I feel like Ryland would get Colt to visit him at school and get him to put his stunt work to uses to demonstrate some laws of science like inertia and show the behind the scenes of certain stunts. For science! (To do silly things with his brother)
Also There’s a tiktok I’ve seen where a teacher is on rollerblades on a cart and has a student move the cart back and forwards to show she won’t move because of inertia and I feel like that’s exactly the kind of thing the twins would sent up for Ryland’s students!
synopsis. colt owes ryland, so he cashes in the favor by going to a blind date and pretending to be his twin brother. the problem is, he thinks he might’ve just met the love of his life but she keeps calling him ryland! (4.0k words)
It’s the end of autumn when Ryland Grace finally takes advantage of the favor his brother owed him a few years back. “Hey Colt. Remember Sydney?”
The man in question, currently halfway through stealing orange juice from Ryland’s partition of the fridge, pauses in his heist to blink up at his brother uncomprehendingly.
“That doesn’t really narrow anything down.”
Ryland sighs before adding, “The rooftop?”
The memories flash by Colt in the blink of an eye, and his face clears from the confusion it held earlier to one of mortification. “I don’t like where this conversation is heading.”
He empties the carton of orange juice in a glass, desperate to flee the scene of the crime, but Ryland’s already halfway towards the kitchen to try and corner his older brother of a few minutes.
“Remember what you told me? Exact words.”
“Ryland—”
“Exact words.” He pushes, intent on what he’s asking. Colt can all but grimace at the memory.
Setting the carton of orange juice down, he sighs and slumps dramatically as if he was physically pained by the concept of the accountability of his words and actions. “I said I owe you one.”
“Good, there you go.” Ryland mimics the tone he uses on the kids he teaches when he’s trying to get a point across, and Colt all but shoots him a glare at being babied. “Well, I’m gonna need that favor now.”
“No.”
“I haven’t even asked yet!”
“Don’t care. I know that voice.” Colt points at his brother suspiciously with the empty carton. “That’s your ‘this is about to ruin my evening’ voice, and I don’t think I appreciate the sentiment.”
Ryland ignores him. “Listen. I have a blind date tonight, but apparently Ilyukhina is unaware of the blind aspect of a blind date so she showed her a picture of my face.”
Colt’s mouth drops. And for a moment, he just stares at his brother. Until a few seconds pass and he starts to laugh. And he keeps laughing—in that mouth wide open, head tilted forward, hands clutching the stomach kind of laughter. “Oh, absolutely not.”
If murder wasn’t illegal, one would’ve already been committed in this very moment.
“We’re twins. It’s not like she’s going to kno— okay, will you stop laughing?”
“Ry, you have to understand how insane this sounds. Come on, that sounds like the plot of a really bad sitcom.” Colt’s shaking his head, trying to wipe away the remains of laughter in the corner of his eyes, but his mouth is still twitching a little from the aftermath of laughing a little too hard. “Besides, why can’t you just go yourself? Are you chickening out?”
“I am not chickening out. I got pulled into a meeting.” Ryland exhales sharply through his nose, voice deeper when he says 'not' and currently visibly trying not to strangle his brother with anything within reach, which is quite a number of things—the rag cloth, the strings of his hoodie, his own hands.
Instead, he continues speaking, “Just pretend to be me for an hour. I’ll try to make it after the meeting.”
And with the gravity of the situation, he adds one last word, “...please.”
Well, that one definitely lands and Colt has to pause from gulping down the orange juice he’d stolen. And he thinks he should relish in this moment longer, his brother begging him. It doesn’t happen very often. He’s usually reprimanded by his twin, not pleaded with.
“Oh, you’re desperate.”
Ryland’s eye twitches, and he resists the urge to pinch his nose bridge. “All you really have to do is show up, smile, don’t flirt too much–”
“Impossible restriction.” Ryland drops his face into his hands, groaning loudly at his brother’s response, and before he can reply with a snide remark, Colt asks, “What if she asks a question I can’t answer?”
“Colt, you’ve known me all my life.” Ryland deadpans, heaving a stage-worthy sigh.
“Fair point.” Colt sighs. “You're really asking me to commit identity theft? You think this is going to work?”
“Yes. So, will you do it?”
Colt ponders on the question because technically, he did owe Ryland a favor, and he was only asking for an hour of his time. And, in all honesty, Colt thinks he can pull of a perfect Ryland Grace so it was a way to boost his own ego. And what was a date anyway? He’s been on multiple dates before.
Even with an answer, he lets the silence stretch for a few seconds more, just to be annoying. Just so he can see the way Ryland anxiously taps on the kitchen counter with his fingers, or his feet on the ground. And when Colt has enough satisfaction, finally, he says, “Fine.”
Ryland visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”
“But if she falls in love with me, that’s on you.”
The relaxed features on Ryland’s face contorts into a somewhat disgusted face. “You’re ridiculous.”
The air is cool in that early-evening way that denotes the slow tipping of autumn into winter. The city glows a warm orange, and there’s laughter spilling out from crowded restaurants whenever the doors open.
Colt checks his phone again. Ryland had given you his number, claiming that he’d suddenly had to change numbers due to scammer calls and phishing schemes. And he all but stares at the same message reflecting, that you were on your way.
It stares back at him.
He rubs the space between his eyes and sighs. This is a terrible idea, a terrible terrible idea. Still, Colt thanks Fuck for choosing the day he’s not masked in his own injuries or little scars from stunt work, picks a day where he actually looks like he has his shit together, and not a man about to commit identity fraud.
“Ryland?,” a soft voice. 10 jars of honey in the way you speak, but Colt recognizes that this was about to be the start of an evening full of lies. And then he sees you, and Colt looks beyond amazed.
Suddenly, he’s nearly convinced there is something significant standing behind him, because what is the connotation of the beauty he’s being subjected to, the same beauty who is looking up at him with a hesitant smile.
Colt pauses, which if Ryland was here to see it would know that it was always a bad sign because it means he’s thinking, really thinking. And he is, he knows this is the exact moment he could stop everything.
Instead, he says, “yeah.”
Your smile widens just a little, and there’s something endearing about the way you press a hand briefly against your chest. “Oh good. I was terrified I’d accidentally agreed to meet a serial killer.”
Colt snorts. “Well, disappointing start for you, then.”
“You joke,” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly as you step closer, “but statistically speaking, I was taking a real risk tonight."
You look up at him, looking up at his disheveled hair from the wind outside. It curls slightly near the ends, stubborn in a way Ryland’s is too. "Your hair's a little longer than in your photo."
“Ha, you know hair. Grows… grows at no specified rate." Woah, what the hell. He didn't even mean to perfectly imitate Ryland in that moment. "Sorry, could you remind me how long do blind dates usually take before one person decides to fake a family emergency?”
You laugh, and Colt feels something shift in the air. “Maybe around twenty minutes. Sorry, we’re still a little ahead of schedule. You’re still stuck with me for 17 minutes more.”
Colt can’t help but smile back at you because the thrill in your smile is too wholesome not to. “Shall we head inside then? Got to make those 17 minutes count.”
“Yeah. That would be ideal.”
The hostess leads you toward the patio seating, and it’s quaint, but incredibly breathtaking. The warm lighting does a great deal at creating an almost comfortable environment. And it’s the perfect spot that the blurred headlights and the city lights reflect just at the huge glass window behind you. Really, perfect for a first date.
Colt pulls out the chair for you, something that’s just taught in the How To Be A Gentleman handbook, and tucks you into the table before he takes his own seat.
“I should tell you right now that I’m a little terrible at first dates.” You say the moment you're settled in.
“You seem fine.”
“That’s because you just met me. It’s only been like five minutes.”
He smiles despite himself. “It gets worse?”
“Dramatically worse.”
“Good. I’m excited to see that.”
The waiter assigned to you arrives with two menus and a bottle of service water, and you thank him politely as you take a copy, flipping through it without really reading.
And by the time you order your drinks and the food, a few conversations have already passed.
“Were you nervous to come here?” You ask more for yourself, but you’re still curious what his answer would be.
“Maybe a little.” Nevermind the reason for his nervousness was the identity theft he was committing. He’s still trying to get used to you calling him Ryland without it surprising him each time.
“Good.” You mirror his response from a few minutes earlier, and he can’t help but huff out a laugh. Though, despite his laughter, he still notices the way your shoulders visibly loosen at his response, like you’d almost hoped that would be his response.
“Good?”
“Yeah cause I was nervous too. It makes me feel less stupid to know you were too, even if it was just a little.”
Colt watches the way you fidget lightly with your sleeve as you speak. Your fingers keep smoothing the fabric over your wrists before immediately letting go again.
“You shouldn’t feel stupid.” He interjects, trying to ease your nerves.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t told you what I did yet.”
He smiles. There’s something about the way you say it, like you’re about to change his life, tell him the craziest story. “What did you do?”
“I changed outfits three times.”
“That’s normal.”
“Four times.” You glance at him, your cheeks pink, and he has half a mind to tell you just how strange the sight makes him feel.
“Still normal.”
“And I arrived way too early so I had to walk around the block twice. And then I almost cancelled.”
This time Colt’s smile softens around the edges. You’re so honest and so easy to talk to, and so quick with conversation. You’re someone who can make anyone feel at home, and you’re charming without intending to be, and that's exactly the problem. Colt has known you less than an hour and somehow you're already slipping through his walls.
"You know," he says, leaning back in his chair, "I don't think I've ever met anybody who admits that on a first date."
You groan immediately. "See? This is why I almost cancelled."
"No, I mean it." Colt shakes his head. "Most people would've taken that information to the grave."
Your smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. He watches it for a second before asking, "Why'd you almost cancel?"
“I don’t know,” you admit quietly, glancing down at the table. “I always think things will be awkward before they happen.”
“And does it feel awkward right now?”
You look back up at him then with your head tilted, and you can almost picture the glint of hopefulness in his eyes but you don’t want to assume. “Just a little.”
Colt leans further back in his chair like he’s relaxed. He isn’t, really. But he wants you to believe he is because a few minutes into the date, you’d already turned him into a sap. And relaxed is way cooler than sappy.
He really does not want to think about how sappy he feels right now. He doesn’t want to think about the feeble stutter in his heart whenever you laugh. He's already lying to you. Developing feelings on top of that feels like building a second bad idea on top of the first one.
“Oh, you’re a science teacher, right? What’s that like?”
Right. Jesus, he forgot he was still pretending to be Ryland. You really have to stop smiling at him like that. He’s starting to like you, and it’s not good on his conscience that he’s pretending to be his brother, and that you think he is his brother.
“It’s uh, good.” Colt says carefully.
You rest your chin against your hand. “What’s your favorite thing to teach?” You ask like you’re genuinely curious, and for a second Colt has the answer, but you’re looking at him so intently that his brain empties completely.
Think, Colt. You attended your brother’s graduation, what the hell was it that he studied? Astronomy? No, it’s something with little things and life.
“Molecular biology!”
Your eyes widen with immediate interest. “Really? For eighth graders?”
“Yeah,” Colt says, nodding like a man moments away from being exposed from a grave sin. “I love molecules. Tiny organisms. Cells. Little… science fellas.”
You stare at him for exactly one second before breaking into laughter, and Colt finds himself watching, drinking up your movements. You just, you laugh with your entire face, and your happiness just spills into everything and it’s so infectious. The way your eyes widen slightly, the way your shoulders fold inward, like you’re genuinely delighted instead of politely amused.
Fuck, he wants to keep making you laugh. He wants to keep hearing your laugh.
Something warm twists in his chest, and Colt has the deeply alarming realization that there is something blooming inside of him and it’s akin to romance. He certainly did not expect to meet someone like you tonight. And shit, his heartbeat is doing something genuinely humiliating inside his chest.
“You don’t really talk like a teacher,” you say after a moment. “Come on, little science fellas?”
“That’s the official term.”
“Stop lying to me!” He laughs at your being flabbergasted, eyes turning into crescents.
“Okay, okay. Here, I’m gonna talk like a teacher.” Colt straightens immediately in his chair.
Your smile turns teasing. “Oh yeah?”
“Here it goes.” He clears his throat dramatically. “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”
He delivers it with complete sincerity. Smug for exactly one second. Then your laugh breaks loose again and his expression softens helplessly.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“Sorry. That’s all I got.”
“No, that was perfect.” You shake your head, grinning down into your drink. “You looked so proud of yourself too.”
