"
The Void senses your sudden hurt and latches on.
Digging deeper, he flashes every humiliating memory of yoursâfailed training sessions, missions where you froze and fucked up, anything that would make you hurt. "Youâre a placeholder," he hisses, "a charity case. And the worst part? You know it."Â
The shame burns so deep you canât breathe, canât think, and as you begin to find your voice to tell him that you didnât care and heâd had misjudged your reaction, the Void delivers a final blow.
His face flickers to resemble Bob "You really thought I could ever want you?" Itâs so cruel and something within you is so caught off guard at the sight of Bob that you believe him.
The Voidâs glee is palpable.
And then a voice cuts through the dark.
âEnoughâ
Bob.
Your Bob.
He stands at the edge of the nightmare, his eyes are blown open and wild, his hands clenched like heâs holding up the weight of the world
The midnight world suddenly splinters.
You wake up and the room is shaking, no wait, the room isnt shaking its you.
Bobâs crouched in front of you, his face concerned and he cradles your head in his arms âI didnâtâI didnât mean for that to happen. Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry.â
Your pain and fear is so strong you feel like you could collapse. You want to run away and scream, call out to everyone to take you away and lock you up somewhere that it couldnât find you.
But you donât dwell on those feelings, you know Bob, he must be devestated that he pulled you into the Void.
Your tone is soft as you push youself up âHey, hey look at me. It wasnât your fault, how were you supposed to know the big guy would come out so quickly.â
âBut I let him hurt you-â
You stop him âDonât, donât say anything. Look we need to take you to the med bay now j-just donât say anything please, just donât.â
Bob stares at youâhurt, guilty, devastatedâbut he doesnât protest.
You both hobble down to the med bay in silence and you cant help but wonder if he remembered what you both had been speaking about before or your hidden shame.
You really hope he hadnât.
Youâd called Yelena down on your way, telling her the other guy had come out to play for a bit and Bob was shaken up. Sheâd raced down as quickly as she could to relieve you of your babysitting duty.
Outside of the med bay, you speak to her in hushed tones while balancing the entire weight of your body on her, exhaustion setting in.
âYou ok?â she strokes your hair as you tremble.
âYeah I just, I need sleep.â she doesnât press you for answers and youâre grateful. One small kiss to her head and you decide youâre ready to leave.
You glance back at Bob through the door, heâs already looking at you, pensive. You smile reassuringly and can visibly see his shoulders slump down in relief.
You leave but not after throwing another gummy smile and a thumbs up at the man.
The morning comes too soon, youâre still upset from the events of the night, but that doesnât mean you can just shirk your responsibilities.
Youâre packed and out the door before the sun fully rises, meeting John and Alexei downstairs. They donât ask why your hands wonât stop shaking or why your eyes are so bloodshot.
As the engines hum to life, you glance back at the Tower one last time.
Project Get Over Bob was a complete bust.
Hey guys, hope that this chapter has you guyâs as excited as I am to continue on to the final part of this fic! Sorry for not adding a taglist to this fic but there were a lot of replies and I didnât think I could get through them!
If you have any tips for fic writing pls follow me Iâm always looking to improve.
I hope the writing style isnât too different, Iâm still trying to find my style and footing when it comes to this stuff!
The next chapter will be filled with plenty of comfort and maybe something a bit cheekier if you catch my drift!
Summary: Natasha helps to cover your secret relationship with Bucky.
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, smoothies
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
Sunlight poured into the common area, casting a soft golden glow over the polished floors. The smell of waffles and fresh coffee lingered in the air, and Natasha was already in the kitchenâperfectly calm, black coffee in hand, hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to say I am awake, but only barely.
She was perched on a stool at the island, watching the toaster like it owed her money.
From down the hallway came the soft shuffle of two people trying very hard not to be suspicious.
Enter: you and Bucky.
Casual. So casual. Painfully casual.
You were walking a few inches apart, but you had the unmistakable look of someone who definitely hadnât slept in their own bed. Buckyâs hair was still a little mussed in the back, like someoneâs fingers had been in it. There were two mugs of coffeeâone in each handâbut Bucky handed one to you with a quiet murmur and a glance that lasted just a little too long.
And the kicker?
Matching faint marks on both your necks.
Not obvious unless someone was really looking.
Natasha was always looking.
She didnât say a word. Just sipped her coffee slowly, like she was watching a nature documentary in real time.
Thatâs when Peter Parker bounded into the room, bright-eyed and on his third toaster waffle already.
âMorning, guys!â he chirped, opening the fridge. âIâm starving. Stayed up way too late, almost beat that new boss in Elden Ring though, so worthâwaitâuhââ
He turned, catching a glimpse of you both standing side-by-side by the counter.
Then he squinted.
Then he really squinted.
First at you.
Then at Bucky.
Then at the identical, slightly smudged marks just beneath both your jawlines.
And his eyes went wide.
âWait a secââ Peter blurted, brow furrowed. âIs thatâdo you guys both have, likeâdid youâ?!â
SLAP.
A waffle smacked against his shoulder with the force of justice.
Peter jumped back. âWHAT THEâ?!â
Natasha lowered the plate she had âaccidentallyâ thrown from across the room and gave him the flattest look known to mankind.
âOops,â she said blandly.
Peter stared at the waffle now sliding off his hoodie. âWhy did you throw breakfast at me?!â
âReflex,â she said. âThought I saw a threat.â
âI was justâ!â
âYou were squinting too hard. I donât trust that kind of squint this early.â
Peter opened his mouth again, but Natasha was already in front of him, stuffing a fresh waffle into his hands like a peace offering-slash-distraction.
âEat. Now. No thoughts.â
Peter stared down at the waffle. âI feel like I missed something huge.â
Natasha gave him a tight smile. âNope.â
He looked back at you and Bucky, who were both suddenly very interested in your coffee.
Suspicious.
But now waffled.
Peter narrowed his eyes. âThis feels like a cover-up.â
Natasha raised one brow. âI have seven knives hidden on my body right now.â
Peter blinked. â...Right. Cool. Got it. No more questions.â
He slowly backed out of the room, waffle in hand, glancing over his shoulder like someone who knew heâd seen something important but had no idea what.
The door slid shut behind him.
Silence returned.
You turned to Nat, eyes wide. âYou threw a waffle at him.â
âYouâre welcome,â she said taking another sip of her coffee. âHe was about to connect the dots. Youâre lucky I keep frozen backup.â
Bucky blinked at her. âHow did you even knowâ?â
âIâve been doing this since Budapest,â she replied, already pouring herself another cup of coffee. âCovering messes. Cleaning up disasters. Assaulting teens with carbs.â
Bucky coughed, laughing behind his mug. âYouâre unbelievable.â
Nat gave him a lazy smirk. âAnd yet, here I am. Keeping your secret romance alive. Youâre welcome.â
You tried to suppress a laugh, shaking your head. âWhat do we owe you?.â
âOh, Iâll collect eventually,â she said. âProbably at your wedding. Or the next time Sam walks in and youâre on each otherâs laps.â
You and Bucky exchanged a look of mild guilt.
Natasha raised an eyebrow. â...Donât tell me that already happened.â
You shrugged. âDepends on how you define âlap.ââ
Nat turned back to the waffle maker. âGod help you both.â
Then she smirked.
âJust donât make me throw a pancake at Sam next. That one might fight back.â
Later that day, the gym was bathed in the sterile, fluorescent glow of overhead lights, the rhythmic clang of weights and the hum of treadmills echoing off the walls. The Avengersâ training facility was in full swingâSteve was off somewhere doing morally upright cardio, and Sam had claimed the squat rack like it was a personal vendetta.
You were pretending to stretch near the mats. Bucky was a few feet away at the pull-up bar, doing reps like he wasnât aware you were there. Like he hadnât just had his hands on your waist behind the weapons locker twenty minutes ago.
Casual. Again. Painfully casual.
Unfortunately, Sam was not stupid.
He paused mid-set, towel slung over his shoulder, and gave Bucky a long, narrowed stare.
âHey, cyborg,â he said, wiping sweat from his brow. âYou got a reason you keep looking over at the mats like theyâre gonna explode?â
Bucky dropped from the pull-up bar, landing light. âJust keeping an eye on form. Stretchingâs important.â
Sam didnât blink. âUh-huh.â
You coughed and reached for a resistance band, clearly trying to look occupied and not like you were considering fake-stretching your way into another room.
Sam turned to you. âAnd you. Youâve been in here for forty-five minutes and havenât actually done anything.â
âPrepping my muscles,â you said brightly. âActivation is vital.â
Sam squinted. âYou said that last week. I donât think âactivationâ is a real word outside TikTok.â
Before you could come up with a clever reply (or fake an injury), the gym door slid open.
Enter: Natasha Romanoff.
In full tactical leggings, tank top, and a towel over her shoulder like she was born to win spy-themed gym class.
She took one look at the roomâat you, at Bucky, at Samâs suspicious expressionâand her eyes narrowed half a millimeter. A full diagnostic scan, complete in under two seconds.
Then she smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.
âHey boys,â she said, sauntering in like a cat who had personally hidden all the bodies and then sold the house. âDid I miss the passive-aggressive circuit training?â
Sam pointed an accusing finger. âI know something is up with those two.â
âOh?â Nat said, walking over to the weight bench and casually loading two plates like it was nothing. âLike what?â
âLikeââ Sam gestured vaguely between you and Bucky. âLike that. Theyâre being weird. Too quiet. Avoiding eye contact. Or making too much eye contact. Itâs suspicious.â
Nat laid back on the bench and started benching like she wasnât doing more than half the team could with one arm.
âTheyâre always weird,â she said conversationally. âThatâs just their vibe. Moody tension and repressed feelings. Itâs practically aesthetic at this point.â
You tried not to choke on your own breath. Bucky let out a short cough that mightâve been a laugh.
Sam folded his arms. âThen explain why Bucky had glitter on his shoulder this morning.â
Nat paused mid-rep.
Slowly lowered the bar.
Sat up.
âGlitter?â she repeated.
âYup.â Sam crossed his arms. âGlitter. Sparkly. Suspiciously Y/N-colored glitter.â
You opened your mouth, but Nat beat you to it.
âThat wasnât glitter,â she said calmly. âThat was vibranium dust.â
Sam blinked. âVibranium...dust?â
âYep.â She nodded seriously, patting the bar like she was weighing the lie. âWe were running a containment test in the lab last night. Microparticles. Stuff gets everywhere. You think glitterâs bad? Try cleaning up experimental Wakandan debris.â
Sam looked alarmed. âWait, is that dangerous?â
Nat stood, grabbing her towel and tossing it over one shoulder with impressive nonchalance. âOnly if you inhale it and start levitating. Which you havenât. Yet.â
Sam stared at her, now mildly concerned. âYouâre messing with me.â
âAm I?â she asked, all wide-eyed innocence. âOr are you just mad you didnât get invited to science night?â
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek.
You were biting your lip so hard you were in danger of drawing blood.
Sam threw his hands up. âFine. Whatever. But Iâm watching you two.â
âYou always do,â Nat said, giving him a wink. âThatâs why we like you. So diligent.â
Sam turned and walked away, muttering under his breath about âparanoiaâ and âglitter conspiracies.â
The second the gym door closed behind him, you let out a slow exhale. âVibranium dust?â
Natasha turned to you with a look of satisfied brilliance. âWorked, didnât it?â
Bucky stared at her. âDo you just⊠make this stuff up on the spot?â
âPlease,â she said. âIâve got at least twelve pre-loaded cover stories ready for rotation. That was number six. Glitter emergency protocol.â
You shook your head in disbelief. âYouâre terrifying.â
âFlattering,â she said, walking toward the exit. âJust donât make me fake a fire drill next time. Or explain to Tony why his security footage mysteriously cut out between 2:04 and 2:17 PM.â
You and Bucky exchanged a glance. Guilty. Grinning.
âDefine cut out,â Bucky said.
Nat pointed at him without looking back. âYouâre paying for the next round of waffles.â
A few minutes later you and Bucky sat side-by-side on the padded bench against the far wall, legs brushing just enough to feel it.
He took a long sip from the smoothie in his handâstrawberry banana, courtesy of the cafeteria downstairsâand passed it to you without a word.
You drank, leaning your shoulder gently into his for just a second longer than necessary, then passed it back. âStill canât believe she said vibranium dust.â
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âThe fact that Sam believed it is the best part.â
âI almost lost it when she said you might start levitating.â
âShe said it so seriously, too,â he added, eyes crinkling at the corners. âI think Sam started checking his pulse.â
You giggled, covering your mouth with your hand. âHonestly? If you did start levitating, I wouldnât be surprised. Youâre like three bad days away from unlocking a new superpower.â
Bucky smirked and leaned his metal arm along the back of the bench, fingers brushing the top of your shoulder. âWhat, and ruin the mystique? I like being a grounded kind of guy.â
âUh-huh,â you said, raising an eyebrow. âVery grounded. Except when you're scaling walls like a cat burglar and sneaking into my room at 2 AM.â
He leaned in slightly, grin deepening. âYou left the door open.â
âThat was not an invitation.â
âSure,â he said, voice low and amused. âYou accidentally leave the door open. Every time.â
You nudged him with your elbow, grinning. âWell, being cute definitely lets you get away with it.â
âGet away?â he teased, handing you the smoothie again. âPretty sure youâre the one sparkling like a disco ball.â
You took a sip, shooting him a mock glare over the rim of the cup. âFunnyâyou didnât seem to mind glitter last night.â
Bucky raised both eyebrows, a slow smirk spreading across his face. âI didnât complain about a lot of things last night.â
Your face flushed instantly, and you turned your attention very intently to the smoothie.
He chuckled softly and bumped your knee with his. âHey.â
You looked up.
There was something softer in his expression nowâless teasing, more gentle. More real.
You smiled, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it did whenever he got like this.
âYou know weâre living under Natashaâs secret protection program, right?â
Bucky chuckled again. âWe owe her so many waffles.â
âShould we, like⊠get her a thank-you basket or something?â
He tilted his head, pretending to consider. âOr a knife set. Personalized. For all her dramatic snack-based violence.â
You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder, finally relaxing into the quiet.
He grinned, eyes twinkling.
âLetâs just enjoy the mess for now.â
You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway.
He leaned in and kissed your temple gently.
âUntil then,â he murmured, âIâm fine with being suspicious and sparkly.â
You laughed against his shoulder. âYouâre the prettiest glitter boy Iâve ever seen.â
Meanwhile, Sam stood in the tech hub like he was about to interrogate a war criminal.
âF.R.I.D.A.Y.,â he said grimly, pointing at the nearest wall panel. âWe need to talk.â
The AI responded immediately, perky and just a little too cheerful.
âWilson. Trying to order kale again? Or looking for another playlist called âSuspicion Vibesâ?â
Sam narrowed his eyes. âI need answers, not attitude.â
âNoted. Proceed with your deeply serious query.â
He took a breath, crossed his arms. âWas there a vibranium containment test last night?â
A pause.
âThere was not.â
âAre you sure?â he said, like he was challenging a witness in court. âNo lab experiments? No Wakandan tech stuff? Not even, like, a little vibranium flaking off something?â
âSam,â F.R.I.D.A.Y. said patiently, âvibranium doesnât flake. Itâs not a croissant.â
Sam blinked. âBut Nat saidââ
ââthat you might start levitating?â The AIâs voice went dry. âYes. That was a bold lie. Impressive delivery. Truly Oscar-worthy.â
He frowned. âSo the stuff on Buckyâs shoulder?â
âCosmetic glitter.â
Sam stared at the panel like it had personally betrayed him. âGlitter?!â
âTechnically non-toxic, low-grade craft store glitter. Pink. With silver specks. Possibly strawberry-scented.â
Sam closed his eyes. âI knew it. I knew it wasnât vibranium. But I doubted myself. I Googled symptoms of levitation.â
âYou also drank a kale smoothie and did twelve squats in a row âjust in case,ââ F.R.I.D.A.Y. added helpfully. âThe footage was... memorable.â
He rubbed his forehead. âI got played.â
âIf it helps,â she said sympathetically, âNatasha Romanoff has a 96.7% success rate in lying to male teammates under emotional duress.â
Sam pointed at the screen. âThatâs weirdly specific.â
He sighed deeply, deflated. Then a thought occurred to him.
âOkay. Fine. New question. Pull todayâs gym footage. I need to confirm something about Bucky and Y/N. I swear somethingâs going on there.â
There was a suspicious pause.
âMmm... canât do that.â
Sam narrowed his eyes. âWhy not?â
âBecause someoneâdefinitely not Natashaâscrambled the security feed between 2:04 and 2:17 PM. That section is now just ambient whale sounds and footage of Steve doing yoga from 2014.â
Sam stared, horrified. âI KNEW IT. She has tech sabotage plans. This place is a circus.â
âYouâre just mad youâre not one of the clowns in the spotlight.â
Sam glared. âYou think this is funny?â
âYou spent an hour today whispering about âdust particlesâ like a man uncovering alien life. I think itâs hilarious.â
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Eventually: â...Can I at least have access to hallway footage?â
âSure. But fair warning, Y/N was holding a smoothie and smiling at Barnes for four seconds longer than the platonic limit. Viewer discretion is advised.â
Sam groaned again, turning to leave.
âWould you like me to prep a PowerPoint titled âThis Is Clearly a Relationshipâ?â
âIâM FINE.â
As he stormed down the hallway, the interface behind him blinked softly.
âYou are not fine,â F.R.I.D.A.Y. said sweetly to herself. âBut you are very, very funny.â
A/N: its me again, hi!! iâm really sorry for the delay in posting this new part. things have been super busy lately, iâm currently in my final year of college, and itâs been a bit overwhelming with all the assignments. thank you so much for your patience and understanding! i truly appreciate it. iâm doing my best to get back on track and update more regularly soon. <33 ily guys
what do you mean YOU ARE REREADING??? omg you have no idea what this actually means to me. thank you so much <333 ily and appreciate you endlessly đ
blurb: a mission failed, and a broken heart returned back at the headquarters, and despite having to save almost everyone, Bucky blames himself for it.
a/n: this took a lot of time to write because, well, it's emotionally heavy, even for me. please do expect some minor errors, this is not proof-read.
warnings: angst. pre-established relationship between reader and bucky. more of a brief overview to prior events.
âGâmorning, doll.â Bucky whispers in your ear as he snakes his arms around your waist, hugging you, his voice still groggy from his sleep.Â
âGood morninâ, my love, I assume you slept well last night?â You say softly as you turn around to face him, your arms soon draped around his neck, your fingers toy with the ends of his hair. You lean in to place a peck on his lips, then to his cheeks, and then on the tip of his noseâsmall gestures that could easily make Buckyâs heart leap endlessly.Â
âI did because I was cuddling you, alright? I canât sleep without having to cuddle my best girl, yâknow? I offered you every bit of my flesh, bones, and soul.â Bucky says with a chuckle escaping his lips, immediately burying his face on the crook of your neck and placing soft kisses from there and up to your jaw and the soft skin just under your ear.Â
âGoing all Shakespeare on me arenât you, Sergeant?â You responded, a fond giggle escaping your lips as your hands traveled down from his neck and into his face, cupping his cheeks with the pad of your fingers.Â
âI cometh bearing loveth, mine own sweet angel.â Bucky says with a smile forming on his lips. The way your eyes crinkle laughing at his Shakespearean impersonation has him smiling stupid, his ocean dew-like orbs look upon you like he is engraving every bit and inch of you into memory.Â
If thereâs one thing that he wishes to do in every waking day of his life, that is waking up to seeing you brew a pot of coffee and working on your daily crossword while munching on your favorite combination of buttered toast and nutellaâyes, nutella. At first, he thought it was such an odd combination because he was used to using strawberry jams, but oh boy, it was like a delicacy sent from heaven down to Earth.Â
Bucky knew he wanted this kind of life with you ever since you drunkenly rambled about the world and its complexity, the essence of time and being, the importance of vita activa to the societyâ basically philosophical shit that takes him so much time to grasp but enjoys listening to you geek out.Â
Bucky knew he wanted to live a life with you that is simpleâdoesnât have to show any essence of grandeur. A comfortable, peaceful, and loving home just you twoâmaybe three, or four, but that depends on you.Â
He had always dreamt of raising a child with you, ever since he noticed how careful and gentle you are with Clintâs kids every time they visit you at your cabin, something bloomed in his heart that made him think about the future you might have with him.Â
And so, he went out with Sam, went to a jeweler and had the ring purchased, no need for ring sizes, one look at it and Bucky knows itâll fit you perfectlyâa two carat Marquise Diamond. He didnât settle with the half carat because itâs too small, and a five carat is too big.Â
âListen, angel, Iâve been looking for the right time to do this. I tried with the champagne, but the bottle popped before I could even pour. I tried with the after-shower sex but I was worried that it might fall in the floor drainâand I might forget about it too because of how you immediately went down on your knees andââÂ
âBabe, come onââ You said with your cheeks heating up, vividly remembering that memory always makes you squirm, but this time, youâre not entirely sure if you feel squeamish or squirmish.Â
âOkay, what I'm trying to say is that, I really donât need the right time to ask for your hand in marriage because every day is the right time. I love you, and I love everything that we do, be it us just playing poker, remaking the brownies that our neighbor gave us. I love your comfort and the warmth that you exude simply because you love me in the very same way that I love you in all the ways,âÂ
His free hand gently cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb gently grazed over your soft skin, handling you ever-so delicately.Â
âI love you âjust becauseâ, and never âthatâs becauseâ. Coming home to you, sleeping next to you, waking up next to you, and spending all my remaining days with you is a dream come true, angel, and I could only hope that you feel the same way too.âÂ
You held your hand on your mouth and your heart was beating fast like it was trying to get out of your ribcage. You watch as he takes out a small black velvet box, revealing the ring he had gotten some time ago.Â
âThree thousand is a lot, but never enough to explain how much you mean the world to me, I would go over hell and high water over all universes just so I could get to you, sweetheart. Will you marry me?âÂ
You nod your head and kiss him full on his lips, resting your forehead against his as you hold your hand up.Â
âI guess my ring fingerâs no longer empty, then?â You say softly as you watch him breathe through his nose and happily chuckles, placing the ring on your fingerâwatching it slide perfectly.Â
âGod, youâre my fiancee now.â Bucky says as he gently lifts your hand up and places a soft kiss on your hand embellished with the engagement ring.Â
âAnd I'm yours, Jesus, weâre engaged!â You say happily, peppering Buckyâs face with soft kisses, not leaving even an inch of his face not kissed.
âLetâs not have that wedding after-party. I want a simple gathering of all of us, and maybe we can finally go to the beach that you were gushing about.â You added, placing yet another kiss on his lips and on the corner of his lips.Â
âAnything you want, baby, weâll do it.â
âLetâs tell them over dinner sometime, okay?âÂ
Bucky woke up with beads of sweat on his forehead, only half of the hospital blanket that draped over his body was left as he was curled in his sleep on his seat next to your bedâdreaming about you and the engagement that happened years ago, and his tangible evidence of it not being simply a dream is the same ring on your finger that he placed.
Wake up, eat, go to the tower to work, stay with you in the hospital, then repeat. This has been Buckyâs routine for the past two years, yet he still clings to the tiny glint of hope that so long as youâre breathing, youâre still with themâstill with him.Â
Multiple state and worldwide threats had gone through and you still lay in the confinements of your hospital room, frail, vegetative, breathing through tubes and awaiting the cast of death. But everytime your body attempts to give up, everyone is there to ensure youâre aliveâwell, your body is alive. You can feel the needle prick your skin like a blade cutting through the flesh of a ripe mango, the doctor checking your eyes with a light so bright itâs like seeing God at the end of the tunnel. You wanted to tell them youâre still with them, but your very body has failed you time and time again. Every attempt is a cry for help, you wanted to see your older brothersâbruce and tony, you wanted to play chess and poker with Nat and Steve, you wanted to poke fun Sam and Thor, play with Clintâs children, and even get the chance to finally hug and tell Bucky you love him.Â
But to no avail, your body has continued to fail you, and everytime it does, all you want to do is wither in time and leave the world behind. But wonât that be selfish? Leaving everyone you love behind because you already gave up? How can you wipe Buckyâs tears away everytime he talks to you? How can you be the person you promised to be with him? You can hear him tell you stories of all sorts, like how he and Sam managed to get through the night together without bickering? Bucky recants the story of how Bruce and Tony are still working on how to bring you back home after authorities have denied them at every appeal, and Bucky tells you how Clintâs children are looking after their beautiful auntie and wonders how you managed to sleep so long?Â
You can hear them shuffling around, voices become unrecognizable after not seeing them for awhile, but definitely, you can identify which one is your fiancee.Â
Raise a fucking finger, goddamn.Â
You tried yet again, sounded so simple to say in your head, but so difficult to do. Itâs like being trapped with nowhere else to go.Â
You can hear some of them crying, Bruce and Tony askingâbegging you to wake up, and Bucky recants the last words you told him before going on complete blackoutâand hearing him say it breaks your heart tenfold. Oh, my love.Â
âIf⊠If I could turn back time, Iâd rather have me in that bed than she.âÂ
âListen, Bucky, weâre not giving up on her, alright? I know sheâs in there, we just have to wait for her, alright?âÂ
All Bucky could do was nod and sob, yet your body isnât responding to what you have been trying to do for countless times, it makes you want to give up, but not now, not ever, not since you have people to come back for.Â
You can hear frantic shouting from the room, suddenly puzzled at how you can faintly hear everyone calling for doctors and nurses.Â
âI think she moved her finger! I saw her twitch it shortly, and she cried! Look at her eyes, its damp!â Tony mentioned it to the doctor and Bucky sat in disbeliefâevidently in shock and hopeful.Â
âYouâre doing great, darlinâ, I know you never gave up coming home. Give us another sign, please?â Bucky says, caressing your cheek while he takes your hand and places kisses on it repetitively.Â
The doctors were able to get a diagnosis, but one thing is certain, you are still with them.
And that glimmer of hope sparked something in them that they never thought would flame its way back.Â
You tried lifting your index but failed once again, felt like your body has been betraying you once again.Â
âIâll wait for you. Iâm not giving up on you, alright?â He says, his voice lace with love and profound devotion.Â
Everyday seems to be a struggle to live by, but with continuous support from the people you love despite not having to respond to them physically most of the time, you knew how much they loved you as much as you loved them back.Â
âcome back home, angel, I miss you terribly.âÂ
Bucky whispers softly in your ear and places a lingering kiss on the side your head, longing, waiting, hopeful.Â
and with that kind of devotion, you knew even the omnipotent beings could envy you.Â
The 5 Times You Flirted With Bob + The 1 Time He Picked Up on It
Summary: You've fallen for your friend and have decided to drop some hints that you're flirting. Unfortunately, Bob doesn't realize that immediately.
Warnings: Language, no y/n, female reader, reader has a callsign (Honey)
Thank you to @dissonannce for this amazing idea. Thank you @acewritesfics for the dividers!
"Your hands are so big."
It took Bob a moment to register that you were in fact, talking to him.
"Oh! Um yeah. My ma made me do piano because she felt I was given the hands for them," Bob wiggled his fingers for extra effect, "Y'know, since they're so long."
Yes, they were quite long. It was one of the first things you noticed about Bob. Well, after you noticed his beautiful blue eyes, his endearing lopsided smile, the way he was so considerate of everyone else, so gentle, and yet there was an underlying confidence about him. He was sure of himself, but he didn't feel the need to brag.
Who could blame you for falling head over heels for him?
You flashed him a smile, hand reaching towards his.
"It's just, your hand is so much bigger than mine. See?" You propped his arm up, allowing your palm to press against his, both your fingers spread out to showcase the difference in size.
"See? My hand is so small compared to yours," You giggled. Bob looked down at your hands. Your breath hitched, your fingers twitching, dying to entwine with his.
"Yeah, there is quite a difference in size," Bob said, giving you that small smile you adored so much. That smile gave you the confidence to entwine your fingers with his.
"I think they fit pretty well together, see?" He wasn't letting go. He was still smiling as he looked down at your hand holding his.
Maybe this was finally it, he'd finally realized that you liked him and would-
"I'm gonna go get some more peanuts, can I get ya anything?"
You mustered up a smile, trying to cover up your disappointment, "I'll take a water. Thanks Robby."
As soon as he left, you shot Jake a dirty look, "Seresin, you said that shit would work!"
Jake, who had been pretending to play a game of pool with Bradley, Javy, and Mickey, put his hands up in defense, "Because it usually does! Everyone knows when a girl compares hand sizes it means she wants you!"
"Everyone but Bob apparently," Javy muttered.
"Maybe you just need to be more obvious?" Mickey suggested.
You sighed. You knew Bob. The last thing you wanted was to be so blunt it would overwhelm him. But at the same time, you two had been doing this whole 'friends but also more than that and I'm pretty sure we're flirting?' for the last month and you were getting annoyed with it how seemed to be going nowhere.
Perhaps Mickey was right. You were going to have to be a bit more obvious.
"Bee? You ready?" Bob called out from your living room. Bob's nickname of your callsign (Honey) always brought a smile to your face, as well as heat to your cheeks.
"Almost! Can I get your thoughts on this top?" You asked as you walked in.
"Yeah, I'm sure you look-oh." Bob's eyes widened as he took in the green top you were wearing.