And the scene of you smiling that greets him is so gentle, so soft, that it takes him a moment to catch up to what you’re saying. He knows you mean something else, that he should be proud of his stupid joke or for remembering something he learned in high school, but he looked proud for an entirely different reason.
He’d made you laugh again. He’d heard you laugh again.
So, he replies, in a little white lie, “I really was.”
Colt realizes immediately after, with that same deep undertow of shame, that he is caught in the jaws of a trap entirely of his own making. And he can’t stop walking willingly deeper into it.
He thanks Fuck that not long after, the food arrives and for a moment, the sounds of the city accompany the pair of you as you eat—silverware clinking somewhere inside the restaurant, distant traffic below, the low hum of conversation from nearby tables. It allows him a moment to catch himself, to try and stabilize his heart.
But how can he really when you keep looking at him. Then quickly looking away. Then back again, before darting away again. Finally, you sigh. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I keep looking at you.”
A smile twitches on Colt’s lips. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”
You laugh quietly, ducking your head in the palms of your hands. The sight of your smile makes him laugh a little too.
“Why are you looking at me?” He inquires, his grin lopsided as follows the lilt of your movement, the way you hide your face in your hands, and he can’t help but seek for your eyes. “Don’t hide from me.”
You lower your hands slowly, peeking at him through your fingers first before finally answering in such a clear, and almost sweet tone. “You just look really pretty, and you’re really good at paying attention to everything.”
Colt’s stomach twists as his ears registers your words and somewhere during it, he grows redder than before and his palms are suddenly becoming clammy and he’s rubbing the back of his neck. How do you always catch him off guard like this?
He blinks once. Then twice. And maybe ten times more.
That's genuinely the nicest thing anyone's said to him in a while. "Oh."
He’s still looking at you even after the silence that follows, amazed and flattered that someone could ever say that about him, that you could say that about him. And he’s trying so hard not to look like he’d just been called pretty.
“Sorry,” you say quickly. “Am I talking too much?”
“No.” He immediately interjects, coming back to look at your eyes. Something inside him is still stuttering as he tries to focus after you’d just complemented him.
“I usually do.” You glance away briefly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear and Colt personally has to fight down the urge to reach out and tug the slip of hair back down to your face. “I’m doing it right now.”
“Then keep doing it.”
You pause, and a smile slowly starts to creep back on your lips. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, I noticed it’s been more than an hour since our date started. Do you no longer have that family emergency you have to fake?”
Colt smiles at the repetition of the joke he’d said earlier in the evening, before realizing you’re waiting for him to say something. There’s still that same softness pulsing inside of him, slowly growing and growing and growing. “I’m invested now.”
“In what?”
He lets out a soft breath, shoulders hunching forward slightly as he bends over to be a little closer to you. His expression changes into something more serious. “You."
Your smile changes then—softer, crooked, almost shy. Your limbs are starting to feel loose, and your chest tightens and blooms with warmth.
“That’s a very nice thing to say, Ryland.”
The name lands wrong in his chest, but he doesn’t want to dwell on it. He can pretend much longer, especially after receiving a text from his brother earlier that the meeting would run later than expected. Colt had you for the night, and he intends on making it last.
“Well,” Colt says, “I like you.”
Your eyes widen slightly, and you flush at the sudden confession. Your lips part, wanting to say something, but all the vowels and consonants twist in your mouth, and all you can manage is a small “Oh.”
Shit.
You watch as the color rushes into his face, like spilling wine on a paper towel, and he’s covering his mouth with his hand, and he’s struggling to meet your eyes.
“That came out weirdly fast,” he says immediately, trying to catch himself. His eyes are wide and almost panicked, and it’s so endearing because he looks like he’s ashamed of the way he’s softening and coming unraveled and untangled in front of you.
“No, it’s okay.” You smile. “I just wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.”
He pauses, and you see him filing through potential responses or excuses but give up midway.
“Yeah,” he chooses honestly instead. “Neither was I, honestly.”
“Most people wait until at least dessert.” You tease, glancing at him over the rim of your glass, and this time, when he looks at you, his face is full of nothing but fondness twinged with embarrassment. You don’t know how the two emotions are able to coexist on his face at the same time.
“I feel embarrassed. Was that intense? It was, wasn’t it?”
“A little.” you say softly.
“Just a little?”
“Okay, maybe a moderate amount. But it was nice.”
You smile at each other, and neither of you are able to keep the blush from your own cheeks.
By the time dinner ends, the city outside has morphed into a blue-black evening with stars littered randomly in the blanketing sky. The cold air rushes in as the two of you step out onto the sidewalk together, and Colt’s hand brushes lightly against the small of your back while guiding you around another couple exiting the restaurant.
The touch lingers half a second too long.
You notice.
“I’m glad I came,” you admit quietly.
“Yeah?” He asks, almost too quiet to catch, almost like he can’t believe it.
“Yeah.”
“Even after changing outfits four times?” He nudges your shoulder with his, and you laugh.
“Five actually.”
“Five? I think you failed to mention that.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and he’s trying so hard to fight the grin that’s threatening to show, but you just have that effect on people. You’re just so earnest. “Which outfit won?”
You gesture down at yourself. “This one.”
You say it with such happiness and enthusiasm that Colt can’t help but stare at you and the cold that catches pink along your cheeks, and your hair that’s shifting softly in the wind, and how bright your eyes look under the streetlights. God, he really thought he was doing his brother a favor by coming here, but Ryland might’ve accidentally done one for Colt instead.
His heart gives one hard, helpless thud against his ribs as his eyes travel up and down your outfit.
"I've been meaning to mention it all night, but you look really pretty."
The blood thumped so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him. “Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself."
A comfortable silence falls, like neither of you want to leave quite yet. And then, "Ryland?"
"Hm?"
"I'm really glad tonight wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be,” you admit.
Colt blinks. “So you still think it’s awkward?”
“Yeah,” you say thoughtfully. “But like… the good kind.”
“There’s a good kind?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that?”
You look at him for a second. “When you’re nervous because you want someone to like you.”
Colt’s heart nearly stops. That was the final blow. Of all the things you could’ve said, this was not something Colt could’ve ever braced himself for. He looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck again. It’s really not in his nature to falter, but then again, he really can’t help it with you, can he?
Not when this is what your heart is like. Like there’s no need to put pressure when it’s something as warm and easy as this.
“You’re blushing, Ryland.”
“I can’t really help it when you say things like that.”
He lets out a helpless laugh at the name. He has half a mind to tell you he actually goes by ‘Colt’ even though it couldn’t have been further away from ‘Ryland’.
Still, he swallows it to enjoy these last final moments with you.
“Goodnight, Ryland.”
“Goodnight.”
A silence falls between you both before you take a few steps away. He mirrors your actions, albeit a little more tentatively.
“Ryland?”
Colt immediately turns back at the interjection of your voice, looking at you with that same look from earlier. It’s almost fond, almost hopeful. And Colt hovers there, waiting.
“Do you want to walk me home?”
You’re trying so hard to keep your voice monotone. He’s trying so hard not to smile, and in all honesty, he should absolutely say no, he should tell you the truth right now before this turns into something impossible because he knows that if he continues to know you, he won’t be able to stop falling for you. Instead, he answers almost immediately, “I’d want nothing more.”
And while walking home, he finds himself glancing down at your hand, wondering what it would be like if he could just reach over and intertwine his fingers with yours, or kiss your cheeks, or make you laugh again.
And somewhere between the restaurant and your apartment, with your shoulders brushing once accidentally, then a few more on purpose, and your footsteps falling into tandem next to his, and your laughter warming the cold night air around him, Colt realizes he is completely, catastrophically fucked.
summary: physical contact on the hail mary is at a premium. you hold yourself a little too highly to ask grace for help. (based on this ask // @z-0m-bi-3)
pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader
word count: 3.2k
tags: fluff and humor, lightly hurt/comfort (?), insomnia, close proximity, banter, awkward tension, overall clumsiness, touch starved!reader, sharing a bed, so not timeline compliant gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
You’re feeling a little frustrated. It’s almost comparable to growing pains in the kind of restlessness you feel—tossing and turning in the middle of your sleeping pod like there’s something wrong in your bones, your skin, you. It’s always like this when you’re trying to sleep. Between you and Grace, you’ve been trying to stick to a semi-consistent sleep schedule. Mary’s set to keep you both on as close to a Circadian rhythm as possible. It’s near impossible though, with the way you’ve been feeling, to adhere to any sort of routine.
It isn’t about the dying stars; that you know for certain. You’re confident that you and Grace will be able to figure out some kind of solution, seeing as you’re stuck permanently in space to do just that. The worry that you’ve been festering in the past couple of weeks has to do more with yourself than anything else. The sensation comes in waves, worse at “night,” whenever you’re in bed. There’s too much thinking involved, which you think worsens the condition.
It’s contact—or lack thereof. You need contact—skin-to-skin, or at least something warmer than your own body. There’s only one way to get it, and you just can’t bring yourself to do just that. It’d feel like a surrender of your dignity to ask Grace outright to touch you. Sounds vulgar enough as is, regardless of intention.
When you think it couldn’t get any worse, the thought of him being in the sleeping pod right over from you, no less than ten feet away, is driving you up a wall. In the night, sometimes, you think you can hear Grace’s light snores. He’ll talk in his sleep on occasion about the most random things; he’s discovered he’s a schoolteacher, and you’ve deduced that he dreams in lessons. It’s a sweet presence to be by, and it’d be even sweeter if you were laying together.
—
The first time you’re able to gauge your little issue isn’t climactic by any means. It’s a minuscule action, on Grace’s part, that makes you realize that there’s something wrong.
Trying to get yourselves more organized, you find yourself trying to take stock of the pantry that you’ve been sent up with. It’s a very generous area of storage, boxes upon boxes, contained behind white gridded netting and secured by carabiners. You’re convinced that there’s a printed manifest somewhere detailing the contents of the pantry—and you just can’t find it. So, the two of you have been on a manhunt, because neither of you are keen on counting out all the astronaut food that’s been packed for you.
“This is definitely on me. I must’ve tossed it out somewhere,” Grace sighs, taking his glasses down to rub his eyes. You don’t doubt it. When you’d woken up and found the Hail Mary in a state of disarray, it wasn’t difficult to map out. Grace panicked. He’d emptied out a generous number of shelves in an attempt to make sense of his surroundings. He’d also been searching desperately for clothes and food—and rifled through the belongings of your now-deceased captain and engineer. Only a day or so after, when you’d been roused out of your coma by the ship’s computer, he was embarrassed beyond repair. He spent a couple of hours straight trying to tidy up his trail of mess.
“It’s really not a big deal, Grace. We know that it’s on the ship somewhere. It’s not like it has anywhere to go.” You’re on your tip-toes, trying to rifle through the creates and shelves. It must be a binder. Or, a folder. At the least, it’s a stapled stack of papers. What’s important is that it’s in this general proximity. You’re sure of it. “That’s a benefit to being air-locked, right? The stupid thing’s not getting in or out.”
“That is a creatively positive twist on, ‘We’re stuck in space indefinitely,’” Grace tells you, lightly surprised and largely sarcastic. He doesn’t know how you come up with them.
“Thanks. I’m flattered.” You’ve been building up a good rapport with Grace in the past week, too. You’d call it flirting if you weren’t so hell-bent on keeping your space. For whatever reason you’re up on the Hail Mary, you don’t think the powers that be intended on you being intimately involved with your now only crewmate. You’re still rustling through the shelves, arms shoving around different gaps between the crates, when you see something. “Oh—that’s got to be it.”
It’s peeking out only slightly over a high shelf, a grayish-blue binder with a stack of papers clipped inside the rings. It’s utterly out of place, maybe easier to grab if you were in a different gravitational pull. Grace, who’s since been searching on the other side of the room, comes over to you in a hurry. He traces your eyeline all the way up, before noting the binder in its very impossible position. “Here,” Grace volunteers, “ I think I can get a better reach than you.”
“I think I can manage—” The sight of Grace’s muscled arm nearing your eyeline, shooting up just over your head to grab from that unreachable shelf, makes your words die in your throat. His hip collides recklessly with your own as he reaches for the binder. Though it’s just a mere brush, nothing more, it’s enough to make you pause. Grace is warm. You pivot around hastily, fast enough to catch the sight of him tugging the grayish-blue binder with his hand. He brings it between the both of you, blinking softly. Grace’s brows are furrowed together, a little concerned at your frazzled appearance. You take the binder out of his grasp with a murmured “Thanks, Ry.”