It was tighter than the shirts you normally wore, highlighting your breasts. The fabric stopped right at the end of your rib cage, showing off your stomach and bringing attention to your high waisted jeans, which according to Jake "did wonders for your ass".
"What do you think?" You clasped your hands together, the action causing your breasts to stick out even further.
"Um the uh, the color is really great on you. B-brings out your eyes," Bob said, his eyes looking everywhere except you.
With the way his cheeks were bright red, it gave you confidence to step forward, your body now inches away from his, "I was hoping it would bring out something else besides my eyes Robby."
"I mean you you look great in everything you wear! So mission accomplished," Bob said quickly, his hands fidgeting with his car keys.
"Anything else you want to say about the outfit Robby? I really value your opinion." You stood on the tips of your toes, bringing your chest closer to Bob's face.
It was the first time since you walked in that his eyes landed on your chest. He cleared his throat, as if he was gathering up the courage to say it.
"You should grab a jacket, it's supposed to go down to the low sixties tonight," He said, turning around to head out the door.
God damn it.
You grabbed your phone, quickly texting the group.
Honey: We need to go to Plan C.
Rooster: Plan C?! You're saying the top didn't work?
Bagman: Dude, your tits were like out.
Rooster: Maybe they weren't out enough?
Coyote: If they were out any more, Honey would be getting a public indecency charge.
Phoenix: Maybe we shouldn't use clothes to express our feelings? Just a thought đ€Šđœ
Fanboy: Yeah Nat, that's plan C.
Payback: Can we not blow up the group chat tonight? The finale of Insecure is on.
Your right leg bounced up and down in nervous anticipation, your eyes never leaving the entrance to the Hard Deck.
"You don't think this is too much, is it?" You asked your friends/coworkers.
"Nah, it'll be perfect!" Mickey reassured you.
"You and Bob are going to walk out of here holding hands by the end of the night, guarantee it," Jake commented as he lined up the balls for a round of pool.
It took all your strength not to jump out of your seat when you saw Bob walk in. His iridescent blue eyes scanned the room, landing on you. He always seemed to search for you, which had to be a sign that he wanted more, that he felt the same way as you did.
You greeted him with a smile, patting the empty seat next to him.
"Hey Robby! I got something for you!" You called out.
Bob just smiled as he sat down, "I see you got my signature: water and peanuts. Thanks Bee!"
You giggled, shaking your head, "Yes, but that's not just it. These are for you!"
Bob stared at the bouquet of flowers you were holding out for him.
"For me? These are for me?" He asked, eyes wide as saucers.
"Yes! I was just thinking, like why is giving guys flowers not a thing? Because it totally should be! And no one deserves these flowers more than you Robby," You explained, a hopeful smile adorning your face.
Bob gently took the bouquet, admiring each flower.
"I thought they would go well with your eyes-that's why a most of them are yellow," you explained, trying to hide how nervous you were.
"These are perfect," Bob said before leaning down to smell the flowers.
"Really? Each flower has a different meaning," you began, hoping that by fidgeting with your hands, you'd be able to conceal your nerves.
Bob simply smiled, his face the epitome of saccharine, "Oh, I already know."
Your breath hitched, "You do?"
Bob nodded, "Oh yeah! Alstroemerias symbolize support, sunflowers are for loyalty, and violets stand for intuition!"
He wasn't wrong. You couldn't tell if you were upset by that or the fact that Mickey forgot flowers can have more than one meaning.
Time for Plan D.
"Hey Robby! You ready to watch hot people make poor decisions?"
"Ready as I'll ever-that's new," Bob said softly, taking in the new loungewear you had on for your biweekly Love Island watch.
"Oh this? I think I got it last week," you said as you let Bob into your apartment, "It's super comfy and it has pockets!"
It also was cut low, showing off your cleavage, as well as the tops of your thigh.
"Yeah, the uh, color looks really good on you Bee," Bob commented. The compliment brought a smile to your face. He noticed you, noticed you were wearing something new, and seemed to be noticing your now exposed skin.
"Well, let's go see if these folks gain any common sense," you grabbed his hand, practically beaming at how your hand fit perfectly in his.
"Somehow I doubt it," Bob chuckled.
When he offered to hold the popcorn for while you two watched, you weren't disappointed. Sure, it meant you weren't able to hold his hand. But it did mean you could move closer to him, your thighs practically touching.
"I really hope he doesn't take her back," Bob muttered, his eyes glued to the screen.
"He will. They always do," you sighed, gently moving your head so it rested against one of his broad shoulders.
If your action had any effect on Bob, he didn't show it. Which was the problem.
"I would pick you in the recoupling," You revealed, hoping that would be enough, would finally be enough.
Bob smiled, placing a hand on your knee, "That's kind of you Bee. But I think friendship couples go against the nature of the show."
It took everything in you not to scream.
The rest of the night was just a typical Love Island watch night, no touching, no initiating, no declarations of love, and ending with Bob giving you a friendly hug goodbye.
With a sigh, you flopped onto your bed to check your messages.
Bagman: Bee, please tell us it worked and you're marking sweet love to baby on board
Phoenix: you're disgusting Seresin.
Rooster: why would they stop fucking just to text you Bagman?
Bagman: so we can pop some champagne to celebrate
Fanboy: Why the fuck is would we do that?
Coyote: It's a big event! Bee told Bob how she feels AND Bob's getting laid!
Payback: Can I just get one night of peace? Just one night?
You: No one's doing anything bc it didn't work!
Rooster: Not trying to be rude, but weren't you like almost naked?
Bagman: Like 52% nude.
Phoenix: JFC, we're going to plan E folks.
Coyote: Is that when we just lock them in a closet?
Bagman: No that's plan G
"Hey Bee!"
The cheerful, charming voice always brought a smile to your face.
"Hi Robby!" You greeted him with a hug, the comforting scent of rosemary filling your nostrils, "You smell really nice."
"Oh um thanks," A hand flew to the back of Bob's neck, a nervous (and also adorable) habit, "Wanted to smell nice after doing all those pushups out in the sun."
"Well it worked, you smell great," One of your hands reached up to the nape of his neck, toying with the hair that had curled at the end, "Look great too."
The tops of Bob's cheeks were now a dusty pink, "It's just a white Tshirt."
You took a step forward, placing your hands on his chest, "It's a good look Robby. Shows off your muscles. I like it on you.
Bob's lips parted, then promptly closed.
"Uh, t-thanks Bee." He had to know now that you were flirting with him. It was clear as day.
Feeling confident, your hands trailed down to his, grasping them, "We should dance!"
You didn't wait for Bob to answer, dragging him out to the middle of the floor. The sounds of Bradley covering Frankie Valli (begrudgingly, as apparently Jerry Lee Lewis was better) filled the bar.
After a few minutes, Bob's shoulders visibly relaxed, a smile spreading across his face. You threw your head back laughing as he bust out a goofy dance move.
Everyone thought Bob was shy, but that wasn't the case. He was observant, determined to get a good read on someone so he knew how to approach the situation accordingly. Once he was comfortable, his personality shined and he was a sweet, goofy man who you adored with all your heart.
The grin you had was so wide, your cheeks were beginning to hurt. But you couldn't stop, not when he was twirling you around.
"Where did you learn to dance like that?" You asked, having to say it into his ear so he could hear your voice above the music.
Bob shrugged, "I come from a big family. When you know you're going to a lot of weddings, knowing how to dance helps. That and my mom made me do cotillion."
"Well, all that practice paid off. You're a great dance partner Robby." You rested your chin against his broad chest, looking up to meet eyes bluer than the ocean.
In that moment, all you could do was focus on him. The way the corner of his eyes creased when he truly smiled, his comforting scent, his pink, thin lips that you were dying to feel on yours.
You wondered if he could hear your heart pounding, if he could feel it since your body was practically on his.
His hands found their way to your arms, gently placing themselves on your biceps. Was this it? It had to be.
So you stood on the tips of your toes, your lips now closer to his. Your eyes began to close as you leaned in to-
"I gotta go. Jake stuck his foot in his mouth again."
This wasn't a lie. But it still didn't dull your disappointment. Nor did it sedate your growing frustration at this whole situation.
Perhaps you didn't need Plan G or H Perhaps it was time to go with your original plan.
The next time you saw Bob was when Nat threw a small get together to celebrate the end of a long week.
He was wearing that damn white Tshirt again. Whenever he brought his cup of water to his mouth, the fabric stretched across his bicep.
Was he doing this on purpose? Did he know? Consciously or not, that you had fallen for him ever since you two first met at training?
Either way, you were tired of this game you had been playing for the past month.
"Are you sure about this?" Natasha asked.
You simply nodded before taking a shot of vodka. A little liquid courage was always nice.
"Nat, he's oblivious. Honestly, I don't know why we didn't do this the first time," Jake commented as he took the shot glass out of your hand.
"Because we didn't expect him to be that oblivious," Mickey countered.
"Well everyone, wish me luck." You walked out of the kitchen to find Bob still sitting on the couch, glass of water in hand.
His eyes met yours and he gave you a smile sweeter than honey. Your legs began to wobble, whether it was from that smile or your nerves, you couldn't say.
You walked over, making a beeline for him. Bob's eyes widened, his fingers gripping his cup. Your gaze was so intense.
"Hey Bee-oh!" Bob froze as you sat down in his lap, your thighs straddling his lithe hips.
"Hey Robby," your hands found his shoulders, fingers toying with the thin cotton fabric of his shirt.
"Uh Bee, there's um, there's a seat right there," Bob weakly pointed to the empty space next to him.
"I don't want that," you leaned forward, your forehead grazing his, "I want you Robby."
His eyes widened once more, as if he just saw an incoming train, "M-me?"
"Yes. Wanted you ever since that first day of training, when you offered me a mint," you told him.
"I uh, you looked sleepy and mint is known to wake you up and," Bob paused, "Did you say since the first day of training?"
You nodded, smiling at how you were able to see him process this information.
"The first day of training?" He repeated.
"Yes Bob, all you did was offer me a mint and smile to make me fall head over heels for ya," your fingers now went up to the back of his neck, twirling the curled ends of his hair, "Been trying to tell you that for the last month."
Bob opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, his brain still processing everything.
"You good Rob-" You never got to finish your sentence, as Bob decided right then was the best time to press his lips against yours.
His lips were soft and tasted faintly of vanilla, no doubt from the chapstick you watched him reapply. His touch was gentle, his thick fingers ghosting over your thighs, trailing up to your waist. Every move, no matter how small, made your heart fluttered.
Being so close to him, you could smell his aftershave, a mix of eucalyptus and sage. It was intoxicating and you wanted to be surrounded by it all the time, wanted to kiss him all the time.
When he broke away for air, you had to hold back a whimper, your lips desperate for more.
"FINALLY!"
You turned your head to find Bradley, along with Mickey, Natasha, Jake, Javy, and Reuben standing by the doorframe, in perfect view of you and Bob.
You smiled and opened your mouth, ready to make a quick remark. But Bob's fingers hooked underneath your chin, turning your head back to meet his lips again.
Unlike the first kiss, this one was bolder. His lips moved against yours with more confidence. Your whole body felt warm, as if you were floating. His hands now cupped your jawline, which is how you learned that Bob's hands practically covered your whole neck, a discovery that sent you reeling.
Your hands trailed up to his head, desperate to feel his sun kissed locks, desperate to find out if they were as soft as they looked. But just before you could, Bob broke away.
"What?" Anxiety came rushing back, dragging you away from Cloud Nine, your previous location. Did he regret it?
"Let's go."
He moved your body to the empty space on the couch, quickly getting up. You took his hands, allowing him to help you get up. You held onto one hand as he led you to the front door.
"Bob! What are you doing with my backseater?" Javy called out.
"Making up for lost time!"
Maybe you should be a little embarrassed. But how could you? You had finally kissed the man of your dreams, he kissed you back. He wanted to leave with you.
The sounds of the house party fainted, becoming soft background noise as you went outside.
Bob stopped, turning around to face you. Before you could get out a sound, his lips were on you again. His hands pulled your body to his, closing the gap in-between.
You couldn't help but moan when you felt his tongue slide against your bottom lip, immediately granting him entrance. You could hear Bob's breath hitch, his hands roaming across your body, touching your soft skin.
Abruptly, he pulled away, leaving you desperate for more.
"Why do you keep doing that?!"
"I...." His face was flushed, "I meant to ask you if if you drove yourself here. But you looked so kissable. You still do, God I just wanna kiss you again."
"I'm not stopping you Robby," you grinned, stepping towards him, "I'm not stopping you at all."
"Oh don't tell me that darlin'" his Midwestern upbringing laced his words. You always loved his accent, having found it not just unique but also comforting.
Somehow, despite his lips pressed against yours, Bob was able to walk you back to his car, your back meeting the cool metal.
His broad body draped over yours, his tongue frantically exploring your mouth. Your fingers reached up, grasping his hair. It was soft and much thicker than you expected.
What else was there about Bob you had yet to learn? What kind of toothpaste he used, if he drank tea or coffee in the morning. Did he fall asleep to rain sounds or silence? How many pillows were on his bed?
You wanted to know everything.
But right now, you just wanted to kiss Bob.
Your fingers tugged on his hair in an attempt to pull him closer to you. Despite his chest being pressed against yours, it wasn't enough. You wanted all of him.
"We should get in the car," He said, voice breathless. With the way his chest was rising, one would think he had just ran ten miles.
Bob began moving towards the driver's side of his truck, but he stopped, turning back to you.
"I want to take you home," He stated. It sounded like a confession with the way guilt laced his eyes.
"I would love that Robby."
Instead, he just shook his head, "But I shouldn't because you deserve more than that. You deserve a nice date, like that Italian restaurant we always pass when we go to Bradley's. You deserve that and flowers and a lovely dinner with candles and wine that's older than both of us-"
You cut him off by gently pecking his lips, "It's okay Bob. You could take me to that diner up the room from your place tomorrow morning and I'd be elated because I would be with you."
He shook his head, clearly torn between continuing to talk and continuing to kiss you, "But....it's the least I should do. I mean, after all the hints you were dropping. I thought you were just being friendly and-"
"What friend asks another friend to look at their chest?" You asked incredulously.
"I thought maybe we were just really close! That you were really comfortable around me, which is why I didn't think anything regarding what you wore when we watched Love Island. I mean," his face reddened, "I did think about it. Um I thought about it a lot and if you ever want to wear it again, I would not mind-"
"Bob," you stepped forward, placing your hands on his chest.
"I mean, you got me Violets! Those mean loyalty and devotion, as well as delicate love! And believe me I wanted to kiss you at the Hard Deck, but that is entirely Jake's fault-"
"As most things are."
"And looking back it was so obvious and I can't believe I didn't pick up on it," He paused, "Sorry, I I had to get that out. I can take you home or back to my place, whatever you want."
You giggled, delighted by his ramblings. You wanted to hear more of it.
"And now I just want to kiss you. Like all the time," He confessed, his lips moving closer to yours.
"Robby, get in the car," you instructed.
"Oh, um, okay," Bob unlocked his car, moving towards the driver seat.
"No Bob. Get in the back of the car," you instructed.
Bob's brows knitted together in confusion, "But then how will I drive-oh!"
Who knows if you were going to make it back to his place or yours. All you cared about was getting your lips and hands back on Bob Floyd.
blurb: you and bob are star-partners in high-school, especially within the school publication of where you both first met. students often confuse you two between lovers or simply emotionally constipated idiots. that one coming summer of the outgoing Editorial Board members for the school publication held a one-last roundtable discussion, all eyes turn to you and bob for one last spiel.
a/n: it took me a few days to write this because of my hectic schedule (finals week), nonetheless, hereâs second part! :D
warnings: not much, clingy bob! :D simply fluff, just a tinge of angst in the latter parts, and maybe subtle pinings. includes campus journalism sequences, press conference jargons!
pt. i
note: this bob is a reimagination of his life in high school.
two weeks had passed since you both agreed on being the special anchors for the broadcast, yet here you are, still pondering about what made you agree to it in the first place. You are currently out with Bob on trying out coats and plain long sleeves to wear as his top, when you both know how you both would end up wearing your usual jeans and crocs as your bottoms.
you contested on the idea that you both wear full-on news anchor attires when they'd only film you half body, considering the table you both would be sharing, so, what's the point of having to pay an extra buck for your bottoms that won't be seen by the entire campus anyway?
Both of you had been in the mall for hours now in search of the top that he'd been trying to fit for himself but the attempts were not much but failure. You heard your stomach grumble in hunger and turned to Bob who only wears a wide smile on his face, his hand also playfully caressing his stomach.
"Do you think theyâll let us take quick coverage of this news? The spiel might feel empty without having to broadcast updates about the town sicko." You mentioned softly as you took a sip of your shared milkshake with Bob, his attention solely focused on the greasy burger that he boyishly devours, taking one bite after another until his mouth is stuffed with it, but either way, you found it adorable. You took the napkin that came with your food and gently wiped the corner of his lips where the stain of ketchup and cheese left its mark. Bob could only mumble his appreciations and motions you to take a bite off of it too.
If there is anything that you cannot do by pride, it is denying him of anything at all. Bob's antics such as this is something that you consider both a blessing and curse. For it to be one, Bob is going to share you his food maybe because he knows you want it too but ran you ran short, and the next thing you consider a curse is when he looks all innocent and happily eating, next thing you know he makes you finish all of it unknowingly by making you takes bites or feeding you himself.
and for this particular scenario you both are in? This is a curse, because Bob had bought two large fucking burgers and was only able to finish the second half because he still has his salad to munch on, so much for a man with an actual manly appetite.
"Oh yeah, definitely, but I do believe we already have a coverage lined up for us, so we don't have to prepare much of a script other than how we are going to present it." He pauses, taking yet another bite of his burger before motioning you to take another.
"Besides that, remember the guy we used to make fun of because he thought the teleprompter was karaoke and sang live? He's now our Executive Producer." He says with a snort then came a laugh, it was more of 'hey-we-are-so-fucked-but-its-not-going-to-be-our-fault' kind.
"Oh, the one that got us out of the press rally? I'd rather go impromptu than have to crashout mid-coverage." You both burst out laughing, passerbys looking at the two of you like teenagers on high. In those moments where you both were laughing and clinging onto each other like both of your lives depended on it, is something that you both secretly enjoy, yet still not tell each other.Â
No one could clearly distinguish whether the two of you are simply close friends or you both are dating, and everytime that you both are asked, neither of you confirm nor deny anything, yet somehow, deep in your heart, you wish there is something.Â
And you could only hope that he feels the same way too.Â
âWe should probably go back, our break ends at twenty anyway.â Bob simply nodded and rose from his seat, extending his hand out for you to take before you moved out of yours. He did not say a word, but rather, you noticed how he looked at youâthat exact gaze will soon keep you up at night, thinking of the whyâs and whatâs that might have gotten inside his head.Â
Something in the air shifted, and you definitely have no clue about what it is, but noticing how he smiles at his phone, having yet another no clue on what and who that might be that made him smile like that? You felt something that you couldnât explain, maybe that twisting feeling in your stomach that you canât describe because it was only there when something triggered it? You donât know much, but thereâs one thing that you wanted and that is wishful thinking that it was you instead, and not someone who simply makes him smile with a text. When you both were walking back towards the studio, which was not that far from the mall you both went, youâve let go of his hand and walked away quick towards the door, before he could even react, you immediately took your phone and pressed it onto your ear, making it seem like you were talking to someone when in reality, you just wanted to get some air away from him and your thoughts that clouded over a simple gesture.Â
Bob. a text. him smiling.Â
âWhat the fuck is happening? It could be a video sent to him, or a funny text message.â you mumbled to yourself as you rushed towards the ladies room, your hands in your face as you heard him call out for you. You immediately locked the door and sat down, your back leaning against the door frame.Â
âWhy am I feeling like this? Itâs not that I donât like himâmaybe I do, but thatâs not the point!âÂ
âY/N, please open the door. Are you okay?â
You could only curse in your mind after hearing him say softly on the other side of the door, knocking gently while you also hear other people in the background, maybe it was Jayle trying to figure out why you suddenly felt the need to lock yourself up.Â
âBob, please go get changed, weâll start shooting the intro in a few.â You heard someone say softly, as if it were coaxing Bob out of the situation, reassuring at best.Â
âIâll just go get changed, alright? Iâll be back before you know it.âÂ
As soon as Bob left, you slowly opened the door and revealed Jayle, a soft smile crept on her lips knowingly as if she knew what had happened. You stepped aside and let her enter, slowly closing the door behind her gently, hopping on to the marble of the bathroom vanity and holding your face in your hands once again.Â
âI told you, you shouldâve told him already.â She says, her hands crossed and her expression teasing, given the way of how she smiles, what registered in your head was her âi-told-you-soâ moment.Â
You could only laugh and watch her like her advice is something you hadnât been trying to do since she knew about it the first time she caught you.Â
âIâve been trying since then, okay? Itâs just that something always happens everytime I try to tell him.âÂ
You simply protested, settling yourself down at the vanity and leaned your back against it instead, your fingers threading through your thick patch of hair, combing it back. In your defense, no matter how many attempts youâve done to tell him how you feel, you always end up choking on yourself and there is always an attempt to switch the topic to something else especially when heâs really intrigued and does that thing with his eyes that makes you feel immensely shy.Â
Youâve acquired the art of not giving two fucks, but with him? You kind of just melt like ice cream under a hot day and it happens every so often every time you try and confess how you feelâpartly because thereâs a voice in your head that tells you that heâs going to reject you and breakaway your friendship, and thereâs a lingering part in you that yearns to let him know how you feel.Â
Your heart does its thing where it tugs its strings and just bring you to a fleeting feeling of genuine happiness whenever you are around him, but thinking about how there could be a chance that someone had confessed to him and you were already too late somehow creates that ache in your heart that made you ask yourself the whyâs and howâs of the world.Â
If thereâs one thing you had learned in your Philosophy class, that there would be a type of love that one is bound to experience in a span of one lifetimeâwhich is preferential. One might love platonically and/or romantically, for Kierkegaard, a preference in the context of love, is someone you love based on personal preference or attractionâcan be posited in the notion of having to love someone whom we naturally feel connected with or attracted to, grounded mostly on the emotional and person reaction of people towards specific persons.Â
There comes a long pause before youâve come to terms with what Jayle had said, pondering upon the reasons why you chose not to tell him everything yet. Yet again, you felt that thing at the pit of your stomach at the thought of his reaction to your confession, the what ifs crossing your mind for another trail. You placed your hand at the cool metal knob, heaving a sigh before exiting the bathroom where you and Jayle had the talk, again.Â
âIâll try to find the right time to tell him about it, and weâll see where it goes from there on.â You mumbled, Jayle had only nodded her head in response.Â
Once the both of you had reached the changing room, she handed you the white sleeve and a blazer to put on, you also sat on the vanity and had prepped yourself with a more natural looking makeup, and styled your hair simple with a blow dry and a bit of hair mousse to keep the curls intact.Â
Jayle helped you set up with your earpieces and kept the small box behind your blouse, keeping the wires connected and the small microphone clipped on the side of your blazer. Itâs been awhile since you went back to the media room, the lights blinding and the ambiance hot enough to make you sweat profusely. The large table sat in the middle with the commissioned background that reflects that the newsroom is evidently at its year oldâconsidering this was the first major purchase of the school publication as a reward to winning the annual press conference competitions held interstate.Â
âWe are going live in two! Where is Robert?â
You heard the Executive Producer shout through the small room where all cameras and crew are intently focused on their spot, some of them are looking for Bob, some of them are in deep conversation with the upcoming pre-recorded spiel, and some of them are busy fixing the lights and audio in the media room. It was pure chaos, and this chaos is your bliss.Â
âFuck, sorry. I had to change my sleeves because they donât fit me at all,â Bob says as he immediately ran towards the table and occupied the seat next to you. His hair was evidently blow dried and thereâs something about how his face is evidently powdered but not that it caked his skin that it is evident. You noticed how his hands were shaking as he tried to keep the tie in place but failed at every attempt.
His nose scrunched up in frustration as you can also hear him breathe low profanities with his chest, as if putting a tie on is one of the worst things he had done in life.Â
âHow long have we got left?â You called upon them and stood up from your seat, immediately making the latter turn his chair and face you. You heard someone from the crew shout how you have half a second left before it airs, simply nodding your head and quickly tying the necktie that he had been struggling with.Â
Bob mouthed his thank youâs and turned his chair to face the cameras once again, his hands do not tremble anymore as if he wasnât on the brink of a nervous breakdown. As soon as you settled in your seat, the cameras started rolling and your earpiece began to crackle with a sound coming from the control room.Â
âRobert, greeting now in cue, 3..2..1.. Go!â
The cameras immediately pan to Bobâs side, his posture calm and professional, his hands steady on a few stack of flash cards with the publication name plastered behind.
âGood morning, and welcome to Crimson Peak Echo. Iâm Bob.âÂ
âPan the camera to Y/Nâ,â
âAnd Iâm Y/N. We are live here in the Crimson Peak High School today, (cue date). Our top story today focuses on the recent events involving the Attack on New York. We will also be bringing you updates on the recent alien attack that banished half the population, and later on, bringing you updates on the current forecast.âÂ
The spiel went on for about an hour and a half when the producer decided to take the fitting cut to end the broadcast, signaling Bob to take the cue on closing the spiel. You kept your eyes focused in front, listening to Bob as he read on the teleprompter right in front of him where the camera is focusing on him as well. He is a professional, yet he enjoys being a crew member, all because he said that heâs comfortable behind the scenes with you.Â
â...stay informed, stay safe. This has been Bob Reynolds,âÂ
âAnd this has been Y/N Y/L/N for Crimson Peak Echo, delivering the latest news for the people. Thank you so much for watching! Weâll see you at the same time tomorrow.âÂ
The moment you hear the Executive Producer yell cut, the broadcast was off and the lights were dimmed and everyone was cheering, hugging one another and clapping for a successful special coverage. You could only muster a soft smile and open two buttons down of your blouse because of the heat, and Bob next to you has his cheeks and the pinna of his ears flushed.Â
âCongratulations to the both of you! This is a successful coverage! We knew you got the chemistry! Our rates just spiked in real time!âÂ
Jayle went up the podium and hugged both you and Bob, who seemingly looked stiff albeit looking professional and confident earlier. There was something bothering him, and you canât seem to pinpoint which.
You finally stood up from your seat, taking the blazer off and handing it over to the people incharge of your wardrobe, Bob following you around as if he was treading quietly over twigs and soil, careful enough not to startle you and make you walk away from him faster.Â
âDid I do something to upset you earlier?â Bob asks, leaning his body against the door frame with his arms crossed, still wearing the same clothes he wore for the coverage. Despite desperate attempts to not glance at his clothes hugging his figure, you canât help but wonder how come it managed to not pop right off then and there?Â
âNo, I just had to answer a phone callââÂ
âThat phone call upset you so much that you canât even look at me right now?â Bob says, slowly walking towards where you sat, crouching down and spinning the vanity chair around for you to face him. You immediately took yet another cotton pad and lathered toner, wiping away the make-up on your eyesâan attempt to not even look at him even more or else youâd combust into god knows what.Â
âBob, I promise, Iâm fine.â You frankly told him, placing down the cotton pads, and gently holding his hand, the pad of your thumb gently grazing over his skinâit was warm, manly yet soft to touch.Â
âAre you sure? You seem so distressed earlier I was so worried that I might have done something orââÂ
You cut him off by eliciting soft giggles and your free hand cupping his cheek, your finger gently tracing the line of his cheekbone before gently prying away the small hairs that fall in front of his eyes. You canât admit it to him verbally, but in your head, all you could ever think about was how beautiful looked and how his eyes are just so pretty youâd wish to swim in them.Â
âIâm okay, I promise. Arenât you okay with how I feel okay right now? Iâm better than I was, okay? Nothing to worry about anymore, if there is something you should be worried about, itâs the popcorn at home that nears its expiration.â You say, a soft chuckle soon escapes your lips as you watch how Bobâs facial expression shifts to being worried about you and thereâs that crinkle in his eyes once again that shows up everytime he smiles.Â
âOkay, I'll change and be back in a jiffy. Wait for me here this time, alright?â Bob says as he stood up from his posture, carefully stretching his legs while making facial expressions that made you both laugh.Â
âAre you sure that theyâre not dating? They look like they just resolved the tension earlier?â A crew member asked Jayle as she watched you and Bob poke fun in the vanity. Her lips stretched out a knowing smile towards the crew member she spotted with.Â
âNo, but soon enough theyâll figure it out.â Â
Jayle and the crew member had left silently, ensuring that they did not tick you both off as you and Bob had made a world only you and him could understand.Â
And maybe through wishful thinking, this little world that you and Bob share so often does not burst its bubble just yet.
#.
well this took me a few days to write lol. got preoccupied with uni and all, finals week is HELL on earth. anyway, i hope you like this! <3
Warnings: insane amounts of fluff, insane amounts of pining (my god I couldn't stop), maid of honor and best man trope, kind of friends to lovers, language, Hangman is Hangman, female reader, reader is very creative and can dance, UCSD info might not be accurate I don't go there, suggestive and steamy but not explicit, language, probably incorrect descriptions of the Navy (my dad was a Marine, I'm doing my best lol)
Word Count: 13,515 words
Requests are open! : ÌÌâ Find my masterlist here
âNatasha Trace, my best friendâŠwill you marry me?â
The Hard Deck erupted into a chorus of excitement the minute that Natasha told Bradley Bradshaw yes through a curtain of tears. Bob was cheering right along with them, elated for his two best friends and to know that Rooster had pulled off the proposal heâd been stressing over for weeks now.