“Sure.” Grace looks down at the binder. No labels. “Is that it?” he asks. You open it between the two of you. Grace is making an exerted effort to read the pages upside down as you flip through. You can only think about how this binder is the only thing separating your body from his. The few words you’re able to focus on—ramen, coffee, vodka—alongside their respective quantities and weights, is enough to confirm it.
“Yep. This is the one. I think I’m going to go read through it upstairs,” you say committedly, shutting it close with a loud thwack. “Maybe do a couple calculations for how we should ration.”
And, with that, you’re rushing straight out towards the projection deck. Grace can barely keep up with you. One second, you’re right at his side, and the next, your back is to him—nimble feet carrying you through the circular frame of the corridor. “Okay. I’ll… tidy up here.” Grace narrows his eyes. You’re being flighty—rarely in a rush to get away. Warily, he shouts to you down the corridor: “I left the white-boards in the lab. And the pencils.”
You can only shout back, “I’ll do mental math.”
—
A few days later, you’ve sorted out the entire rations situation—but you haven’t been able to do a thing about that empty feeling on your skin. It’s been a bit cruel, all things considered, that you’ve felt an unconscious separation from Grace for this reason. It isn’t his fault. He’s been nothing but patient with your sudden withdrawal, probably under the assumption that you’re going a little stir-crazy. If it means you’re more likely to conceal the issue altogether, so be it.
You’re in separate rooms, him in the lab and you in the crew quarters, when the announcement rings out over the ship’s comms. Mary’s computerized tone rings through the hull. “Diagnostic check required in cockpit.” You can feel your stomach drop at the sound. You’re quick to hurry out towards the corridor. You nearly jump out of your own skin when you realize it; Grace is running towards the ladder up to the cockpit with just as much urgency as you are. You nearly collide together—and probably would if you weren’t so quick to push the brakes on your own sprint. You’ve both rushed to fix the issue, and now, you’re at a standstill.
Grace stands back, looking between you and the cockpit. “This is a new one,” he says in a nervous chuckle. “I hope she doesn’t want to self-destruct.” He’s only half-kidding. After trying to get yourselves organized with the cockpit’s various sliders and buttons, on top of the ship’s built-in computer, Mary hasn’t ever required a diagnostic. He’s rightfully concerned.
You make sure to grab onto the ladder first. “You stay here,” you insist. “I’ll resolve the tech issue.” It’s more dismissive than you’d like, but being crammed in that tight space with him is a no-go.
Still, Grace tilts his head. “There’s two seats.” He could easily accompany you, make sure you’re all good up there. You’re lucky—it’s conceivable enough for you to fix it yourself. Even without a proper grasp on why you’re there on the Hail Mary, you still have the intuitive mind of a pilot, more so than Grace. He knows it, too. It’s the only reason why he won’t push harder to join you.
“Just stay—it’s probably nothing. I’ll click around and fix it.” You don’t give him another chance to ask, turning to climb up the ladder. Once in the cockpit, you’re slipping into the main seat. It’s largely unnecessary, you think, to strap yourself into the seatbelt. “Pilot detected. Please execute diagnostic test.”
“I’m on it, I’m on it,” you mutter under your breath. Muscle memory carries you through the main interface, to the list of sub-interfaces. Your hand reaches for the spherical mouse, rolling the cursor down the menu. You calibrate onto one screen, a block of text scrolling along the singular black background. It’s a quick read. You tap your forehead soft against the monitor. It’s fine. Your being up in the cockpit is necessary only to start this diagnostic procedure, and take a breather from being around Grace.
Grace, who’s very confused and looking straight up the hatchway of the cockpit from below. You’re sure it sounds to him like a lot of rapid typing and clicks. “Are we going to implode?”
“No—it’s just a systems check. It’s probably going to take thirty minutes and it’ll clear up on its own,” you yell down to him. “Told you.”
“Great. That’s great news,” you hear Grace say. Once you’re sure that the loading bar is coming along nicely, without any additional pop-ups, you make your way down from the cockpit. It’s a careful descent, one rung after the other. You’re turning over your shoulder to look at Grace as you come down the ladder; he’s a little quiet, watching you, arms crossed.Grace’s glasses are sideways off his face, as if he’s gone through some kind of inner turmoil about this potential self-destruct scenario. It’s difficult not to snicker at the sight of him. “Were you scared?”
“Maybe. I don’t know anything about avionics.”
“I’m pretty sure we’ll know if we’re ever going to get obliterated. There’d be… flashing lights and sirens.” You’re almost towards the bottom when you miscalculate the last rung. A hand slides off. Then, a foot. You’re falling inelegantly, and before you can brace for a fast fall, Grace steps over to you. His arms scoop up your torso, and you feel your hands instinctively grasp around his neck.
He’s looking down at you with a worried, old look on his face, trying to make sure you’re not hurt. What you are is embarrassed. The sensation of Grace gripping your hips with his hands is making you short-circuit. “I… uh…” You’re acutely aware of the fact that Grace’s chest is pressed flat against yours, and that his fingers are held stiffly over the fabric of your shirt. You’ve never felt so hot in the face.
“Whoa,” Grace murmurs, “Hi.” He immediately pulls you back, letting you steady yourself on your own two feet. You draw your hands back as fast as you can, pinning them to your sides. Per your recovery, you find Grace’s chest puffed. He’s a little sheepish about the contact. “Sorry.” You’re not much better, hands shoved into the pockets of your mission hoodie; they’d be shaky if they were left out.
“No, it’s cool. I would’ve sprained an ankle otherwise,” you tell Grace. “Thanks.” You wish there were more air vents in the Hail Mary; maybe then, you’d be able to cool down the prickling feeling of heat rising from your cheeks. So much for keeping space.
—
You can’t stop tossing and turning. Again, there’s the unsettling feeling that you’ve been having, the absolute need to feel the same warmth you felt in the storage room and at the bottom of the ladder. You can’t stand it. No matter how many times you flip your pillows or stir around your sheets with your legs, it doesn’t change. You still feel just as bare as usual. A last resort: you need to grab a cup of water from the dispenser, and maybe do a bit of pacing up and down the corridors. You push your fingers against the eject button on your pod, rustling out of your sheets as gently as you can.
Grace is mumbling. You stop in your tracks, trying to quiet down as best as you can. It’s more coherent the second time he asks. “Are you okay?” So, Grace is awake. You should’ve known.
“I’m fine,” you murmur. You swing your legs over the cot, still seated just over the edge.
“You’ve been rolling around in your cot for the past thirty minutes.” Grace hits the eject button on his sleeping pod next. He props himself up with one arm, before pushing up completely, upright posture matching your own. Face-to-face now, it’s difficult not to stare. Grace just looks so homely with his two-sizes-too-small Cats t-shirt and the blue-gridded boxers. He’s shoving his glasses on just to get a better look at you. “If you’re embarrassed about falling earlier, I think you’ve seen me much worse. We’re basically even now, when you think about it.”
“No, I’m not—I’m just turning into a bit of an insomniac. It’s normal, I think.” You think he could buy it. It happens all the time when people go on vacation, and they’re just not comfortable enough to sleep in their hotel beds. Except, of course, this is a permanent vacation. It’s believable. With the hang of your head, you tell Grace, “You sleep, I’ll walk.”
He doesn’t make any effort to listen to your request. “I know that it’s not the most stimulating environment to be in. It isn’t like anything changes outside the window,” Grace says, “And you’re probably not getting much out of me, either.”
You scoff. “If you weren’t here, I’d probably drive myself crazy.” He’s here, and you’re still driving yourself crazy. You wish he’d just get back in his cot.
“So, it’s the environment then,” Grace deduces, the scientist that he is. He rolls his ankles, trying to mull it over. “We could start watching more of those unlimited movies Mary has stocked up—dealer’s choice.” He pauses. “Anything but Interstellar.” Too close to home.
You’re getting a little impatient, in a rush to get away. “Okay. I think I’m having a personal issue. That’s all,” you sputter out. “I’ve just been feeling a little bit… lonely? Physically, I mean.”
“Oh. Okay.” The look on Grace’s face sends you into a fit of embarrassment. You bring your palms up over your face, groaning to yourself. This is a terrible turn of events. “Hey. It’s fine,” Grace tells you delicately, “I get it.” It really seems to irk you, how delicate he’s acting. It’s sweet, obviously, but you’d hate to feel burdensome about this whole thing.
“I’m not asking you to fix it or anything. It is what it is,” you tell him, hands muffling your words. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek raw as Grace processes what you’re telling him. It’s taking too long, and you’re just about ready to leave him for the cockpit.
“Could I… fix it?” Grace murmurs. It’s indeterminable whether he’s asking if he’s able to fix your problem, or if you’ll let him. Very possibly both. You can’t tell, but it’s enough to make you lower your hands back down. Grace seems to let out a ragged breath at the sight of your tensed brows.
Slowly, you urge out a “No. Maybe.” The bridge of your nose crinkles with embarrassment. This is the last thing that you’d want to happen. Air-locked in space, no way in or out, and your only source of human contact is finding that you’re some kind of poor, deprived soul. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. How about this…” He slips off his mattress, white socks sliding across the padded floor of the crew quarters. Grace stops for just a moment, pulling the kaleidoscopic quilt from the middle cot, and bunching it up in his arms to bring over to you. He tosses it onto your lap spreading it over your top sheet as a makeshift comforter. “I can lay here. With you.”
You put a hand up as he approaches your cot. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Grace tells you. It’s a mix of earnestness and concern that makes you let up. You scoot to the very opposite edge of your cot to try and make room for him.
Despite this, you still warn: “We’re not going to fit, Grace.” It’s a poor and unconvincing defense. Grace is still moving to get in with you. He lifts up the corner of the quilt and your sheet to settle beside you, his knees knocking against yours. As it happens, he does take up a lot more space than you do. It’s fixable, one way or another. You feel like you’re on the verge of falling off the thing, and he can tell you’re still a bit reluctant about the whole arrangement. You’re anxious to get any closer to him.
“Can I—?” As soon as you give him a curt, wordless nod, Grace nudges you over. “We can fit. You just have to be…” He takes your arm, and slings it over his chest. “Here.” He wraps his own arm around your back, using his free hand to tuck the quilt over the two of you. With your weight half-leaned onto him, it’s a lot easier to lay. As much as you want to be pissy with him, you can feel your body easing into this position. He’s right. You do fit.
You and Grace seem to lay there in silence for a little while. You can only describe the two of you fitting together on this cot as bliss. You’re listening to the pattern of him breathing in and out, soaking in the soft warmth of his body under the covers. Grace feels like comfort. You couldn’t want for much more than this. You can feel the vibrations of his chest as he murmurs against you. “Better?”
“…Yeah.” You feel him sink his head a little lower, lips leaving a soft kiss just on your temple. Your eyes flutter shut with the sensation. “Still embarrassing, though,” you admit, stretching your legs out against his.
Sleepily, Grace replies, “It’s 2.7 Kelvin outside and you’re a human being.” He brings one hand up to the back of your head, fingers massaging deeply into your scalp. It conjures a soft sigh out of you, and you can feel Grace grinning a bit at the noise. He wins.
Though you could probably argue with him a little bit harder, you’re starting to drift off a bit. It’ll be nicer just to take this in. You’re both here, coddled up under the same quilt, and a little bit less lonely. If you’re lucky, and you think you are, you’ll have the same arrangement tomorrow.
summary: adopting a retired police dog from the local station seemed like a good idea. late night cuddles on the couch, early morning barks to start the day, and long runs in the park are now a normal part of bradley's routine. but what happens when his furry friend takes off one morning, leash slipping through his hand, and instead barreling towards someone new?
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex (not really but kinda), dry humping (i'm a freak), hand job, fingering, reader is shorter/smaller than bradley (he looks down at reader and picks reader up), strangers to lovers (guys don't fall for the cute guy with a dog ruse unless it's bradley), no use of y/n
word count: 11.1k
a/n: been a fiend for bradley ever since watching topgun again in theaters. that mustache does things to me... also this a very bradley centered fic! loved exploring him as a character in this! enjoy! :)
masterlist
Bradley doesn't know what stopped him on his way off base. Usually, he's barreling towards the exit, can't wait to get home and start his weekend, even if that means reruns of old sitcoms and quiet nights on his back patio alone. Maybe it was the bright pink of the poster, contrasting against the dark navy blue, kaki tan, and army green of the base. Or maybe it was the fact that the piece of paper was dead center on the communal bulletin board. But, ultimately, Bradley's pace slows as he gets closer to the board and catches sight of a picture of a group of German shepherds, all lined up in perfect order, but still somehow looking so happy.