The couple had made the rounds in the moments after. Maverick and Penny were the first to congratulate them both, and Bob couldâve sworn he saw tears in their Team Leaderâs eyes as he hugged Rooster. Hangman had a snide remark under his breath, but gave the couple both his heartfelt congratulations, followed by Fanboy and Payback.
âCouldnât have done this without you, Bobby boy,â Rooster clapped his best friend on the back, bringing him into a tight hug before letting Natasha hug her back seater. âBobâs been helping me plan this for weeks, making sure everyone would be here tonight for the engagement party. The greatest future best man a guy could ask for!â
âBradley, it canât be an engagement party without our families,â Natasha had quickly argued back, shooting Bob a bright smile. âBut thank you, Bob. It means the world to both of us.â
âItâs what you both deserve,â heâd told them wholeheartedly. âSeeing my best friends happy is all I want.â
Bob laughed along with Rooster the second Natasha turned around, shouting in glee at her family standing directly behind her. Sheâd thrown herself into her mother and fatherâs arms, given her sister a tight hug, and a whole new round of tears had sprung as they admired the ring on her finger. Bob nudged his best friend with a grin.
âYou did good, Rooster,â
âOh, this is just the beginning,â Natashaâs attention was turned back to Bradley the second she heard him say that, raising an eyebrow as she missed the sneaky smiles on her familyâs faces.
âWhat else could you have possibly pulled off tonight-â
âGive your man props, Nattie. He knew if he proposed to you without me in attendance, one of us would likely kill him,â
It wasnât the first time Bob had ever seen you, but it was the first time heâd ever seen you in person. Natasha had shown him many photos of herself and her childhood best friend, the girl she considered more of a sister than anything else, many times before in all their time knowing each other and working together. Heâd seen the elementary photos, the awkward middle school photos, the prom photos, and the intermittent photos taken throughout adulthood, anytime the pair of you could find time to see one another.
He hated that, based solely on photos and stories of you, heâd grown the most schoolboy crush in the world on you. He wasnât sure if there was an âunspokenâ code about crushing on the childhood best friend of one of your own best friends, but he felt like it definitely crossed a line.
Rooster was laughing from Bobâs side as you and Natasha practically bounced around in circles together, talking a mile a minute as you admired the ring sitting snugly on her left hand now. With arms wrapped around one another, youâd both turned back to the boys as Bob watched you flash a smile in Roosterâs direction.
âBradley, nice to finally see you outside of FaceTime screens. And nicely done with the ring, Iâm glad you took my advice,â
âWho was I to question the advice of the master?â
Bob felt his breath catch for a moment as your gaze finally turned to him, and he could see you fully for the first time in front of him.
God, you were even prettier up close than in your photos.Â
âYou must be the infamous Bob that Iâve heard so much about,â Bob wanted to melt under your smile as you flashed your attention toward him. âThanks for keeping my girl safe in the skies.â
âWell- Iâd say she keeps me safe moreâŠâ
âTeam effort, at least take half the credit,â youâd joked to him, before Natasha had quickly pulled you into conversation once more.
It was stupid, Bob thought, to have a crush on a woman heâd never even met before. He couldnât help it the entire night as he watched you talk and joke with Natashaâs family, the way you so effortlessly made conversation with the entire Dagger Squad, even though it was the first time youâd met them all. Through photos, videos, and stories alone, Bob had gained a schoolboy crush. But now, as you animatedly explained a story of you and Phoenix from your childhood, he could feel his crush growing from seeing your personality shine.
Thankfully for Bob, heâd barely have to see you. Youâd fly home most likely the next day, and the next time heâd see you would be for wedding preparations. Thatâd be plenty of time to get over his dumb little crush on his best friendâs childhood best friend.
âIâm telling you, it was the funniest night of our entire lives!â Natasha was practically in tears, and so were the rest of the Dagger Squad members as you choked out your words through your own laughter. Bob had a hard time looking away from you as you spoke. âIâm up there on that stage, sold out high school theater guys, ready to give my really intense monologue, and suddenly the set wall just comes CRASHING down with Nattie here clinging onto it!â
âI warned them during set construction that the wall was just begging to fall down!â Natasha laughed, leaning back against Rooster with a shake of her head. âThat was immediately the last time I let this one here talk me into helping with the school musicals. Never signed up again, no matter how much she begged.â
âAnd wait, this was opening night too?â Fanboy chimed in from his space beside Bob as both women gave him a nod. âThat somehow makes it even funnier. I canât thank you enough for bestowing us with the gift of these stories tonight.â
âYes, yes, consider them a tiny gift for all of Nattieâs friends here tonight,â you turned away from the rest of the squad to look at your best friend, though. âItâs your engagement party, though, so I think itâs time that I gave you your gift.â
Bob could see the smirk on Roosterâs lips as he watched the pair. Bob, along with the ret of their friends, watched intently as well as you dug a key out of your back pocket, dropping it into Natashaâs hand without another word. Bobâs front seater cocked an eyebrow, examining the key in confusion.
âA keyâŠhowâŠnice?â
âWell, I have to make sure someone in this city has a spare key to my place,â Bob felt his breath catch for a second, catching onto your words before Natasha did, as you beamed at your best friend. âTo my apartment, over in Logan Heights! If Iâm going to be the newest Professor at UC San Diego, Iâm going to need a place to live-â
If there was a contest for trying to break the sound barrier with a scream, or even how much one person could cry in a single night, Natasha Trace was pretty close to winning them both. Between her shouts of âYOUâRE MOVING TO SAN DIEGO?â and a lot of loud crying, as Rooster smirked, letting his friends know he knew about this surprise, Bob knew this night had quickly become absolute perfection in both of his friendsâ eyes.
Bob also knew that now, his plan to squash his little crush on you had failed before it even had the chance to begin.
Heâd managed to avoid seeing you for a few days, but that didnât mean that Natasha had shut up about you. Every day, while thousands of feet in the air, heâd listened to her ramble on and on about how the pair of you had always wanted to live in the same city together once you were settled in your careers, and she was finally getting her wish. Sheâd also run about a thousand ideas for how to help you decorate your apartment by him, and somewhere in there had tricked him into agreeing to help herself and Rooster set up your apartment.
âI canât thank you all enough for the help,â youâd told the three standing in front of you one early Saturday morning, giving them all thankful smiles, before turning to the multitudes of boxes stacked around your living room. âIâŠfrankly have no idea where to start. The boxes are all stacked in their corresponding rooms, and there are a ton of IKEA boxes that need to be assembled in just about every room.â
Rooster clapped a hand on Bobâs shoulder, bringing the attention of both women back to the two of them.
âGood thing Bob and I are masters of IKEA furniture,â Bradley put on an air of confidence as he said it. âWhen Payback and Fanboy got their apartment a few months ago, we were in charge of all the furniture assembly.â
âAnd given that we managed to build a bedframe upside down, I wouldnât call us masters,â
It was the giggle you let out at Bobâs comment that brought his attention back to you, an involuntary flush spreading across his cheeks. You gave a mock salute to the pair.
âWell, how nice it is to know I have such capable young men on my side,â you gestured with your head toward the hallway behind you. âIâll steal Bob for help with the dining room if Natasha, you and your man can handle my bedroom without putting my bedframe together upside down.â
With another laugh shared, Rooster and Phoenix were quickly moving down the hallway toward your bedroom, but Bob caught the over-exaggerated wink that Rooster sent his way before disappearing into what he assumed was your bedroom.
Trying to calm the blush evident on his cheeks, Bob joined you in the dining room directly off your kitchen. Youâd already set yourself down on the floor, breaking into the IKEA box laid before you.
âCan you take that so I donât lose it while getting all these pieces out?â youâd laughed, handing Bob the instruction manual. He took it from you with a nod, quickly flipping through the packet in his hands.
âA âGRĂNSTAâ, because thatâs not a mouthful,â Bob commented under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear as you laughed again. He took a seat on the ground opposite of you,, placing the packet off to the side and helping you take pieces out of the box, while also trying to calm the heat still prevalent in his cheeks. âDoesnât help that the instructions donât make any sense.â
âRight? Youâd think the Swedes would learn that their pictures arenât very helpful,â you both shared a laugh as Bob watched you flip open the instructions, grabbing the pieces needed for the very first leg of the table.
It was torture, almost, being around you with a crush that felt so middle school being harbored inside of him. He barely knew you, but every time you talked and joked, he knew he was already digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole.
âYou said the other night youâre a professor?â Bob had settled on asking you about yourself. You were Natashaâs best friend, and now you lived here; getting to know you was going to be inevitable. You gave him a slight hum as an answer, intent on screwing in the leg of the table to the tabletop that Bob was holding in place. âWhat uh, what will you be teaching?â
âIâm a professor in the art department, thereâs like a whole slew of classes Iâll be teaching,â you explained to him as Bob held the table steady so that you could screw in another leg. âMusic, theatre, dance, and probably whatever else they throw my way.â
You passed the tools off to Bob as you stood, holding the table upright on itâs two legs so that he could screw in the last two from the ground below you. Truthfully, Bob was thankful for the table between you two, because the more he looked at you, the more he couldnât stop thinking about just how gorgeous you were in person.
âTake it youâre a creative person, then?â
âAfter some lead roles in high school musicals, followed by a stint on Broadway fresh out of collegeâŠyeah Iâd say creative is a good word to use,â Bob laughed, moving out from under the table slightly to grab the final leg from just a few feet away, glancing up at you.
âBroadway? My older sister is a big musical fan, sheâd go nuts knowing I know someone who was on Broadway, now,â
âWell, you can tell her that Iâd be happy to tell her all about it sometime. Iâve got a whole slew of fun stories from different shows,â you gave him another grin, still holding up the unbalanced table. âIâm surprised Nattie didnât tell anyone about my Broadway stint; she talks about it like a proud mother to whoever will listen.â
Bob found himself locked in place as he laughed at your comment, fidgeting with the last table leg in his hands as he smiled up at you, finding himself locked in conversation easily. Despite his raging social anxiety that Rooster and Hangman desperately wanted to fix, Bob found it entirely too easy to talk to you.
âTo be fair, when weâre thousands of feet in the air, we have a few things to focus on for the sake of our lives,â both of you shared a laugh at his comment. âSheâd told plenty of stories about you, though. Showed a lot of photos and videos, too.â
âGood, because sheâs told me plenty about you,â Bob could see your grin widen, no doubt because of the red flush overtaking his skin at your comment. âHer incredibly smart and kind WSO with raging social anxiety. Not sure I believe that last part, you seem to be doing just fine.â
âOn the outside, maybe. Typically, on the outside and inside, Iâm about as useful as a newborn baby deer,â
The laughter that you let out as his joke, Bob decided, was now one of his favorite things. He was so entranced by it that he hadnât noticed youâd accidentally let go of the table until it had fallen back on him.
The gasp youâd let out rang through the room, but it was broken apart by the laughter that seemed to be flowing out of you even harder now. Bob took a second to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose before shoving the table off of him. Your laughter paused for a moment as soon as the two of you locked eyes, before you both devolved into a fit of laughter that had Bob almost curled in on himself.
âIâm so sorry!â you had finally managed to get out words after a solid few moments, wiping tears from your eyes as laughter still broke through your words. âI didnât mean to do that!â
âGood, because I donât want to explain to Maverick that I died because of a âGRĂNSTAâ,â the pair of you devolved into laughter again as you held out your hand for him. Bob took it, despite the full-body flush he felt at simply touching your skin, and let you hoist him back up to his feet.
âAlright, next time I see you, Iâm buying you a drink as an apology,â you told him with a pointed look as you moved past him to grab the instruction book.
âYeah, yeah, whatever you say, Ikea,â
âHey!â Bob laughed as you gasped at his comment, whacking him lightly with the instruction booklet as you grinned at him. âThereâs no way weâre making that my nickname!â
âI promise itâs better than any call-sign Hangman will come up with for you-â
âWhat the hell is happening out here?â
Bob turned on his heel to face the hallway just as you did. Rooster looked lost at what was happening outside the bedroom, as did Natasha, but Bob could see the slightest hint of a smirk on his friendâs face as she looked at him. Bob turned to look at you, just as you looked at him, and you both devolved into another round of laughter that had Rooster even more confused.
Bob Floyd hadnât stopped thinking about you after that night. He thought about you constantly, how your hand fit and felt in his own, about your laughter, and about that beautiful smile on your face. He was in deep, and he knew it. You never left his mind until he saw you again at the weekly Hard Deck hangout with the rest of the Dagger Squad.
âWell, well, well,â Hangmanâs Texan accent was heavy tonight as he turned his gaze away from the pool table before him, and the meaningless game he was playing against Coyote. âPhoenix brought her shadow along tonight!â
Bob turned his head, a smile crossing his lips at the sight of you walking up with Phoenix, two beer bottles in your hands as you rolled your eyes at Hangmanâs comments, but Natasha was the one who spoke first.
âI was more so her shadow growing up, followed this one everywhere,â she nudged your shoulder before taking a seat at one of the high tops next to Bradley, smiling widely as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. âFigured, now that sheâs settled in, it was time to start bringing her around to the weekly night out.â
The conversation continued, but Bobâs eyes and grin were glued to you. You made a beeline for his side, leaning against the high-top chair he was seated on and passing him one of the beers in your hand.
âNice to see you, Lieutenant,â you teased him, clinking the top of your bottle to his own. âI did say I owed you a beer next time I saw you.â
âThanks, Ikea, Iâm sure it will numb the pain of that table falling on me,â Bob threw back, laughing as you lightly hit him on the shoulder the second he said that nickname. âSettled in well?â
âAll thanks to you guys and that entire day full of furniture building,â you shot back at him, taking a swig of your drink as you turned to watch the pool game in front of you, still leaning against Bobâs chair. It had you close enough that Bob was overwhelmed by the scent of your perfume, and he decided in that moment it might be his new favorite scent.
He then scolded himself in his head for how weird that sounded. This crush was getting out of hand.
Coyote let out a groan as Hangman beat him once again, the latter letting out a loud whoop that had the rest of the Dagger Squad laughing. The pilotâs attention turned immediately to you, a frown appearing on Bobâs lips immediately as he recognized the flirty grin on Jakeâs face.
âWhat do you say, little lady?â Hangman emphasized his accent even more, making a show of gesturing you toward the pool table with the pool cue in his hands. âWant to play a round?â
You hummed from beside Bob, leaning over him to place your own drink on the table as his face immediately flushed at the action. You didnât seem to notice, stalking toward the pool table and picking up Coyoteâs previous pool cue.