Adopt me! Come by the Coronado Police Station this weekend to meet your new best friend!
Bradley pauses as he reads over the text, taking in the place, date, and time. Tomorrow morning, a fifteen-minute drive from his small two-bedroom house. He doesn't know why, but he reaches into his back pocket to take out his phone, snapping a quick picture. Bradley looks over his shoulder, seeing if anyone has caught him in the act. And just as quickly as he had stopped, he was off again.
The drive home should feel like any other; wind in his hair, aviators over his eyes blocking the rays of the setting sun, and soft classic rock from the radio. But Bradley couldn't help but feel like something was missing.
Phoenix went on and on today about how her family is visiting her for the weekend, saying how excited she is to see her parents again. Bradley smiled at her, genuinely happy at the news.
Bob had talked about staying in with his girlfriend this weekend, saying they were going to try out a new recipe of banana bread they saw on the Food Network earlier this week. Bradley had hummed, telling Bob to save him a slice and to bring it in on Monday.
Jake had even told Bradley about the long run he was going on with a few of the newest TOPGUN class recruits, saying he was going to put them through hell this weekend. Bradley just laughed and grimaced at this, thankful his time in the program hadn't been led by someone as ruthless as one of his best friends.
But as the keys hit the small dish on his counter, Bradley couldn't help but tune into the creaks and groans of his house. Nothing else, just the small and quiet sounds. Even as he cooked dinner that night, the boiling of the pasta seemed drowned out by the stillness of the kitchen, of everything that surrounded Bradley. The episode he had seen at least three times now seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Bradley only heard his breathing and the occasional dripping of the faucet.
The hot summer nights were grueling. Not only due to the heat of his sticky skin against the now warm sheet, but also because Bradley could hear every little bug from the window above his bed. Cicadas seemed to chirp, grasshoppers seemed to sing, and if he listened closely, he could even sometimes hear the buzzing of the fireflies. Too quiet, but so loud. Loudness from the wrong sounds, the ones nobody noticed. Loudness from the beating of his heart from underneath his skin. Loudness of the crinkling sheets beneath his grasp. Loudness from the unsteady breath that escaped his lips.
Reaching for his phone, Bradley looked at the most recent picture in his camera roll. Swiping out and clicking the clock icon, he set an alarm for 8 AM sharp.
જ⁀➴
Bradley pulls into the parking lot and takes in the sight around him. Cars are already packed in the lot, despite it only being 5 minutes since the adoption event started. Minivans and SUVs are taking up most of the spots; his Bronco seems out of place among the other cars. The California sun is barely starting to warm up the air, but Bradley knows in an hour he'll be thankful for the loose Hawaiian shirt he wears.
Off to the right side of the building, he can hear children laughing and dogs barking. Tucking his keys in his back pocket, he makes his way towards the noise.
Like he suspected, families are standing around chatting with volunteers in bright pink shirts, the same pink on the poster from the base. Kids are wide-eyed and fascinated with all of the dogs they see. It's not just German shepherds, but smaller dogs too, and all types of breeds. He wonders why his poster only had the proud-looking line-up when there were so many other options.
But like a man on a mission, Bradley peers over the crowd of people and spots K-9 in big black letters near the middle of the scene. Sending small smiles and tapping his left hand anxiously on the side of his thigh, Bradley weaves through the crowd. Taking in the well-behaved group of dogs before him, he settles down a bit. There's only one volunteer over in this area, a woman with her back turned away from him. It only settles him more, giving him the space to really look over the animals. Some of the dogs are panting, as if being out on the grass has somehow exhausted them. Others are playing with each other, rolling around, and showing their bellies. But one dog sits near the woman, curled in on itself, head tucked into her side.
Without meaning to, Bradley watches this dog, missing the way the woman looks at him fondly.
"He's just a little shy, but I promise he's a good boy," your voice snaps him out of his trance.
Bradley doesn't think he's ever thought so hard about what to say next. You have a soft look on your face, eyes darting back and forth between him and the dog that sits so close to you. The morning light is peeking out from beneath the tree branches, golden rays dancing across your skin. Bradley is glad he doesn't have his sunglasses on right now.
"What's his name?" Bradley walks closer to you, and you turn your body towards him. The dog next to you perks up a bit at the movement.
You smile a little before saying it, "Ducky." Seeing the way his brows raise, you laugh a bit. "He's just a bit of an odd pup out, thought the name suited him."
Bradley couldn't help but feel like it was fate. Ducky and Rooster. It was almost laughable.
"You said he's shy," Bradley led on, looking up to you as he sat on his haunches next to the dog.
"Yeah," you hummed. "Definitely my sensitive boy out of the group. These guys are retiring K-9, but Ducky has a bit of a soft side, wasn't trained properly as a puppy." Your voice seemed to waver a bit at the end of your sentence.
Bradley watched as your throat bobbed before you spoke again. He could tell where this conversation was going, but didn't want to interrupt. The look in your eyes was fiercely protective.
"He was abused by his first owner. So he has some PTSD tendencies. Hyper vigilant, can get really avoidant and shy, whines a lot when he's feeling anxious," you tell Bradley, petting the dog softly.
But nothing in your expression tells him that you don't care for this dog, that you think he's broken because of all of these things. It makes his heart beat a little quicker.
"But Ducky's a good boy. You just have to put some work in to see that." As you say his name again, Ducky peeks out from where he's hiding in your side. You smile a bit at this, ruffling his ears. "You wanna say hi to the sweet man?" you ask in a soft voice, like you're talking just to the dog, like Bradley's not right next to you, hearing every word.
He holds his hand out slowly, knowing not to move too fast. "Hey, Ducky. I'm Bradley." As soon as he says it, he feels a bit silly. But the way your smile deepens makes him continue. "Looking for a home, buddy? I got a nice backyard."
"Oh, he'll love that. Runs around like a bunny when he's all riled up," you told him with a smile on your face, now looking only at Bradley.
Bradley smiles at that, only imagining the life this dog could bring to his quiet house.
Finally, Ducky nudges his outstretched hand, sniffing it first, then licking it softly. He hears you gasp lightly at the action, nothing big though, trying not to disrupt the moment.
"He never does that," you offer. Bradley can see your head shaking slowly as Ducky continues to push into the man in front of you.
Bradley feels his heartbeat steady. It's quiet around him. Even with the squealings of the children around him and the barking of the other dogs, Bradley only hears the little laps of Ducky's tongue against the skin on his hand. But this quiet is something he can get used to, something that grounds him.
"It's a 150 dollar adoption fee, right?" Bradley asks, not tearing his eyes away from the dog in front of him. Ducky's big brown eyes seem to bore into his soul, making him ask the question before even thinking about what he's saying.
You bite your lip before speaking, trying to hide the big grin on your face, even though you know Bradley can't see it. "Um, no fee for him. I already took care of it."
Your words confuse Bradley. He looks over to you for an answer but sees clearly why you had paid the fee yourself.
Quickly, a hand comes up to your cheek as you wipe the stray tear away from your face. "I just didn't want anything to deter someone from taking him home." Bradley's heart clenches at this as you offer him a smile and you fan your eyes.
"Well, what do you say, Ducky? Wanna come home with me?" Bradley finds himself talking to the dog again, not feeling as silly this time around.
જ⁀➴
Bradley looks at the large, fluffy cream colored dog bed lying next to his and the brown wicker box overflowing with colorful chew toys with a small smile. Ducky had been a little hesitant to leave your side at first when he realized what was happening, but with some whispered assurance and a kiss on the tip of his wet nose from you, he jumped into Bradley's Bronco, settling in the passenger seat.
Ducky had whined when Bradley peeled out of the parking lot. The man had glanced over at Ducky as he stuck his head out of the window and looked in your direction. His eyes found your figure in the mirror, blue denim, and a sweet pink-colored top catching his eye. He saw the way you brought one hand up to your heart, and as the other wiped at your cheeks. You loved this dog, every bit of your being told him that.
Bradley couldn't help but feel bad as the dog's whines continued throughout shopping for essentials, the drive home, and the arrival at his house.
Ducky had opted to lie in Bradley's brown leather chair as soon as they got into the house, and he decided to take it as a good sign. But as the day continued, Ducky had barely left the spot, and small cries were coming every few minutes.
Opening up the sliding glass door to his backyard, Bradley called Ducky over, beckoning him to come out and play. But the swings of the bright blue and purple rope and the energetic movements from Bradley weren't doing anything to move Ducky from his spot.
Even when making dinner, Ducky had barely budged from his spot on the recliner. With the wafting scent of the food on the stovetop, Bradley was sure that Ducky would appear by his side sooner rather than later. But nothing came of it, even with the temptation of a seared ribeye with Ducky's name on it.
He had tried speaking softly like he had seen you do earlier that day, but Bradley didn't want to push the poor dog more than it seemed like he already did. Instead, he turned on the television and sat in the company of the shy dog.
It wasn't until Bradley was tucked under his sheets that he heard the faint noise of shuffling paws on his hardwood floors. Ducky sat next to the side of the bed, noticeably avoiding lying on the dog bed next to him. Bradley laughed quietly at this, furrowing his brows a bit.
He wasn't quite sure what to do, to be honest. Growing up, he never had dogs or cats or anything of that sort in the house. He figured it was hard enough being a single mother of a toddler; the added stress of an animal just wasn't feasible in his situation.
Sure, his friends growing up had dogs. He recalled throwing around a tennis ball with one of his friends and their black lab in their backyard almost every day during the summer before 7th grade. But Bradley had never lived with a dog. Never had to deal with big brown eyes looking at him as he lay underneath the sheets.
"You okay, buddy?" he asked in the otherwise quiet room.
To this, Ducky started whining.
"Oh, come on. I thought we got over that a few hours ago," Bradley groans, rolling up to sit in his bed now.
Bradley was man enough to admit it was hard to drag Ducky away from you during the adoption this morning. Ducky's whines as you gave him a few last pets and spoke gently to him, did tug on Bradley's heartstrings. Bradley was sure the dog next to him couldn't stop thinking about your kind eyes and sweet disposition; he certainly couldn't.
Bradley's hands were rougher than yours. He felt the softness as you handed the leash to him this morning. You had explained to him a routine that Ducky usually had with the unit, your hands animated as you looked between the pair in front of you with a smile. Occasionally, one would come down to rub the top of his head. Ducky was probably missing that, missing you.
On top of that, when Bradley smiled at the dog next to him, he couldn't help but think of how goofy he looked compared to you. Your smiles were gentle, drawing him and Ducky in from a few feet away. He could tell you had that kind of magnetism, that kind of energy that just took hold of people and didn't let go. Bradley struggled to think of what the dog in front of him thought as he shot him another small smile.
And Bradley couldn't let go of the way you switched from talking to him to Ducky. How you had described Bradley with a soft tone and warm look in your eyes. You didn't even know him. How did you settle on "sweet man" from what Bradley was giving you this morning? It was a little too mind-boggling to think about for too long.
Shaking away the memories of this morning, Bradley was brought back to the dog that sat at his side. With a small sigh, he pointed to the bed next to him. "That's your bed, Ducky. It's time to go to sleep."
This only got him louder whines.
Bradley sighed and shook his head. He felt clueless.
"Do you want to come up here?" he tried, patting the comforter near his feet.
Within seconds, Ducky was jumping onto the bed and taking claim to the opposite side of the bed.
"Unbelievable. I try to get you to listen all day, and this is what you respond to," Bradley laughed as he looked at Ducky with a smile, not able to get mad at the dog as he cuddled up similarly to this morning with you.
The whines had stopped now, replaced with steady breathing and a small huff. The buzzing of the bugs outside his window that seemed so loud yesterday was now quiet. Bradley was only keying in on the ups and downs of Ducky's chest, something more grounding than he realized.
"Alright, Ducky. Time for bed," Bradley spoke again to the dog, stroking the fur on his back gently. Lying his head back down on his pillow and continuing his movements, Bradley was asleep within minutes. Soft snores from both him and Ducky fill the house with a comfortable, peaceful energy.
જ⁀➴
It was a bit daunting at first. That first week with Ducky was definitely a learning curve. Trying to adjust his routine to best suit the dog's needs hadn't been quick or easy.
The first morning, Bradley woke up to licks on his face and playful growling. At first, Bradley thought Ducky wanted attention, some pets, and cuddles. But as soon as he sat up in bed, Ducky was bolting to the front door.