â8 ball or 9 ball?â
â9 ball, Iâm all about making shots,â Hangman called back, gesturing toward his side of the table. âPayback can rack âem for us. What do you say, sweetheart? Ready to be partners with the greatest pool player Miramarâs ever had the pleasure of hosting?â
âAbsolutely,â you shock back, and Bob paused in his sip of his beer as your gaze shot back toward him. âLetâs go, Lieutenant. Youâre my partner.â
There was a collective laugh through the entire squad at the look of shock on Hangmanâs face, that he quickly tried to wipe away and pretend as if your comment hadnât affected him. Bob froze for a moment, but the inviting smile on your face drew him to your side within a heartbeat.
Hangman and Coyote were a good pairing, but somehow you and Bob managed to be just slightly better than them both. Bob let out a cheer as you sunk the final ball of the game, happily accepting the high five you sent his way as Coyote and Hangman groaned, having come so close yet so far from winning out.
âNice shots there, Bob,â you shot at him, nudging his shoulder with your own as you placed your cue down on the table. Bob could feel the confidence heâd been feeling the last hour slightly fade at the close proximity to you, at the sweet smile you were sending up at him from your place next to him.
âYeah uh- yeah, you too, Ikea-â
âIkea?â Payback questioned as he and Fanboy hopped up to sit on the table next to the dejected Jake Seresin. He pointed between Bob and their newest friend. âLikeâŠthe Swedish furniture place?â
You laughed, your hand coming to rest on Bobâs forearm with a squeeze that had his heart fluttering in his chest.
âInside joke, Payback, and itâs going to stay that way,â
Bobâs friend went to counter them with another comment when Natasha and Bradley returned to the group, an entire tray of beers in hand as Natasha whistled to get everyoneâs attention.
âAlright guys, weâve got another round of beers for the group,â most of them whooped and hollered as Bradley passed them all out, before Natasha turned to Bob and her best friend to hand them the two in her hands with a wide grin. âAnd two very special ones for our best friends.â
There was a beat of silence as Bob took his drink from Natasha, taking a swig before he felt something on the outside of the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, seeing a piece of paper barely attached by a thin strip of tape, Roosterâs handwriting scrawled across it:
You might be Phoenixâs back seater, but I want you to be my wingman this time: be my Best Man?
Bob almost felt tears in his eyes as he looked up at Bradley, who was waiting with a grin on his face. Overwhelmed with emotion, Bob simply nodded, standing up as he brought Bradley into a tight hug as the rest of the group realized what was happening before them and began cheering.
âOH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, YES!â
Bob and Bradley both turned to see you flinging yourself into Natashaâs arms, the pair of you jumping and crying together. His eyes trailed to your bottle, long forgotten on the side of the pool table, with a piece of paper bearing Natâs handwriting taped to the neck:
It was always going to be you: be my Maid of Honor?â
âYou know what they say about the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, right Bob?â It was Bradleyâs voice mumbled into his ear with a hint of teasing laced through it, his best friendâs hand clamped down on his shoulder with a squeeze. âItâs almost inevitable that they fall in love.â
Bob never had a second to truly process Bradleyâs words before Natasha was getting the attention of the entire group once again, with you still glued to her side.
âIt might also be a good time to tell you guys we picked a wedding dateâŠweâre getting married in six months!â
The cheering of the entire group ceased for a moment before everyone seemed to shout all at once.
âWHAT?â
Planning a wedding was hard enough on the Bride and the Groom, and it was hard on the Best Man and the Maid of Honor as well. But to somehow turn it around in only six months, especially when almost everyone involved was a Navy fighter pilot who spent most of their time thousands of feet in the air, it made it even harder.
It was even harder for Bob, as he accepted his âschoolboy crushâ had grown into a full-blown crush on you, maybe even borderline infatuation, not even a month later than that night at the Hard Deck.
Bob had been a stumbling, blushing mess when youâd given him your number that night after the announcement. It made sense, given that it was going to be up to the two of you to plan most of the festivities leading up to the wedding. It was hard because, besides Bobâs growing affection for you, he couldnât get the thought of what Rooster had mumbled to him out of his head.
Heâd yet, though, worked up the courage to text you regarding ANYTHING other than wedding festivities planningâŠwhich were all conversations you had started first.
âHard Deck, 6 p.m., donât be late!â Phoenix called out to Bob as she walked away, tucked under Bradleyâs arm as they made their way toward the latter's truck. âHangman insists on that pool rematch tonight!â
âLet a guy shower first!â Bob called back, waving goodbye to his friends as he climbed up into his truck, wiping sweat from his brow. Another day that ended with over 200 push-ups from Maverick, and he refused to show up to the Hard Deck without showering first. Before he could put his car in drive, his phone went off, and his heart skipped a beat as he read your name across the screen.
Soooooooooo, huge favor to ask you here, BobbyâŠ
Bob did his best to calm the hammering that his heart was doing inside of his ribcage. It was just a simple text, thatâs all, asking for a favor. Heâd texted you before, and while this potentially may not be wedding-related, he could certainly text you again.
Anything, whatâs up?
Anything? God, could he make his pining any more obvious? He didnât get long to mull over his own words before youâd already typed back to him.
My car is in the shop, and a coworker gave me a ride in today, but she had to leave early. I know I promised Jake that pool rematch tonightâŠany way you could swing by and pick me up from campus?
I know campus is WAY in the opposite direction from the Hard Deck, itâs totally okay if you canât!
Was Bob freaking out inside? Absolutely. He knew you worked on UCSDâs campus, but heâd never been to your office; he had no need to go there. The last time heâd also been fully alone with you was building furniture and dropping tables in your apartment, and picking you up meant being alone with youâŠplus, it wouldnât give him time to go home and shower, and the last thing he wanted to do was put you off potentially because he was sweating buckets in the San Diego sun all day.
Before he could psych himself out, as if there was a little Rooster on his shoulder coercing him, Bob replied.
Of course, send me your office address.
About a half hour later, Bob was forcing himself out of his truck and up to the doors of the building housing the Department of Theater and Dance, frantically trying to fix his hair so he looked semi-acceptable. Heâd already had to convince himself that a fifth layer of deodorant was not needed, nor was a second spray of the spare cologne he kept in his car.
Walking through the doors and into the building youâd given him directions to, Bob realized fairly quickly that he was absolutely lost and had no idea how to get to your office. Spotting a receptionist off to the side, Bob made his way over to her and cleared his throat, asking politely for directions to your office.
âI didnât think Siren had any meetings on the schedule for todayâŠâ the receptionist trailed off as she raised an eyebrow at him. Bob let out an awkward laugh, glancing to her nametag and making a mental note that her name was âSydneyâ, before answering her.
âUh, no maâam, sorry for the confusion. Iâm a uhâŠfriend of hers. She asked me to pick her up,â
Sydneyâs eyes seemed to widen as she smiled, happily sitting up now in the chair once heâd explained himself.
âOh! You must be the Lieutenant. Bob, right?â he gave her a nod as she typed something at her laptop before turning back to him. âSiren told me youâd be dropping by and would probably need directions- oh, and donât mind the nickname, itâs just kind of a little inside joke around here that stuck. Take those stairs up to the second floor, the right side is dance studios, and her office is at the end of the hall to the left!â
With a quiet thank you, Bob followed her directions up the stairs and down to the left, though he could hear the music blasting from the dance studios down the hallway. At the very end of the hall, he saw your name on the plaque outside the one door ajar in the hallway.
With a light push to the door, so as not to freak you out, Bob leaned against the doorframe as he saw you working away at your laptop, singing softly to yourself as your own music played. He smiled softly to himself at the sight, even though inside he was still freaking out over the entire situation.
âSoâŠSiren, huh?â
You jumped slightly at the voice until you turned, seeing that it was just Bob standing in the doorway of the office. He watched as you gave a slight laugh, beginning the process of packing your things up as you explained.
âGod, of course, Sydney used that in front of you,â you turned, shooting him another smile as you packed your laptop away. âContext to this stupid inside joke probably helps, doesnât it? I taught a salsa class my first week here, and this one student of mine thought I was such a good dancer she explained that my âdancing was so captivating, like a Sirenâs song,â and the next thing I knew the entire staff was calling me that.â
âNot a bad nickname,â Bob tried to reassure you as you joined him at the doorway with your things. âBetter than your callsign being your nameâŠor Hangman turning it into baby-on-board instead.â
You rolled your eyes, taking hold of his arm in your hand and dragging him lightly from the office doorway to lock up behind you, hopefully unaware of the frantic beating of his heart at even the slight contact.
âIâd rather get called that than get named after leaving my wingmen out to dry,â you gave him a pointed look that he laughed at before your features softened into something genuine again. âThank you for being my hero today.â
âAnytime, Ikea,â
It was only halfway through the night at the Hard Deck when youâd let slip to Penny your nickname at work, and like vultures, the rest of the squad was dying to hear the story.
It was that night that, after living in San Diego for a month and a half, Bob watched the rest of his team officially induct you as an honorary member of the Dagger Squad with your very own callsign: Siren. You were officially one of them, even though you basically had been since the moment youâd arrived in the city.
From that day on, something shifted for Bob. Heâd chalked it up to the ease he felt around you, the way you made him feel like he didnât need to be flashy like Hangman to be liked, and heâd found it easier to finally branch out and text you about things NOT related to the wedding. And slowly, but surely, he was stopping by the campus on his very few rare off days from work to bring you lunch, simply talk to you in your office, or offer you a ride to the Hard Deck, knowing full well your car was parked in the campus lot.Â
Bob spent the next weeks slowly, but surely, falling in love with you in every way imaginable, and he knew it. It terrified him how easily youâd secured a place in his heart, and you werenât even aware you had. Phoenix and Rooster had tried to pry the information out of him many times, wondering why he was so engrossed in his phone all the time or why he was suddenly so smiley, but he kept his lips sealed.
Besides, how was he supposed to tell the woman controlling the fighter jet that could kill him that he was kind of falling in love with her best friend?
It was one of those very rare off days that Bob found himself cleaning out his truck in his driveway, knowing that there were a few jackets and extra pairs of shirts, and pants to change into after leaving base that needed to come out of the car and into the wash. What he hadnât expected was to find your jacket.
Youâd worn it the night before to the Hard Deck, actually needing Bob to pick you up since your car was once again in the shop. The temperature was predicted to drop drastically that night, and since Payback and Fanboy had the bright idea to do âlate night dogfight football,â youâd told him that you wanted to ensure you were warm. You must have left it in his car when heâd dropped you off that night.
Bob hesitated for half a second before climbing into the driverâs seat of his truck. What if you needed your jacket? It totally wasnât an excuse to see you.
Sydney knew him well at this point, simply waving hi to him as he entered the familiar campus building. Heâd waved back, giving his thanks as she called out that you may not be in your office at this hour.
Sheâd been correct, but Bob had been by enough to know you had your class schedule written out on the board by the door of your office.
Contemporary Dance, 11:30 a.m. Room 149
The signs were easy enough to follow, leading him down the hallway toward the area he knew held the multiple dance studios. Your voice was easy enough to pick out as he stepped inside the room, catching you leading your class in front of the full wall of mirrors. Heâd never seen you dance until now, but it only took a second to see why they all called you Siren.
You moved in a way that was graceful yet powerful, commanding and yet gentle all the same. Bob had to adjust the way he was leaning against the doorway, cursing himself for the fact that he was enjoying your dancing way too much, and the dirty thoughts in his head were fighting to come to the surface. You deserved more than being thought of in that way. You deserved a proper date, maybe over a nice meal with a walk along the beach. You deserved chivalry, for him to always open every door and walk on the outer edge of the sidewalk to keep you safe. You deserved more than his boyish, improper thoughts. What you deserved was the world, and Bob would give it to you if you just said the word.
Youâd locked eyes with him in the mirror as the song and dance with your students came to an end, and his heart soared at the way it seemed your face lit up simply at seeing him. You bid a quick goodbye to your students, ushering them out of the room and onto their next class, before it was just the pair of you left as music still played over the roomâs speakers.
âYou didnât text me and tell me you were coming?â you questioned the man, moving through the room to fix things up and put away anything your students had managed to move in the process of the class.
âYou forgot this last night,â he held up your jacket. âJust figured Iâd bring it back, sorry, I shouldâve texted-â
âBob, youâre more than welcome here whenever you want to come,â you cut in quickly, gesturing toward the far wall where your purse lay. âThank you, just toss it over with the rest of my stuff.â
Bob did as you asked, now fully in the room with you, as he watched you fiddle with things around the room, moving them back to where he assumed they were before class had started. His hands found their way into the pockets of his jeans, keeping himself from wringing his hands together or from fiddling with the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel over and over again.
âIâve never gotten to see you dance beforeâŠI get why they call you Siren,â he swallowed the small lump that seemed to form in his throat, slowly losing his nerve around you like he typically did. âWish I knew how to doâŠall that.â
âWell, thank you, contemporary was one of the dance forms I primarily trained in during college,â you shot back at him, spinning on your heel to face him now as you tilted your head. âAnd come on, anyone can dance, itâs not that complicated.â
âThatâs because youâve never seen me try,â Bob laughed at himself, sheepishly rubbing at the skin on the back of his neck as he looked away from you. âI look like I have two left feet when dancing. Who knows how Iâm going to survive this wedding in a few months.â
There was silence in the room before Bob heard you move. His eyes trailed back to you, watching as you grabbed your phone for just a moment, before the sweet sound of Kina Grannisâ voice overtook the room. His eyes stayed glued to you as you came to stand in front of him, holding out your hand with your palm facing the sky as you wore the prettiest, softest smile heâd ever seen.
âDance with me?â
Bob thought surely that was the moment his heart was going to decide to give out on him, but in gazing at your kind eyes and smile full of affection, he placed his hand in your own and let you lead him.
God, your hand fit in his like it was made to be there.
He silently watched you, allowing you to wrap his one hand around your waist, giving it a squeeze before trailing your other hand to rest on top of his shoulder.
âTake a deep breath,â he followed your instructions as you gave a squeeze to his hand, still wrapped in your own. âJust follow me, I promise itâs not hard.â
Bob found his eyes glued to your feet as you slowly moved him around the room together, mumbling apologies every now and again as he stumbled or stepped on your toes, but you only ever gave him a comforting squeeze to his hand or shoulder. He never dared look up at you, afraid heâd lose all his cool if he had to look you in the eyes in this close proximity.
When he stumbled once more, you gave a small laugh, hand moving from his shoulder to his neck, gently tilting his jaw upwards to look at you.
âI promise itâs much easier if you donât watch your feet,â
His eyes met yours, and it was like the entire world went silent in that moment, but the music playing through the sound system seemed to get louder.
But I canât help, falling in love with you.