Sitting in front of the door with the green leash in his mouth, Ducky whined as Bradley slowly made his way down the hallway.
Still adorned in his slippers and ratty college football shorts, Bradley closed the front door and took off with Ducky as the sun rose in the distance. After a few minutes of tugging Bradley down the block, Ducky broke out into a trot, urging Bradley to keep up with him.
That's how Bradley ended up running barefoot in his neighborhood at 5 in the morning, slippers in one hand and leash in the other. He had passed Mrs. Greene, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Nguyen on their morning aerobic walk with a small nod and smile. The older ladies had laughed at the scene, something Bradley couldn't help but join in on.
An hour later, they ended up back at Bradley's house. This time, Ducky barked happily as he opened the sliding glass door out to his backyard, running circles in the yard much like you had said he would. Bradley found himself watching with a disbelieving smile on his face, wishing he could somehow tell you that you were right.
A few weeks later, Bradley runs shirtless, tennis shoes on his feet now, with Ducky on an early May morning. The sun is just starting to peak out from the greenery lining the trail they take every morning. Bradley's grateful for the cool morning air as sweat wicks at his lower back and hairline. A combination of the morning dew and perspiration rolls down the muscles of Bradley's body as he jogs.
Suddenly, Ducky pauses once they reach the familiar park. Bradley looks down at his dog and then up to see what he could possibly be stopping for.
Seeing nothing but the group of older women with small hand weights and crows in the trees, Bradley bends down to Ducky's level. "What's up, buddy? What do you see?"
But as soon as Bradley settles down next to the dog, Ducky's leash is slipping through his fingers. He reaches out to grab onto anything, his dog, his collar, his leash, but ends up grasping at the air instead. Ducky is taking off in a sprint before him.
Rising to his feet and going after him. Bradley swears under his breath and calls out loudly, "Ducky!"
He finds himself weaving through the playground, wood chips kicking up in his wake. But his eyes widen as Ducky zeroes in on a group of women at the edge of the park.
He sees them all stretched down in downward dog as Ducky gets closer and closer. Again, Bradley calls out, "Ducky!"
At this, he sees a few heads turn towards the sound of his voice. But only one woman looks in the direction of the blur of fur coming straight for her. A yelp is heard as Ducky barrels into her, knocking her from her place on the mat. Gasps are heard from the surrounding women, and Bradley's chest heaves as he sprints to catch up to his dog and pull him off the stranger.
But as he gets closer, his heart calms at the sound of laughter. Ducky is lying on top of this poor woman, but at least he's not attacking or barking or anything of that sort. No, he's just licking and nuzzling into the figure on the ground.
"I am so sorry. I don't," Bradley gets out quickly, stuttering a bit as he looks around at the group with an apologetic smile. "He never runs away like that, I'm sorry. Ducky, get over here!"
But the dog stays put, and the laughter doesn't stop. But finally, Ducky is pushed up from the figure on the ground, and Bradley's heart races once more when he sees your face peeking out from behind the ball of fur.
"Oh, it's you." He doesn't know why he says it, but it comes from him like a breath of relief.
You laugh at this, not even taking in the way Bradley scolds himself at the odd behavior.
"And it's you and Ducky!" Your attention is on the dog in front of you, petting him and smiling brightly, only glancing up at Bradley once before returning to the panting dog rather than the panting man.
Bradley kneels down next to you, sweat still rolling down his skin. He doesn't catch the way your cheeks flush as you take in his build. Muscles are a mix of the perfect summer tan and red rosy dusting, no doubt from the sprint he took off on to get here. His arms strain as they go behind him, veins jumping out from his skin. From this position, his tight stomach is also on full display, ridges and divots begging for your attention.
What you don't realize is that Bradley is doing the exact same thing to you, drinking you in fully. You're in flow yoga pants, calves peeking out from the wide-legged flare of the pants. And your top half is barely hidden, only wearing a sports bra, pretty and pink like the top he had seen you in a month ago. The straps dig into your shoulders, and Bradley takes in the swell of your breasts as he follows the scoop of the top.
A bark from Ducky snaps you both back into reality. Some of the women around you laugh.
"You guys seem to be doing well," you spoke softly, voice just as sweet as Bradley remembered.
"Mm, yeah. We've got our routine now, he's been great," Bradley tells you, reaching to pet his dog.
You watch the action fondly, seeing the way Ducky leans into his touch now. The moment is sweet and completely yours, at least that's what it feels like as you and Bradley make eye contact and share small smiles. But a voice clearing is heard as you and Bradley remember where you are.
You turn to a young woman next to you, speaking quicker than Bradley has ever heard before from you. "I'm gonna go with them, I'll be back soon." She nodded at you with a gleaming look in her eye that Bradley didn't quite understand. But you turned quickly towards him, grabbing Ducky's leash and apologizing to the other women around you.
As soon as you had walked away from the group, they resumed their positions, some of them craning their necks to watch the scene a few feet away from them unfold.
"I'm so sorry about that, again," Bradley told you, grimace on his face as you handed him the leash.
But you just shook your head and smiled. "No, no. It was nice seeing you guys again. I was wondering how he was doing with you," you told him. Bradley hoped you didn't catch the way he swallowed hard at your words. Leaning down a bit, your hand came down to Ducky's face. "But you like the sweet man, huh? I knew you would."
Bradley's cheeks flush at the repetition of your description of him, yet again.
The sun paints everything a nice golden color, pinks in the sky still dancing a bit in the distance. But Bradley can't peel his eyes away from you, and it seems like you are having the same problem.
"I should probably get back." Your head is pointing in the direction of the class, now moving through another pose.
"Yes, yeah. Sorry," he doesn't know why he apologizes, but the smile on your face doesn't make him think about it for long.
"Well, bye, Ducky. And bye..." you lead off, looking for him to pick up the end of your sentence.
"Bradley," he says, hoping you say it back to him.
"Bye, Bradley," you tell him, turning away from the pair, but not before sending them one last glance over your shoulder. And Bradley doesn't realize how long he stands there and hangs onto your words, only focusing on the way his name sounded coming out of your mouth. It had never sounded better, sounded sweeter from you.
Begrudgingly, he turns, ushering Ducky to follow him.
"I know, Ducky. Come on," he says, starting off in a slow jog as his dog turns back and begins to follow him. But as the day continues, Ducky's whining starts up again, and Bradley can't help but think of you.
જ⁀➴
Pool balls clack up against each other as Bradley misses yet another wide-open shot.
"Jesus, Rooster," Jake laughs loudly. "Missing your dog so much you can't even focus on one little game of pool?"
It was partly true. It was Bradley's first night out since getting Ducky; he had been opting to spend the nights and weekends at home with the dog rather than out drinking with the squad.
But before Bradley could defend himself, mouth already opening to fire back, Bob had cut in, "No, he's definitely distracted because of the girl."
Bob sipped his soda innocently as the group of pilots turned in his direction with peaked interest.
Looking at Bradley, Bob grimaced; he was always a little loose-lipped after his 3rd soda of the night. "Shoot. Sorry, Bradley."
This set off a chain of questions from the group as Bradley's head hung low, hand coming up to the back of his neck to rub harshly at the skin.
Bradley had confessed his feelings to the WSO earlier this week, not being able to get the image of you out of his brain the entire weekend after Ducky had run you down in the park. He just had to tell someone, and Bob seemed like the logical choice. Smart, level-headed, in a stable relationship. But the words from the WSO only sent him into a spiral as he had finished describing you.
"Sounds like your perfect woman."
Bob's voice seemed to be on repeat the entire week. And God, he was right. You were perfect. More importantly, Bradley felt like he was going through withdrawal. Every time he looked at Ducky, he thought of you. He reasoned that getting out of the house and spending some time with his friends would be good for him.
Evidently, his secret being outed wasn't what he had in mind for tonight.
"Idiots, shut it!" Phoenix's voice rang out above the others. The group was now silent, all looking to the woman. "What girl?" she asked hesitantly.
With a sigh, Bradley's shoulders slumped. "The woman who I got Ducky from. I ran into her again last week, doing yoga at the park on one of our morning runs. And I don't know," he says, face twisting, not even sure why he's volunteering this information to his friends. "I just... I can't stop thinking about her."
The group is silent, understanding and hearing the sincerity in Bradley's voice.
Jake lets out a whistle at this. "Let's get you another drink, lover-boy." And at this, the group seems to hum in agreement.
The blonde clamps a hand down on his shoulder, guiding him to the bar.
"And you don't have her number?" Jake asks as they weave through the crowds of people.
"No, man. I mean, I don't even know her name. The adoption paperwork happened quicker than I expected, and I was just standing there like a dumbass the second time," Bradley grumbles, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"Yikes. Any chance she's gonna do yoga again this week?" Jake asked as they sat at two open seats.
"I looked, it said the yoga happens the first Saturday of every month. So, I just have to wait," Bradley explained, feeling a little embarrassed at the admission.
"A month?! Good luck, my friend. You've gone crazy after only a week," Jake laughed. Bradley rolled his eyes at this and groaned, knowing Jake's words held some truth to them.
"Hello, gentlemen. I've got a drink here for you, Lieutenant Bradshaw," Penny's voice makes Bradley's head snap up. Her hand is pointing in across the bar, and when he follows it, he can't help but swear.
"Holy shit," Bradley laughs, turning to Jake with a smile and wide eyes.
"Holy shit, that's her?" Jake asked, looking at you and your friend at the opposite side of the bar, taking in the way she poked your sides and laughed.
"That's her," he spoke breathlessly. Penny grinned at the scene unfolding in front of her.
"Go, dumbass. Go!" Jake pushed him off the barstool, both hands guiding him in your direction.
Bradley recognized the girl sitting next to you, the same one at the yoga class the other day; she was probably your best friend if he was guessing. The way you smiled at her, cheeks flushing as she spoke, and sent you a wink made Bradley giddy. She grabbed her purse and hopped off the stool, gesturing for him to come take her spot before squeezing your hand and leaving.
"Hey," he says, sitting next to you, disbelief on his features.
"Hey, you," you tease back. "Are you in the Navy?"
Bradley takes in the way your eyes narrow at him, like you're trying to put pieces together. He nods and smiles, "I am, TOPGUN graduate."
"So you saw the poster I put up? For the K-9 unit?" You were smiling brightly now, like you had guessed correctly.
"I did. The pink's what got me." Bradley's eyes met yours. This conversation seemed different than all the other you had in the past. Before, you were calm and collected, but here you were excitable and giggly.
"I totally thought you were a firefighter," you spoke honestly. "I put the K-9 posters up at the base, the fire station, and places like this," your finger wagged as you spoke, gesturing to the bar.
"Disappointed?" he asked, a teasing smile on his face.
You held your hands up in faux surrender. "No! Not at all. Impressed actually."
He grinned at this, settling into the conversation more and more. "And what do you do? Not a police officer, right?"
"No, vet actually. I just work pro bono with the police department, specifically for the K-9 unit. Those guys are hard workers, and usually get roughed up after big jobs," you told him with a small smile.
Bradley put together some pieces of his own. How you knew so much about Ducky, why you had gotten so close to him. You had probably gotten to see the pup at his lowest.
Bradley nodded, "Now I'm impressed." You smiled wider at this, laughing at his words.
For the first time since sitting with you, Bradley fully took you in. Your denim shorts that rode up just a bit and your white tank top, the V-neck framing your collarbones and chest perfectly. Your cheeks had a slight blush to them; he couldn't tell whether it was from him or from the fruity drink you seemed to be working on.
Again, you did the same thing. This time, though, Bradley was in a tight white T-shirt and jeans that seemed to strain against his thick biceps and thighs. His hair wasn't as windswept as it had been that day in the park; now it was pushed back slightly, a single curl coming down on the left side of his face.
The squad watched as the two of you talked, Jake practically skipping back to the group to tell them the good news. Every time they glanced over, you and Bradley had gotten closer and closer, fully leaning into each other.
You both sported matching smiles and flushed cheeks the entire night, despite letting both of your drinks sit and become lukewarm. The alcohol couldn't be to blame for the way you were acting.
They saw how Bradley's eyes softened as they met yours. How his shoulders relaxed after each laughing fit. How he opened himself completely in front of you.
You had talked about everything. It seemed to flow so easily out of Bradley, even the hard things. When you asked about his family, you must have noticed the way his face dropped slightly, instantly placing a supportive hand on his thigh. He had told you about his family, the squad, about Maverick. It was nice. You asked questions, not the kind that he had an automatic response for, but ones that made him think.