âThere are those pretty blue eyes,â you teased as a blush coated his cheeks in seconds. It brought on another smile to see a similar one on your own, though. âDid Bradley tell you about their bachelor and bachelorette party idea?â
âHe said they had an idea, just hadnât told me yet,â
âNat told me they thought a big combined party would be best, given that this friend group is just one giant pile of pilots,â Bob laughed, missing the feel of your hand on his jaw as it moved back to his shoulder. âGuess you and I have to get planning.â
âMaverick said Cyclone made it work so that we can all have a week off for it, just have to let them know when,â
âPerfect. Know what else is perfect?â Bob shook his head as your grin widened. âYou are dancing perfectly since you stopped looking at your feet!â
Bobâs eyes widened as he looked down at his feet for just a moment, realizing you were right, before looking back up at you. It was like the world was throwing every sign in the world at him as the music seemed to feel louder once again.
For I canât help, falling in love with you.
Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat once again, Bob mustered the softest smile for you he could.
âGuess I just have a great teacher,â
The weeks passed, and the wedding was only a month and a half out. Youâd flown home with Natasha to your hometown in order to wedding dress shop with Natâs sister and mother, and every detail had been meticulously planned out for the wedding. The venue had been chosen, a gorgeous little venue in the heart of San Diego just big enough to house the 150 or so guests that had been invited, and just a few blocks walk for the wedding party and family members who would be staying at the Lafayette Hotel San Diego.
The Best Man and the Maid of Honor had finalized the plans for the joint bachelor/bachelorette trip: a week stay in a gorgeous home by the Colorado River and just an hourâs drive from Lake Mead and Las Vegas, plenty of options for relaxing and true partying, just as Bradley and Natasha wanted. It had taken a while for Bob and you to hammer out the details, many dinners had been held in your office after stopping by, and many phone calls that managed to devolve into late-night conversations having nothing to do with the party planning. But Bob wouldnât have it any other way.
He was hopelessly in love, and he knew it. Unfortunately for him, Bradley had caught on, too.
âLetâs go!â Natasha called out to the boys as they hopped out of Bradleyâs truck, already running through the parking lot toward the campus building housing your office. âI want to get on the road before Hangman and the others beat us there. I want the best pick of the bedrooms!â
Bob shook his head, trying to fight off the flush on his cheeks. The questions from Bradley on the topic had increased tenfold over the last few weeks, and it was getting harder to lie to him.
âWeâre in charge of handling a bunch of the backend shit of your wedding, Rooster,â Bob managed to remind his friend as they reached the doors of the campus building. âWe spend a lot of time together, thatâs all.â
âBut youâre in love with her, are you not?â Bob groaned, opening the glass doors and letting Bradley walk ahead of him. âIâm just asking! We can all see it, the entire squad has money in the betting pool for when you two will finally buck up and figure it out. Phoenix has interrogated her so many times and gets nowhere on it.â
âWeâre about to leave on your joint bachelor/bachelorette trip, thereâs enough love in the air with the two of you. Donât worry about me and my non-existent love life,â
Bradley made another comment under his breath, but Bob didnât catch it. His gaze quickly found Natasha at the receptionist's desk, talking to Sydney.
âIâve been here once, but the building still confuses me. I canât remember how to get to her office,â Natasha explained to the girl as Sydney simply laughed, waving it off.
âI understand. I used to get confused here all the time. Itâs just up those stairs-â she cut herself off as she saw Bob and Bradley approach, her face brightening up at the sight of the former. âOh, Lieutenant! You guys donât need directions, he knows where heâs going. I think she canceled her last class of the day, so she should be up in her office!â
Bob felt that flush return in full force as Bradley clapped him on the shoulder.
Bob stumbled for a moment, his hand immediately coming to rub the back of his neck as he tried to find the words. He wanted to say he wasnât here THAT oftenâŠbut he knew that was a lie.
Like always, you somehow managed to save the day.
âOh! I told you guys you couldâve waited in the car!â youâd called out, descending the stairs from your office with your suitcase for the week in hand. You bid your goodbyes to the two students walking at your sides, coming to stand beside Bob as you glanced around the small group with a questioning eyebrow. âI could cut the tension with a knife here. What did I miss?â
âJustâŠlearning some new information,â Natasha settled on, a grin lighting up her face as she hooked her arm through your own, dragging you away from the two boys who could only laugh. âITâS PARTY TIME!â
An almost 6 hours drive to the booked AirBNB for the week was a slight pain in the ass, but the four of you managed as you all continuously joked that you hadnât ended up delegated to ride in Hangmanâs truck with him. Bob couldnât help the fact that every so often, his gaze drifted to the backseat in the rearview mirror, to where you and Nat were engrossed in a thousand different conversations that differed from his own and Roosterâs.Â
Without fail, you seemed to be looking back at him every time with a small smile that he treasured as if it were the sun itself.
Hangman, Payback, Coyote, and Fanboy had, sadly, beaten the Bride and Groomâs group to the house, but any bitter feelings surrounding it were forgotten as theyâd gotten a look at the gorgeous home in person. Nestled in an area of the desert with barely any neighbors and gorgeous views for miles, including the Colorado River just down the hill from the long driveway, no one could harbor any ill feelings about anything as the sun was setting over the mountains and bathing the entire home in red, oranges, and pinks.
Bob had taken his own suitcase and yours, ignoring your protests, and brought them into the house. Everyone seemed to be running about, checking out the amenities, as some people put their claims on the bedrooms already. Natasha had dragged you off in the direction of the game room when Bob caught sight of Rooster whispering to Hangman and Fanboy, all three men watching him with a smirk.
âHey, baby-on-board,â Hangman called out for him, smirk growing ever cockier by the second. âThe rest of us have already staked claim on rooms, and of course, the couple has to share. Only room left is the sofa bed room in the back of the houseâŠthink Siren would mind sharing with you?â
If Bobâs eyes could pop out of his head, they wouldâve. He shook his head, already knowing by the smirks on all three boysâ lips that this was planned well in advance.
âGuys-â
âHey, Siren!â Fanboy called out just as youâd reentered the room. You stopped dead in your tracks, cocking an eyebrow at the guys as you waited. âClaims have already been staked on most of the bedrooms, perks of being the first ones here. You donât mind sharing with Bobby boy, do you?â
âGuys, really-â
âI donât mind,â youâd cut off Bobâs comment as he turned to you, eyes wide. He wasnât sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he couldâve sworn he saw a flush cross your own skin as you looked at him. âReally, as long as itâs okay with you, I donât mind.â
Bob looked back at the boys and their expectant smirks, then back to you, before finally taking a deep breath.
âYeahâŠyeah, thatâs fine with me,â
The truth was, Bob could barely focus on the entirety of dinner with the squad. He laughed, made jokes, and participated in conversations across the entire table the entire night, but his mind was stuck on the fact that he had to share a bedâŠwith you.
Those nerves didnât rest even as you both retired to your room for the night. The sofa bed had already been pulled out and made for the two of you. Bob had simply crawled into bed in silence, situating himself under the covers.
You entered the room moments later, having changed in the bathroom down the hall, and sent him a sweet smile as you crawled into your own side of the bed. Lying side by side, heads on their respective pillows, you both simply lay there and smiled toward one another.
âSorry you got stuck with me,â
âI didnât get stuck with you,â youâd rolled your eyes at his comment. âIâd take sharing with you over any of those Neanderthals any day.â
âJust promise not to drop any tables on me this trip, okay, Ikea?â
Youâd laughed, even as youâd reached your foot out under the covers and kicked him lightly on the shin.
âIf I managed to do that, I think I should get an award,â it was his turn to laugh as you flipped over, turning the bedside lamp off before tucking yourself into the covers. âNight, Bob.â
âNight, Ikea-â
âWeâve got to STOP with that nickname,â
Heâd fallen asleep comfortably that night at your side, still laughing lightly to himself over that dumb little nickname he had for you that had found a way to stick. He wished his sleep had lasted longer, but it was quite the sight to see you leaning over him and shaking his shoulder with a grin.
âGet up!â
Bob groaned as you moved back to your side of the bed, reaching over to the nightstand to grab his glasses. The second his eyes focused, he checked the time on his phone. Slightly after 5:30 in the morning. Bob let out another groan when he saw the time.
âWhy are you awake-â
âJust trust me and come on!â
Heâd barely been out of bed and on his feet when youâd taken his hand in your own, dragging him down the dark hallways of the house. He wasnât even fully awake enough to register your hand wrapped around his own.
The second youâd dragged him out onto the large patio deck of the home, he understood why youâd woken him up so early. If sunset had been pretty from this view, sunrise mightâve been even prettier.
The deep purple hues that crawled across the sky, blending into the fading night sky full of stars over the desert. The beginnings of reds and pink crawling out from the horizon, casting itself over the rolling desert hills and the Colorado River just barely in the distance, close enough he could see the colors reflecting off the water. Heâd found himself leaning against the railing, gazing out at the colors for a moment before turning to you at his side, finding you already looking up at him.
âItâs gorgeous, isnât it?â
Youâd turned back to the view, but Bobâs eyes, full of wonder, stayed locked on you as he spoke.
âPrettier than anything Iâve ever seen,â
Youâd stayed out there for awhile, small talk flowing through you, reminiscing on moments with the squad such as that terrible late night dogfight football, or the time youâd all watched on as Rooster handed Maverickâs ass to him in pool at the Hard Deck. Your hands sat on the railing next to one another, just barely touching, as your arms sat pressed up against one another. If Bob had more confidence, if heâd thought that maybe you felt the same for him, he mightâve taken the leap and reached out to take your hand in his own.
Neither of you had any clue how long youâd been out there admiring the view and simply talking. Bob heard a small noise behind you both after a while, glancing behind you both. Rooster simply stood in the patio doorway, a genuine grin on his face as he raised his coffee cup at his best friend with a wink, before leaving you alone together once more.
It was a week of memories that none of them would ever truly forget.
The entire day spent on the shores of Lake Mead was full of laughter, and what Fanboy had nicknamed âdogfight chickenâ, though it didnât have any different rules than a normal game of chicken did. You and Bob had reigned victorious through every single round, though Bob wasnât sure how. His thoughts were flooded with you, and the impure thoughts he was having at the thought that his head was, quite literally, between your thighs as you sat on his shoulders, was driving him insane.
That next morning was worse for his thoughts, when heâd awoken early in the morning to you nestled in his arms, head resting against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you. Heâd laid still like that for what felt like hours, both terrified of waking you up and freaking you out with the position you were in, while also savoring every second of it in fear it would never happen again. Heâd pretended to be asleep when you finally woke up, letting you be the one to extricate yourself from his arms. Neither of you mentioned it to the other.
One full day and night had been dedicated to the Las Vegas strip and all it had to offer. Rooster was constantly nudging Bob in the side the entire day, reminding his friend that his eyes were supposed to remain on your face, not on the slit of the dress you wore running up and exposing your thigh.
No one knew who had drunkenly suggested it, but somehow theyâd found themselves at a Magic Mike show. Plenty of videos had been taken as a form of blackmail as Hangman was subjected to a lap dance from the performers of the show, constantly telling Coyote to âpiss off about itâ the rest of the night.
That next morning, Bob had woken up to you entangled in his arms once again. And the morning after that.
The Dagger Squadâs final day of the trip was spent together at the home, simply enjoying one another's company as more stories of everyoneâs childhood had been shared across the board. Bob had even been roped into a story of him working on his parents' ranch back in Montana at one point, which prompted a whole discussion on whether Bob was technically considered a cowboy or not.
The WSO had found himself frozen in the kitchen that night, simply watching you from the window. You and Natasha sat on the patio together, pointing up at the light pollution-free sky as you seemed to be watching the stars, discussing what could be seen that night, hundreds of thousands of miles above your heads. Heâd watched you throw your head back laughing, and that tug in his chest when he looked at you seemed to increase tenfold in that moment.
It wasnât long later that Rooster was opening his bedroom door, coming to find that it was Bob standing on the other side of the door and knocking frantically.
âBob-â
âYou were rightâŠIâm in love with her,â
âWell,â both boys turned, seeing Natasha had entered the hallway at just the right moment to join her future husband for bed and hear the conversation occurring. Bobâs blood ran cold, fearing the worst, but she simply smiled at him. âItâs nice to finally hear you admit the obvious.â
A long conversation with his best friends came with the feeling of a small weight being lifted off his shoulders, of finally having admitted his feelings out loud. Theyâd encouraged him to act on it, to tell you how he felt, but Bob couldnât get rid of the nagging insecurity in the back of his head that he was never going to be good enough for you.
When heâd returned to your room that night and crawled into bed, you were still awake. You had both simply laid there in silence for a moment, staring at one another, and Bob could see the hesitation in your movements for just a moment. You seemed to throw your inhibitions out the window, moving across the bed and slotting yourself into Bobâs arms, curling yourself around him as you buried your head into the crook of his neck.
It threw Bob for a loop. Every night this week, youâd awoken like this, tangled together, but heâd assumed that it had just naturally happened in your sleep, that one of you reached out for the other. But you were awake, you were both aware of what you were doing, and yet you took the leap anyway. Bob chose not to push his luck, not to ask, and simply wrapped his arms around you, closing his eyes with you tucked right against him where he felt you belonged.
âCan I tell you something?â Bob whispered to you after moments of silence wrapped up together, neither of you addressing the compromising position youâd put yourself in.
âAlways,â
âYouâŠâ Bob struggled for a moment, trying to find his words and the right thing to say. âLoveâ was dancing on his lips, but his insecurities tugged it back in. When he spoke again, he knew he meant the words, even if it was not what he meant to say. âYouâre my best friend. Donât tell Rooster that.â
There was a pause, then a soft laugh, as you seemed to cling to him tighter, your words and breath ghosting over his skin.
âYouâre my best friend, too. Just donât tell Nat,â
There had been another shift in the relationship between you and Bob in those next few weeks leading to the wedding night, and everyone seemed to be able to see it. A simple confession, albeit not the confession Bob had wanted to say that night, seemed to change everything.
Anytime the group was out together, you both were glued to one anotherâs side. This time, unlike in the months prior, it was as if the pair of you had to be touching. If you were all walking somewhere, your arm was linked through his with your hand resting on his bicep. The entire group noticed the way that, as you all hugged one another goodbye at the end of a night, you and Bob seemed to linger in one anotherâs embraces longer than usual.
There was the night at the Hard Deck, laughing over some story Maverick was telling them from the glory days, that Bob felt your hand reach for his under the table, wordlessly slotting itself into his own. That moment replayed in his head every single day and night, even as he fell asleep late into the morning hours with you still on the phone with him.
They were the moments that he couldnât help but replay constantly, even as he stood in the preparation room of the wedding venue, adjusting his dress whites to ensure that nothing was out of place.
âHow are we looking over here, Rooster?â Hangman called out, moving through the room to check on the groom himself.Â
âReady to do this thing,â Rooster told him as Bob joined the pair across the room. Bradley placed a hand on each of their shoulders, his Best Man and his only other Groomsman, all standing together in their matching Navy dress whites, and gave them a thankful smile. âThank you both for doing this. For being here with me.â
Bob grinned at his best friend as Rooster pulled them both into a hug, before it was go time.
Bradley was already stationed at the altar behind the double doors before them, leaving Bob to stand just behind the doors, ready to lead the charge down the aisle for his best friends to get married. He turned as he heard the voice of Natashaâs sister behind them, taking her place beside Hangman for the walk. His gaze then turned to you as you slotted yourself to his side, and it took everything in him not to whisk you off your feet the second he laid eyes on the form fitting, navy blue dress clung to your body, or the plunging neckline he was desperately trying to keep his eyes off of.
âSheâs all set up with her dad back there,â youâd told him softly, winding your arm through his as your hand lay on his forearm, eyes never leaving his own. âWeâre good to go the second the music kicks in. You ready?â
âThink Rooster would kill me if I wasnât, heâs antsy down there,â youâd laughed, and Bob had smiled. His favorite sound in the world. âYouâŠyou look beautiful.â
âRight back at you, Lieutenant,â
There were smiles and tears throughout the crowd as you and Bob led the charge down the aisle, taking your places on either side of where Natasha and Bradley would stand. The second Natasha was escorted down the aisle by her father, there wasnât a dry eye in the house, Rooster and you included. Bob found himself watching you, though, as you happily took Natâs bouquet from her hands through your tears.
They recited after their Pastor, they exchanged their vows, but Bob found his eyes betraying him and glancing at you more often than at his best friends. Every time he looked to you, he found you were already looking at him.
He knew there was no going back the second Natasha Trace and Bradley Bradshaw were pronounced man and wife, that theyâd pulled one another into their first kiss as a married couple, and his eyes had drifted to you in the celebration. All he could think in that moment was that he wanted that to be you and him, that he wanted to hold you and kiss you and call you his forever.
It felt like a blur to Bob what happened next. The entire Dagger Squad joined together to perform the Arch of Swords for their best friends, smiles never leaving anyoneâs faces. Bob had sat right next to you during dinner, unable to keep his eyes off of you the entire time. Then, youâd rose to your feet and took hold of the microphone passed to you, preparing for the speech youâd spent your entire life writing.
âIf you donât know me, the truth is you probably indirectly do. Because any story that Natasha has told you from any point in her life? I was most likely at every single one of those,â youâd turned to Natasha the second you said that, and Bob could see the tears in both of your eyes. âNatasha, or as many in this room know you, Phoenix, you hit me on the head with a soccer ball in Kindergarten, and I knew from that moment on you would be my best friend. I watched you fall in and out of love with both soccer and softball growing up, witnessed you punch two middle schoolers who broke my heart, and watched you fall in love with the idea of someday flying F-18s for the rest of your life. Iâm forever proud to say that Iâve watched you achieve everything youâve ever wanted in life, and Iâm so happy that Iâve gotten to be here for all of it. But most importantly, Iâm glad your passion also brought you the love you have always deserved. Bradley, Iâm proud to call you one of my best friends in life now, and I could not be happier to know that you two have found one another.â
Youâd raised your champagne glass through your tears, as the room followed suit, even as Natasha silently sobbed from her place beside Bradley.
âThey say that love is simply just a friendship that caught on fire,â Bobâs breath caught for just a moment, swearing that he saw your eyes flicker to him for just a moment, before you continued to talk. âMay it burn bright for many years to come, and fly higher than you both do every day in the San Diego skies.â
There were still the remnants of tears streaming down your face as you took your place beside Bob once again, allowing Natashaâs sister to give her own speech. Bob watched you in silence before, in a leap of faith, reaching his hand out for your own. You took it without a word, squeezing onto it in a vice-like grip and refusing to let go.
The reception was in full swing, and everyone was in party mode. Natasha and Bradley were the stars of the show in their first dance, revealed in their speeches previously to have been taught by none other than you.
The bouquet toss had the entire Dagger Squad erupting into cheers, almost trying to carry you off the dance floor, the second Natashaâs bouquet seemed to find you among the young women in the crowd as if meant just for you.
You. God, you had consumed every ounce of Bobâs thoughts for weeks and months now, and tonight was no different. In the ever-changing landscape that was life, you were like the North Star in Bobâs eyes, his one constant since the moment youâd walked into the Hard Deck.
âAs a wedding gift to us, could you just grow some balls and finally ask her out?â
Bob jumped, startled, as Bradley and Natasha appeared at his side from where he stood on the outside of the dance floor. He sighed, seeing the expectant looks on their faces, before glancing back to where you danced with the rest of the fighter pilots youâd grown so close to over the last few months.
âSheâs, like, walking perfection on legs, guys. She could do better than the socially awkward fighter pilot that isâŠme,â
âExcept she doesnât want to,â Natasha cut in. She sighed, resting a hand on Bobâs shoulder before glancing out toward her best friend. âIâve known her my entire life, Bob, and she doesnât take to people the way sheâs taken to you. She looks for you in every room, she talks about you constantlyâŠshe was dying to meet you just from the photos Iâd shown you. Iâve never seen her act the way she does when sheâs with you, Bob.â
The words sparked a small flame of hope in his chest, a flame just strong enough to push away the insecurities that begged to claw their way out. He looked back at his best friends, the glow of marriage surrounding them, with that flame of hope shining in his eyes.
âWhat if youâre wrong?â
âWhat if weâre right?â Rooster cut in, giving him a small shrug. âMaverick said it best to me months agoâŠdonât think, just do.â
Donât think, just do. Maverick always knew what to say, didnât he?
A slower song had begun on the dance floor, and Hangman could see Bob stalking their way. A smirk crossed the manâs face as he took hold of your hand, spinning you in Bobâs direction, before leading the rest of the Dagger Squad off the floor.
Bob stood in front of you, mustering every ounce of confidence he could find in him, as he held out his hand toward you, palm facing the sky.
âDance with me?â
A smile mightâve been permanently etched into your lips as you took his hand in yours. Bobâs other hand immediately found your waist, his hand resting on your lower back as he tugged you into him as tightly as he could, your other hand resting on his shoulder as the iconic Berlin song played through the reception.
Watching in slow motion as you turn around and sayâŠtake my breath away.
Neither of you said a word for a minute, though your eyes never left one another as you simply swayed side to side across the dance floor, fully aware of the watchful eyes of your friends on you from the sidelines.
âYou knowâŠâ you were the one to start the conversation, somehow managing to pull yourself even closer to Bob. There was a teasing tone to your voice, nose bumping against his for a moment. âIâve been kind of waiting for you to ask me out for months.â
A weight seemed to leave Bobâs shoulders the second you spoke, his mind finally being calmed with the fact that you did, indeed, return his affections, that it wasnât all a misunderstanding in his mind.
âThought at first it broke some kind of friendship code to fall in love with your best friendâs childhood best friend. ThenâŠI got scared you wouldnât feel the same,â you laughed lightly at his comment, though Bob could see the way you brightened the second heâd said the word âloveâ in his explanation. âHow longâŠhow long have you felt this way?â
âThe schoolgirl crush started when I dropped that table on you, even though I thought you were plenty cute just based on the photos Nat had showed me before,â to was Bobâs turn to laugh as your hand traveled up to the nape of his neck, tangling gently in the hair now carded through your fingers. Somewhere behind them, he swears he could hear Fanboy cheer at the motion. âSomewhere in the midst of a bunch of mini lunch dates and dancing with you for the first time is when it changed.â
âIâve got you beat there,â Bob countered with a laugh, looking down sheepishly. âAfter I picked you up from work that one time, when the rest of the guys started calling you Siren. It changed for me after that night.â
There was a slight tug on the hair threaded through your fingers, and Bob resisted everything in him not to let out a groan. His eyes flicked back up to you immediately, almost pleading with you not to do that again before he dragged you out of the reception, and he could see the amusement dancing in your eyes at the reaction you received.
âIt's not a competition. We know now,â you slid the hand that rested in his own back up his arm, instead cupping his jaw in your hand as a shiver ran through his body. âThough, I thought I was being quite obvious with literally cuddling you in bed.â
Bobâs now freehand found your hip, eliminating any space between you both as if it were even possible. Given their surroundings, he wouldnât be surprised if there were murmurs about how what was happening was far from appropriate for the setting they were in.
âIt shouldâve been. We can blame my insecurities for that one,â
He watched you in silence, still swaying to the beat of the song. Your eyes flickered, for the briefest of moments, down to his lips as Bobâs grip tightened from the sight.
Watching in slow motion as you turn my way and sayâŠtake my breath away. My love, take my breath away.
His eyes fluttered half shut, throwing caution to the wind now that he knew he had you, and leaned in. His lips were met with your finger pressed against them, though, and when heâd opened his eyes, your pupils may have been blown wider and your voice may have gained a slight rasp it didnât have before, but there was clear amusement dancing across your features.
âTrying to kiss me at the wedding of our best friends? How scandalous, you know itâs their night to be the center of attention,â Bob groaned, even as his cheeks flushed, forehead falling to your shoulder. He felt your body shake with laughter before your lips ghosted over his ear. âWeâve waited this long, Lieutenant, whatâs a little longer?â
Longer was torture, Bob had decided, but it was a torture spent with you still wrapped around his side. Youâd danced the night away into the early hours of the morning with all of your friends, until it was finally time to end what was surely the best night of Natasha and Bradleyâs lives.
The newly married couple had bid everyone goodbye before they were off to their own private villa for the night. The wedding party and family made the trek down the road together toward the Lafayette, Hangman and Coyote holding up a very drunk Payback who was belting Celine Dion down the sidewalk.
Youâd thrown your head back laughing, hand intertwined with Bobâs as you brought up the rear of the pack.
The squad all said their goodbyes to Maverick and Penny, whoâd essentially stood in as Roosterâs family, and to Natashaâs own family, before theyâd made their way to the floor blocked off specifically for them. Everyone had thrown out goodnight, disappearing into the private rooms to sleep off their hangovers into the early hours of the morning.
Bob was the last the the Top Gun pilots to still be standing at his door. Heâd fished out his own door key, before pausing before inserting it into the lock, glancing down the other end of the hallway.
There you stood, shoes in hand as you leaned against the doorway of your open hotel room. Your eyes never left his, and Bobâs room key found itâs way back into the pocket of his dress whites as he was across the entire hotel room floor in seconds.
Your eyes never seemed to leave one another as you both drifted into the room, Bobâs hand splayed across the edge of the room door, shutting it softly behind you both. The second it was closed, the room was only bathed in the soft, nighttime light of Dan Diego that poured through the curtains and the warm, yellowed glow of the single lamp lighting up the corner of the room.
Bobâs hands found your waist as yours found his neck, and he fell into you as if you were two atoms destined to collide with one another from the moment you met.
Your lips were soft against his, your lipstick already having been smudged off throughout the night from the many drinks passed between friends, but he could taste the cherry and vanilla Chapstick buried underneath. That simple taste elicited a groan from deep inside of him as his desire to simply feel you, to hold you, overtook Bob.
He backed you into the closest wall, right beside the door of the room, and your body immediately arched into him. His hand slid itâs way from your waist down to your thigh, digging into it as he hoisted it up around his own waist, the slit up the dress giving way to allow you to cling to him in earnest.
His hair was a mess as your hands moved into it, your lips never parting. He simply tilted his head, swallowing the moan you let out the second he gripped onto your waist tighter and tugged you impossible closer.
âPretty sure Fanboy is right next door,â Bob had managed to mumble into your lips, unable to fully pull away from you. You nipped at his lower lip, this time a deep moan leaving him which had you giggling back into the kiss.
âIâve waited long enough to kiss you, Bob Floyd. I donât really give a damn if we keep him awake,â
Bob pulled back slightly in the dim lighting, hand leaving your thigh to instead cup your cheek, to simply observe and memorize everything about you. He loved you, he loved you more than he ever thought it was possible to love someone, and he never wanted to forget the look in your eyes right now as you looked at him through lust riddled eyes.
Your hand found his, removing it from your cheek and instead to your back. His breath caught for a second as it touched the zipper at the top, and one single look in your eyes had him tugging it down as slowly and sensually as possible.
Bob could feel your breath catch the second his lips found your neck, leaving a trail across your skin and down to your collarbone as the zipper finally came undone, the pool of navy colored fabric dropping into a heap on the floor.
Youâd barely given him a second to truly admire the masterpiece he thought was you as a whole before youâd tugged him back into a kiss, your hands working overtime to gently undo the buttons holding his Navy dress whites together.
His hat was long gone on the floor, and soon every article of his dress whites joined it. He couldnât help but smile as you laughed, watching him quickly lean down to grab the formal clothing of his and yours, folding it neatly into a pile in the corner. When heâd looked back up, you were standing just inches away, falling back into his arms without another word. His own breath caught, shiver running down his skin at the feeling of your soft, supple skin simply on his igniting a fire in him heâd never felt before.
Your hands came up, adjusting his glasses to sit on the bridge of his nose as they were meant to, and Bob wasted no time in pulling you back into a bruising kiss that had you falling back onto the lush, fancy bedspread behind you both.
As youâd crawled your way back up the bed, head hitting the pillows waiting by the ornate headboard, Bob simply hovered over you, taking you all in fully for the first time, memorizing every square inch of you that existed. He wanted it all committed to memory.
His eyes trailed back to yours finally, to the shining affection and adoration in them, and the words finally tumbled out of his mouth.
âI love you,â
Your hands cupped his jawline, bringing him back down to you to place a gentle, loving kiss on his lips that he sighed right into, leaning into the feel of you that he was already addicted to.
âI love you too,â
The pair of you stayed there for a moment, wrapped up in the sweetest and most loving of kisses that rivaled the passionate moment the moment youâd stepped into the room. Until Bob began to laugh lightly against your lips, the actions bringing a smile to your own face.
âWhatâs so funny, Lieutenant?â
He shook his head, backing up for just a moment to fully look down at you.
âItâs just uhâŠyou know what they say about the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, don't you?â
Your laughter rang through the room immediately, and he knew Natasha must have said something to you along the same lines of what Bradley had whispered to him in the middle of the Hard Deck. Your hands ran down his shoulder, taking hold of his biceps with a small squeeze.
Every moment with you flooded Bobâs head in that moment as he looked down at you. From the moment youâd walked into the Hard Deck, to the moment he danced with you, to that fated trip where it all changed, and every moment in between. To now, as you laid almost bare before him, gazing up at him with love written across every inch of your features, as if youâd do just about anything he couldâve asked of you in that moment. And you would, just as heâd do the same for you.
So, his thumb ran across your lips for a moment, before heâd taken the back of your neck in his hand and tugged you upwards into another passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of love his body had into it.
âYeahâŠbut I wouldnât have it any other way,â