"Who on the squad is most like a sibling to you?"
"What dish instantly brings you back to childhood?"
And his favorite, "What's your favorite story about your dad?"
He asked you about school, and you indulged him in crazy stories from your early days in the profession. How you had worked out on a farm in Wyoming one summer and helped with the births of calves. It had been a lot more physically exhausting than you would've imagined. How you had studied in Australia for an exchange year, learning all about marine wildlife and how to care for them. The way your eyes lit up when you told him about a baby turtle hatching you had witnessed had him giddy.
You had told him about all the adventures you had gone on and all the ones you wanted to do in the future. Swimming in Baja, Mexico, with the Whale Sharks was at the top of your bucket list, and while Bradley was a bit scared of deep waters like that, he had to admit it didn't sound as scary if you were going to be by his side.
In exchange, he told you a few things about his time in the academy. The risks he had to take on missions, the close calls that happened more often than he would like. He saw the pain this job caused his mom, and he didn't want you to go into this without knowing the risks. But the way you bit your lip and told him that you thought what he was doing was so brave made his heart race and a wide grin break out on his face. You had hit his shoulder lightly at this, saying you were serious, but Bradley just smiled wider.
"Is there anything else I can grab you two tonight?" Penny asked, wiping down a glass as she looked at the pair, effectively popping their bubble.
"Oh gosh, I'm sorry. We stayed way too late," you spoke, digging into your wallet to pull out some bills to give the kind woman.
"Sorry, Penny," Bradley chuckled, handing her a handful of cash before you could even finish fumbling with you wallet. Your eyes met him, mouth about to open to argue, but he just offered you a hand as he hopped off the barstool.
"Goodnight, you two," she called as you both walked out with sheepish smiles.
You hadn't dropped Bradley's hand as you led him through the parking lot to your car. He relished in the warmth and softness; the feeling was vaguely familiar as he recalled the earlier touches from when you had first met.
"This is me," you told him, as moonlight danced across your features. Bradley couldn't help but run his eyes over your face, thinking to himself how beautiful you looked.
"Can I get your number?" he asked brazenly, a tad louder than he needed to. You giggled at this but nodded regardless, hands reaching for his phone as he stared at you.
Despite the cold breeze that came from the ocean just a few meters away from you both, Bradley felt a deep warmth spread in his chest. He opened your car door, closing it softly as you waved through the window. And once you backed out of your spot, Bradley found himself smiling all over again at the paw print stickers on your back window.
જ⁀➴
3 months later...
You and Bradley sprawled out on his couch as the movie finished up in front of you, Ducky sitting by your feet. Lying on Bradley's chest, you couldn't help but listen to his heartbeat beneath you.
These past few months with Bradley had been nothing short of perfect. He had texted you the morning after you had sat at the Hard Deck for hours, asking if you were free for dinner that same night. You remember laughing at his eagerness to yourself, but agreeing nonetheless.
He appeared at your door at 6:30 PM sharp, taking you out to a nice dinner on a beach patio. You teased him about not bringing Ducky, saying you thought they were a package deal, but you quickly paused the teasing after seeing how nervous he was by the way his cheeks flushed brightly.
He asked you about your career out here, only really talking about school last night with you. He said he wanted to learn more about you now. It was more thoughtful than you had expected.
Halfway through the dinner, you moved your chair over to Bradley's side of the table, something that caught a glare from the hostess. But you had to, as you scrolled through pictures and pictures of animals on your phone. You told him each of their names and all the little quirks they had, told him about the family you had worked with, and how much each of these animals meant to people. You hadn't noticed, but he smiled the entire time, not really looking at your phone but instead at the way you lit up when you spoke about the animal you've worked with.
When the date wrapped up, you told him that you'll just have to see his dog another time, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before you closed the door to your apartment. He hadn't seen you peek through the curtains, but you saw the way he pumped his fists like a dork while walking to his car. You couldn't help but fall even harder for the man.
Two days after your first date, Bradley had asked you to meet him in a little coffee shop near your apartment. He had apologized countlessly for the timing, seeing as he had requested 6 AM as the time, saying it was okay if you wanted to wait for the weekend, but his training schedule was just a little hectic at the moment. But you insisted it was okay, saying you had your own share of early mornings too and that you wanted to see him.
As he walked you to your car after a quick coffee and pastry, you smiled at him. Leaning against your car, you tugged him down by the collar of the familiar plain white tee he wore, pulling him in for a kiss. Bradley's hands found purchase on your hips, fingers giddy against your scrubs.
It was the fifth date, and both of you opted for a night in, where he promised to cook for you. It had also been the first time you had been in his apartment, Ducky clinging to your side the entire night.
Bradley had asked you to be his girlfriend before dinner was even finished, too distracted by the way you sat on the countertop to focus on the food simmering around him. You laughed as he flushed from the question and the sound of the smoke alarm going off, but ultimately said yes with a smile as he leaned down, caging you against his firm chest and the cabinets, to capture your lips in a deep kiss before waving a towel in front of the alarm. You couldn't help but laugh as you moved to open the sliding glass door to let the smoke out of the little house and to get some fresh air for yourself, too, after feeling how Bradley's hands rested on your thighs.
Recently, though, you had been having your fair share of sleepovers with the tall aviator. The first time he had slept over, you had shared one too many glasses of wine over sushi takeout from your favorite place downtown. After glancing at the clock and the empty bottle between you, you asked quietly if he wanted to spend the night.
Bradley hadn't ever seen you so shy before, but he figured the rosiness of your cheeks definitely matched his own and said nothing. Instead, he nodded, kissing your forehead sweetly as you further pushed into his hold.
He remembers feeling your soft face up against his bare chest as you dozed off, not being afraid to lean into his side once you had settled under the covers. The smell of your shampoo and lotion was strong, wafting off of you after your shower. Bradley lay there for a few minutes. Not daring to close his eyes, he instead wanted to take you in as you slept on top of him. The combination of your sweet smell and soft skin had the man reeling.
Now you lie on the couch at his apartment, and Bradley sees your eyes blinking away sleep as you curl up to his side. With a kiss pressed to your hair, your eyes widened as Bradley ushered you to the bedroom. Big hands coming up to your sides to support you, strong chest pushed against your back to guide you.
It was the first time you had slept over at his. But after grabbing a quick shower, inspecting all of the hair and body care products he had available, you took your place in bed. Bradley's sheets were softer than yours, and you wondered why it had taken so long to sleep over at his.
But before you were about to call out and ask him, the answer came jumping onto the bed next to you, taking Bradley's spot. You laughed softly as Ducky turned on his back, urging you to rub his tummy.
Getting out of the bathroom, with nothing but a tight towel around his waist, Bradley groaned. You giggled at this, but Bradley shook his head you and Ducky all cuddled up already.
Walking into the small closet on the other side of the room, your eyes tracked Bradley. The way the small towel around his hips was working to show off his deep V-line had you squirming in your spot on the bed. You watched his back muscles push and pull as he rolled his neck and stretched a bit while walking. Maybe you could offer to work out the knots; it'd be a win-win situation for you and your boyfriend.
As he emerged from the closet in nothing but a pair of boxers, you urged yourself to calm down. It wasn't like it was your first time seeing him in this state; you did have sleepovers at your apartment quite often. But it was the first time that you could actually do something about it.
There had been countless times when you and Bradley had been pretty handsy, but all of them seemed to be interrupted. Whether it was an emergency call from the clinic or an alert on Bradley's phone that Ducky had knocked over another vase in the house, something always tore you away in those moments.
You had felt Bradley's frustration, seen it firsthand. The way his jaw ticked each time, and his hands got all grabby before either of you had to leave. You didn't blame him, often finding yourself rubbing your thighs together after your time together was interrupted. Maybe even having a wandering hand shoot down your panties if he was the one who had to go.
But tonight you might have him all to yourself, whether that means deep kisses or holding each other tightly and finding sleep. That was until Ducky refused to move.
"Come on, Ducky, off the bed tonight," Bradley told the dog, standing over him.
"You let him sleep on the bed regularly?" you asked with a playful look on your face. Bradley caught your tone quickly, sending you a lighthearted eye roll.
"Yes, because I love my dog," he spoke, ruffling Ducky's ears.
"But what's the big bed for then?" you questioned again, smile growing bigger with every second.
Bradley wanted to lean over and kiss it off your face. But with the big dog in his way, he just shrugged. "He didn't like it."
You giggled at this, Ducky turning to you at the sound. "Gosh, he's a big softy, huh?" you told Ducky in a sweet tone, something that made Bradley suck his teeth and grin.
But with Ducky's attention elsewhere, Bradley was able to shift the dog to the end of the bed. Getting under the covers, Bradley reached for you automatically. Instead of feeling the cotton of your pajama pants that you usually wear, he instead felt your warm skin.
Seemingly watching the confusion spread across his face, you offered an explanation, "Your sheets are nice. And it's a little hot out."
If nice sheets and 90-degree weather were what it took to get you in the little lacy pink underwear your wore now, Bradley would buy a set in every color and run his heating system even on hot nights like tonight.
But instead, he just hummed, fingers tracing over the lacy trimming of your panties.
On top of this, you wore one of his old Navy shirts. Not expecting to sleep over, you had limited options available. Bradley had never been more thankful.
"Let's go to bed, pretty girl," Bradley told you as he saw the way your eyes started to blink closed again. You nodded sweetly at this and settled under the covers as he turned off the lamp on his nightstand.
Settling under the covers, Bradley's big hands found your stomach, pulling your back into his chest. From this position, sure, his hands could roam all over you, and he could touch anything that begged for his attention. But what stopped him in his tracks was the smell of his body wash on your skin.
It made logical sense. You had showered before getting in bed while he washed up the dishes and straightened the living room, but it didn't hit him until this very moment that you were fully his. The woman he had pined over for a month, not even knowing your name, only remembering your kind eyes and soft touch. Now, you were in his bed, falling asleep next to him in his shirt after washing yourself with his body wash.
What did he do to deserve you? You who cared for animals so much that you made a career out of it. You who held his hand and kissed away his tears when he finally told you about what happened to his father. You, who at every chance were unapologetically yourself, either dancing in the kitchen while making dinner or sobbing your eyes out while watching Marley & Me for the hundredth time.
He loved you. Bradley realized in that moment that he loved you. More than he had ever loved anyone like this before.
At the thought, his hands had squeezed your waist tightly, and you stirred next to him.
"Baby, are you okay?" you asked, voice laced with sleep.
Letting his grip on you loosen, he was quick to come down and kiss your neck in an apology. "Sorry, just thinking about you. Didn't mean to wake you up."
You hum, shifting against him slightly. Your neck is now on full display, and Bradley just couldn't help himself.
Feeling his warm mouth work against your sensitive neck made you squirm against him. Bradley's mouth was relentless, biting and licking underneath your jaw and down the side of your throat. Your breath hitched as he moved a spot near your pulse point, chest rising and falling dramatically.
Bradley's hands wrapped around your stomach once more, but this time, one of his hands snaked underneath your shirt. "Can I touch you like this?" his voice was deep, breath hot against your ear.
"Yes, please," you whispered.
Suddenly, his mouth was back on your throat, and your hips pushed back further into his now hard length. His hand came up to grab your tits. They were in the perfect position for Bradley, who was able to pinch and roll your nipples in between his big fingers.
"Oh gosh, Bradley," you huffed, eyes fully rolled back into your skull as his hand worked against your puffy nipples and he ground his length into your ass.
"Yeah, baby, feels good?" he asked in a cocky coo, watching the way you bit down on your bottom lip and nodded up and down at his words.
Your mouth opened, not quite knowing exactly if you could speak with the way his touch seemed to intensify in mere seconds. But still, you tried, aching for him now, "Touch me, please. Down-"
A loud bark had you jumping out of your skin. Ducky growled at Bradley, starting to shield you protectively.
You laughed at his dog's actions, and Bradley looked at you in disbelief.
"Ducky, down! Off the bed!" Bradley's voice was loud, but it carried no real weight to scare the dog. Ducky instead settled down in between you two, almost pushing Bradley off the bed.
You laughed again.
"This is unbelievable," Bradley scoffed as he threw the covers off his body and got out of bed. From here, you could see the way his length strained under his boxers.
But it wasn't long before Bradley was over at your side of the bed and scooping you up into his arms.
"What are you doing?" you asked, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
"Trying to give my girl what she wants. This time uninterrupted," Bradley huffed, sending a glare at Ducky on the bed as he carried you outside the bedroom.
But when Bradley closed the door, Ducky only started scratching and barking even louder. You looked at him with a small smile, pressing a kiss to his temple to calm him.
"I've got an idea," he spoke, something dancing in his eyes. "Go open the door to the patio."
"Bradley, no! You can't leave him out there!" you chastised with a small frown on your face.
He hummed, head falling into your shoulder. But just as quick as it fell, it came back up again.
"Okay, you go outside then. Wait for me," he told you, planting a searing kiss on your lips that made you forget any questions you had. Bradley placed you down softly and watched as you padded over to the back patio, underwear now clinging to your skin in a way that almost looked uncomfortable.
But as soon as he heard the click of the sliding glass door shutting. He opened the bedroom door and let Ducky inspect the living room.
"I don't know where she is, buddy," he told the dog, shoulders shrugging, really trying to sell the bit. Ducky sighed and made his way back into the bedroom after a few sniffs and laps around the couch.
After seeing him settle back into the bed and toss and turn for a few minutes, Bradley crept out the back door, swiping the big, soft blanket you liked so much, on his way.
"What'd you do?" you asked the man as he came up to you and draped the blanket around your shoulders.
"He's sleeping. Do you really think so poorly of me?" he teased, hands once again coming to your waist.
"I never said anything," you shot back, failing to hide the small smile on your face.
Bradley walked backwards until he reached the little love seat on his back patio, pulling you down so you were sitting on his lap. You smiled at the eager look on Bradley's face, giggling to yourself.
"Hi," he said, leaning in to press his lips against yours.
"Hi," you teased back, meeting his lips halfway.
Bradley's mouth moved in a delicate, yet passionate way. His hands were planted firmly on your hips; you could feel his thumbs pressing into your skin as the kisses turned more intense. You gasped as Bradley dragged your core across his hard length, cotton rubbing together to create a dizzying friction.
Taking advantage of your open mouth, Bradley pushed his tongue into your mouth, licking into it with urgency. The noise that came out of your throat at his movements was quiet, but Bradley heard it nonetheless. Groaning into your mouth, Bradley moved your hips once more, going a bit crazy at the feeling of your heat against him.
"Come on, baby. Show me how much you need me, huh?" he broke the kiss to speak, eyes searching yours. But all he saw was the gloss already over them as you nodded quickly and threw your arms over his shoulders.
Bradley kissed down your neck as your hips started to move back and forth against his length. Your pace was slow, but he heard the hitches of your breath and decided not to push you just yet. His hands instead crawled up underneath your shirts and began to toy with your nipples again. At this, you captured your bottom lip between your teeth and nuzzled your head into the crook of Bradley's neck.
"So sensitive for me. Doing so good. You like it when I touch you like this?" he asked, nudging your head out from its hiding place.
With another nod of your head, Bradley grabbed your chin, quickly swiping your bottom lip out of its hold.
"Wanna hear you, please, baby," he begged, kissing your face sweetly. It was the exact opposite of how his other hand moved under your shirt, twisting and rubbing your pebbled nipples like they were his own special toys.
"Feels so good, Bradley," you said breathlessly. At the sound of his name falling from your lips, Bradley's hips jumped to meet the steady rhythm of yours. You yelped as he did so, but he was quick to capture your lips in another deep kiss, keeping his hips pressing harshly into your heat through the cotton of both your underwear.
"You're driving me crazy," he confessed, hand coming up to the hem of the old Navy shirt you were wearing. Looking to you for permission, you nodded wordlessly and felt the shirt being taken off your body.
Bradley threw the shirt across the patio and drove straight into your chest, taking one of your nipples between his lips. He lapped and sucked, feeling your hips roll with more urgency across his length at his ministrations.
"So beautiful, baby," he spoke in a low tone before switching to your other breast. One hand snaked around to hold onto your lower back, helping you with the drag. The other pinched at your now wet nipple softly.
"Bradley," you warned, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the combined feeling of his mouth, hands, and hips. The new pressure from the hand on your back was now pushing your hips in the perfect position, feeling his tip make contact with your clit through the cotton.
The man watched as you became consumed with pleasure, lip wobbling as your hips moved back and forth. He felt your fingernails dig into his shoulder blades, surely leaving marks.
His mouth popped off your nipple and made its way up to your open mouth, licking into it once again.
"Gonna come for me, baby? It's okay, I wanna feel you come. I'm right here," he spoke softly to you, watching your brows furrow and face twist.
The words and the intense look in Bradley's eyes made the tension in your tummy snap, hips moving fast to chase your high. You tried collapsing into your boyfriend, but with a firm hand that stayed on your jaw, you were forced upright, looking straight at Bradley as you came on his lap.
Your bare chest heaved as you came down from your high, pressing into Bradley's warm figure. His hand traveled from your lower back up to your hair, stroking it sweetly while placing soft kisses on your hairline.
"Can I feel you?" Bradley asked, fingers now toying with the lace on your underwear again.
"Yeah, but I wanna feel you too," you told him with a small smile on your face, bringing your fingers down to the waistband of his boxers. He chuckled at your actions, but still brought you into a sweet kiss.
Your hands pushed down his waistband and grasped his length in your hands. He was heavy in your hold, twitching as you rubbed a finger down the side of his member, tracing a prominent vein.
"So big," you whispered, more so to yourself, but the way Bradley's fingers moved to push into the front of your underwear made you think he must have heard you, too.
You felt one hand plant firmly on your waist while the other cupped your heat softly. His middle finger circled your entrance, rubbing little circles and spreading the wetness around, something that had you squirming in his hold. Bradley's thumb rubbed similar circles on your clit as you hunched over into his hold.
Your hands worked to rub at his tip, one hand coming up to your mouth to collect some spit, making the movements more fluid. Bradley shuddered as you found a steady pace, feeling your fingers continuously working over his sensitive head.
A finger pressed into your entrance, stretching you in an unfamiliar way. You whined into Bradley's neck at the feeling, tensing up for a moment. But he was quick to keep rubbing little circles against your nub, relaxing your muscles.
The finger pumped in and out of you at the same pace as your hand. Bradley's lips find your neck once more, now breathing heavier and lapping at more of your skin. As you ground down on him further, he moved to push another finger inside your wet entrance.
"Jesus, baby. Feel so fucking good around my fingers. Can't wait to have you on my dick," he groaned, feeling you clench and squeeze around his fingers. You moaned at his words, pushing further into him to rub your breasts against the hard muscles of his chest. Your nipples rubbed harshly against him as you moved your hand more quickly to keep up with the rhythm of his fingers.
"Need you, please, Bradley. Now," you gasped, feeling your stomach wind up again. He nodded at your words, pulling his fingers from your entrance and instead picking you up off his hips, pushing you up against the wood railing of the patio.
"This okay, baby? You okay with me taking you like this?" Bradley asked, referring to your back meeting his chest, taking you from behind. Your stomach jumped at his words as you braced your hands against the railing.
"Yes, please, Bradley." The words were barely off the tip of your tongue when you felt Bradley tug down your underwear, leaving you completely bare in the warm summer breeze. He quickly did the same with his own underwear, fully allowing his member to spring free and rub on your ass.
One of his large hands came to wrap around your hips while the other guided his cock into your entrance. Feeling your breathing pick up, Bradley placed sweet kisses on your neck before whispering, "Breathe for me, baby. I got you."
Taking a deep breath, you exhaled as Bradley pushed into you. It was only his tip at first, but the way you pushed your hips back at the feeling of him drove his hips further, pushing in fully.
Gasping at the stretch, your head lay back on Bradley's broad chest as he snuck his other hand around to toy with your tits. Your nipples were still sensitive from his actions earlier, so this only caused you to push further into his hold.
"Can I move? Are you okay? Need to hear you, talk to me, baby," Bradley told you, kissing the top of your head softly.
"Feels really good, please, Bradley. Need you to move," you complied, as he nodded, pressing his hips into you before drawing out and pushing in again.
You whine as he sets a steady pace. His hands roam all over your body, trying to grab onto every part of you. Your tits, your thighs, your throat. You feel your eyes cross once his thumb lands on your clit once more, squirming and crying out in a nonsensical plea.
Bradley watches as you start to fall apart on him. His hips are moving to piston his hard length into your warm heat, finding it hard not to fully bend you over the railing and have his way with you. Instead, setting a pace that had you crying out every few seconds, mouth open, and eyes closing at his deep movements.
The crude sounds of his hips meeting your ass were filthy and the loudest thing in contrast to the otherwise quiet night. The extra squelching sounds surely come from the previous orgasm you had. Bradley wondered what you tasted like, but he'd have to save it for next time.
"So good, feels so good. My pretty girl," Bradley groaned, head dropping to kiss along your exposed jaw line, hand pushing your tummy to arch you even further into his hold.
You moaned in response, feeling him deeper, feeling more pressure. "For you, only you, Bradley," you told him, head turning to capture his lips in a kiss.
Bradley felt a surge of energy at your words. His thumb worked in tighter circles against your clit, the kind that had you shaking earlier on the loveseat.
"Yeah? This is my pussy, baby? Gonna let me fill you up?" he asked, spit mixing with yours as he bit harshly on your bottom lip.
"Mhm, please. All yours," you cried out as his other hand came to hold across your hips, helping him push you to the edge by bending your frame even more than it already was. Your back arched away from Bradley as your hips and head pushed back to meet his solid body.
"Fuck, baby. Can't say shit like that," he scolded, but his hips kept pounding into you.
Bradley's filthy mouth was somewhat shocking to you. The only other time he had cursed around you was when he had stubbed his toes on the corner of your bed 3 weeks ago. So his words sent a chill down your spine despite the heat of the summer air.
Bradley's thumb stayed in its spot, working your clit and making you twitch and begin to thrash in his hold. But his other arm thrown around your hips made sure that you still felt his deep thrusts.
"Bradley," you breathed out, head tilting back to look at the man. Sweat dripped from his hairline, but he still moved to swoop down and catch you in a searing kiss.
"I got you, I got you. Come for me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my dick." His words pushed you over the edge as he licked into your mouth once more after speaking. The constant rub from his thumb and deep thrusts had you shaking as you worked through your high with him.
Seeing the way your body tensed, your tits bouncing with every movement, and your thighs shaking, had Bradley releasing in you with a low groan. His hips canted into you, slowing down slightly with each thrust, only moving to help you both work through your respective highs.
He had neglected to turn on any porch lights to not alert any neighbors or even Ducky, but the way the moonlight streamed through the trees and painted your features was something Bradley wished he could remember forever. Your lips were still parted, taking labored breaths. Your eyes were glossy, like you were trying to focus and come back into your body. Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of rosy pink than he had ever seen on you before.
You were beautiful.
Bradley leaned down to kiss your cheek, and he felt you smile against his lips.
"Feeling okay, that wasn't too much, pretty baby?" he asked, genuine concern making his brows furrow.
You moved a thumb up to smooth the creases, kissing him softly on the nose with a small giggle. "Felt really good, Bradley. Gonna need some help walking, for sure though."
He chuckled at this, kissing your lips this time, deep and slow.
"I can help with that," he told you as he pulled out, both of you wincing at the loss. He quickly picked you up bridal style and carried you into the house, only letting your feet touch the ground as he set you down on the edge of the guest room bathtub.
Bradley moved to start the water, running his fingers under it to make sure it wasn't too warm or too cold before plugging the tub.
His big hands came down to frame your face, fingers a little wet, but you leaned into his touch regardless. "Gonna go grab our stuff outside and start a pot of tea and come back, okay?" he asked, searching your eyes. You smiled at him, and he leaned down once more to capture your soft lips between his own, the brush of his mustache making you giggle into the kiss.
"I love you, Bradley," you told him, lip now pulled between your teeth as you looked sheepishly at him.
But the man smiled wider than you had ever seen as he began to pepper kisses all over your face and head. You giggled at this, hands coming up to hold his which still framed your face.
"I love you so much," he told you, coming down to peck your lips once more, but the sound of the whine made you and Bradley turn towards the entrance of the bathroom.
Ducky huffed, lying on the cool hardwood, making you and Bradley laugh.
"We love you too, Ducky," the man teased, sending you a wink as you bit back a grin at the sight in front of you.
synopsis. in which ryland asks his twin brother, colt, for help on how to confess to you or where colt harasses his brother to just confess
word count. 1.7k words
note. i might make a part two of the actual confession .. lmk if you guys would want that or if this is enough !
part 2
There are very few things Ryland Grace can admit to without shame–the love he has for his kids, how teaching has been such a great outlet for him, his hard spent years studying Microbiology, to name a few.
What he can’t say is a slightly longer list, and if that list was made and kept somewhere, he’s sure this very moment with his twin brother would be at Number One. Yes, even above calling the leading scholar in his field a staggering waste of carbon.
It was this moment, asking his fuckass twin brother Colt for help on how to confess to you.
He thought he could do it himself, thought of so many ways to talk to you. But when time came to actually do it, he found that he’s grown two pairs of feet and everything but your eyes were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
So, he needed help. Because as much as he enjoys spending time with you, grading papers together and sneaking conversations between classes, there are times when all he really wants to do is wrap his arms around you after a long day of work, or brush away that stubborn strand of hair that always seems to fall over your eyes, or kiss the creases that form on the skin between your eyebrows when you’re deep in concentration.
But he can’t.
Because even after knowing you for three years, he just can’t look you in your eyes and tell you that he is so fucking in love with you. He instead resorts to small gestures and acts of service so you’d hopefully be able to tell that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.
It doesn’t work.
And then he’ll have to pick himself back again and have will-induced conversations, laughing at the pathetic corner of love inside his head. He’ll have to look you in the eyes again and pretend he isn’t affected when you look up and smile at him, or when you whisper a little too closely during shared library visits with your students.
He’ll be stuck at square one again.
And quite frankly, Colt can’t handle it anymore. If he has to listen to Ryland laughing at himself again for his inability to confess to you–whereby laughing, it’s melancholic, lonely chuckling–he will throw himself off the window of their shared apartment.
Which is something Colt can definitely do, and will do if he has to hear the heavy tone of love laced in his brother’s voice as he talks about you (because apparently, you are Top 5 Topics in their shared space) again. Besides, Colt has always been his polar opposite. When Ryland hesitates, Colt just does it.
“You’re too hesitant.” Colt says, grabbing a few papers Ryland has yet to grade on the living room table to look over what he was checking. He returns it immediately with no interest.
Ryland is stressed, his glasses askew on his face and his hands pulling at the ends of his hair. “I know I am! It’s not like I’m not self aware. In fact, I’m too self aware and that’s the problem.”
“Just go up to her and tell her you like her.”
Ryland really wants to strangle his brother right now. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re….you! You jump into fire and fall out of tall buildings without hesitation. I’m not– I’m not brave like you.”
Colt nods sympathetically, whispering an “I am”, and murder is almost committed. Instead, Ryland chooses to just drop his face into his hands. This plan was futile from the beginning. Colt doesn’t know shit about giving advice. He has approximately one brain cell. That is almost close to none.
“Ryland.” His twin brother tries to get his attention, and Ryland slowly peels his hands off his face. “Just tell her. Tomorrow. Get it over with.”
“No, not tomorrow.”
“Okay, then how about next week?”
“No. That’s– it’s too fast.”
“Before the end of the world?”
“Uh, yeah. I can… I can do that. I like those chances.”
“Good. Glad we're narrowing it down.” Colt sighs so loudly that the sound resonates through the room. In return, Ryland throws his pen at him in irritation, but it's caught one-handed by his brother without even looking. This only pisses him even more.
“You are approaching this like it's one of those big scary conferences you nerds like going to. It’s not. It’s way simpler than that.”
“Actually, I’d argue conferences are way fudging easier than confessing. I’d be backed up with evidence and years of research, but this?! It’s like I’m going in naked. That’s never a good thing.”
“Ew, don’t say that. I don’t want to picture you naked.” Colt cringes, and twists his face especially more at the self-censoring. “But didn’t you write a step-by-step process on what to do when she rejects you written on the whiteboard in your room?”
“That is for emotional preparedne– wait, you were in my room?!”
“Dude, you’re doing too much. You’re already assuming she doesn’t like you back before giving it a chance. And you’re refusing to give it a chance by not confessing to her. You’ve liked her for three fucking years, and I’ve had to listen!”
Ryland opens his mouth to say something, but words don’t come out. Because Colt was right, it had been three years of rambling about you, of assuming you could never feel the same way, of refusing to confess because he’d already feared the worst.
“So just,” Colt says after a heartbeat passes, stressed out of his goddamn mind. “Okay, how about this? Walk me through your ideal confession. I’m sure you’ve played this out in your head multiple times, so just tell me.”
Ryland’s eyes widen tenfold, shaking his head with so much adamancy, even with his hands flouncing around. You’d have thought somebody had asked him to go skinny dipping in front of all his co-workers.
“No way. Absolutely no way. No no no no no.”
“Why not?”
“Because you'll make fun of me.”
“I make fun of you regardless. That's unrelated.”
Ryland stares at him in a deadpan. Colt just stares back, shrugging his shoulders.
The staring contest is a battle Ryland loses, and with a sigh, he says, “I'd just want it to be ordinary, I guess.”
His brother listens intently, chin propped on his hands and perched on the living room table.
“Ordinary how?”
Ryland picks at the end of the paper he’s currently checking, rolling it and unrolling it and folding it and unfolding it. “I don't know. Maybe after work.”
“Okay.”
“We're grading papers.”
“Very romantic.” A playful smile tugs on Colt’s lips.
“Shut up.”
“Go on.”
“And maybe she's making tea.”
“She drinks tea? I thought she drank coffee.”
“Obviously she drinks tea.”
“How is that obvious?”
Ryland rolls his eyes at the smirk forming on his brother’s lips. “Nevermind that. She’s making tea, okay? And then I just tell her. That… that I like her.”
Then, he backtracks. “But I can’t do that. I mean, statistically speaking, that's a terrible plan. If I tell her, she’ll reject me. Then I lose my best friend. Which leaves you as my only friend, and no offense, but if the entire social structure of my life can be represented by a sample size of one, something has gone horribly wrong. Like horribly wrong.”
“I feel like I should be offended. Wait, you’re trying to change topics on me. Ryland.”
“Colt.” He repeats.
“Buddy, you spend every single day together. She likes you.” Colt pushes himself out of the couch, suddenly acting like he just cracked the case. “And! And most of all, she laughs at your jokes.” He points accusingly. “Your terrible, god awful jokes. She’s into you.”
Ryland is defensive. “People laugh at my jokes!”
“Let’s not kid ourselves. Just…” Another exasperated hand is thrown around as Colt tries to embed the thought in his brother’s mind. “Stop acting like she's doing charity work by spending time with you. Sometimes you forget you’re the best thing that’s happened to a lot of people too.”
Colt grimaces as the room grows quiet, and he’s aware he’s suddenly gone sappy over his little brother (by four minutes), but Colt has never known a life without his brother, and it’s getting real annoying listening to him be so self deprecating as if he doesn’t have a doctorate in Microbiology, as if a million single mothers haven’t had crushes on him.
“Wow.” he says. “You just said something nice about me. I feel… weird.”
“Don't act like I don’t ever say anything nice about you.” Colt says, not unkindly. Because he has, on multiple occasions even. He’s always stood up for Ryland, even since they were little kids. “Now ask her out before I have to hear another two hour monologue about how she likes her coffee. Though, apparently, she drinks tea now. Unrelated. The point is I literally know everything about her, and I haven’t even met her!”
Ryland opens his mouth.
Colt points a warning finger at him. “Just do it. Do the whole world a favor and just confess. Or just do me the favor."
The room falls quiet and a moment later, Colt disappears down the hallway readying himself for another early day tomorrow, leaving Ryland alone in the living room with half-graded papers and a pit at the bottom of his stomach when he comes to the realization that his brother might actually be right.
Not about everything, obviously. Colt is wrong about a lot of things. Most things, actually.
But maybe he was right about this.
Because for three years, Ryland has done nothing but wait. Three whole years of lingering after work just to talk to you for ten more minutes, of remembering every single story you’ve ever told him, of finding any excuse to be with you.
And another three years would pass exactly the same way if he didn’t do anything.
The thought makes him grimace, makes him want to vomit. Because Ryland Grace has done things far and beyond a simple conversation. He has a list of things he can admit to without shame, and even those with shame. He could do it.
And to hell if he'd go on another day without the permission to kiss you, and hold you, and take your hand in his.
The feeling still sits heavy in his chest, but it's different now. Less like dread and more like standing at the edge of a diving board, but this time, he’s a little more ready to make the jump.
And if by some miracle you feel the same—
Oh. Could you imagine?
Ryland can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth at the possibility.
Maybe he’ll finally listen to his brother for once in his life and tell you how he feels. Tomorrow.
For now, he’ll keep grading his papers and writing romances with you in his head during the few minutes of break he allows himself.
Summary : John Walker trying to manage his anger issues accidentally turns into a second chance at love.
Pairing : New Avengers! John Walker x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Tower-ish fic? FLUFF!!! divorce, co-parenting, you are John's crisis de-escalation trainer, workplace romance, Olivia has a new boyfriend, you are mentioned to have a sister and a niece, shooter mention, dental anxiety, food. (Let me know if I miss anything!)
Word Count : 17.3k
Requested by : Anons! This is a combination these requests: X X
Notes : First time writing a full fic just for John! I swear I intended it to be 5k words but I am incapable of restraint when it comes to writing, apparently. Enjoy!
John didn’t want Olivia back.
He didn’t sit outside her place mourning the life they had lost. He didn’t picture himself walking back through the front door, walking back into her life like no time had passed, picking up where they had left off. There was nowhere to pick up from. There was no bookmark wedged between the pages of their nonexistent marriage, waiting for them to find it again.
There were too many dead versions of them scattered between the two teenagers they used to be and the two adults they had become. The high school sweethearts to military couple pipeline was simple enough. What came after, though? The serum and whatever he was now? No, they simply were two different people. They simply grew apart.
John had made peace with the fact that they were over. The problem was that Olivia had started dating again first. Which meant she was winning the divorce.
Which was insane.
He knew it was insane. He knew divorce wasn’t a sport. He knew healing didn’t come with a scoreboard, and there was no prize for being the first person to look normal again. But this was John Walker we’re talking about, and Olivia moving on like a functional adult meant that she was beating him at life. And John was nothing if not competitive. As far as he was concerned, Olivia had points on the board and he didn’t.
John had government-monitored rage incidents and a search history full of “how to not hate your ex-wife’s boyfriend.”
Every other weekend, John would pull up to pick up his son, prepared to be mature, steady, and reasonable. A father, a grown man, a person who had done therapy-adjacent breathing exercises with Bob and therefore considered himself emotionally evolved.
Then the front door would open, and Olivia’s new boyfriend would be there.
The guy wasn’t even easy to hate. If he had been smug, John could have worked with that. If he had been condescending, or handsy, or one of those guys who tried too hard to prove he was comfortable around another man’s kid, John could have filed him away as an asshole and let the anger fester without feeling guilty.
The boyfriend’s name was Nathan, and Nathan wore clean sneakers and quarter-zips and had the calm face of aman who had never once been dragged into an international incident. He had neat hair, good posture, and a normal job. John didn’t know what the job was, because asking would imply interest, and John refused to be interested in Nathan on principle.
Nathan opened the door with his son’s bag on his shoulder, “Hey, John,” like they were neighbors.
Nathan remembered the stuffed dinosaur. Nathan knew the diaper bag needed the blue cup, not the yellow one, because the yellow one leaked if it tipped sideways. Nathan crouched to zip up tiny sneakers with patient hands while Olivia gathered a jacket from the hallway closet. So every time Nathan handed over the bag, John felt the score shift. Bing bing bing! 2-0!
Olivia: one emotionally stable boyfriend who knew the snack schedule.
John: one tactical vest in the trunk.
Nathan smiled at him one Saturday morning with a mug in his hand in John’s old kitchen.
He had signed the papers. He knew the house was Olivia’s now in every way that mattered. But his body hadn't received the update. Some stupid, territorial part of him still recognized the front hall and the little hook where his keys used to go. And then there was Nathan standing barefoot on the tile with coffee like he had spawned there naturally.
“Morning,” Nathan said. “Good to see you, man.”
John almost laughed. “Yeah,” he said instead. “You too.”
It came out flat enough that Olivia looked at him tilting her head.
His son squealed from the living room, and John stepped around Nathan to get him.
The kid launched himself at John’s legs with complete, reckless trust, and for half a second the whole world rearranged itself around the feeling of small hands gripping his jeans, his son shouting, “Daddy!” like John had never been anything other than wanted.
He bent down and picked him up.
There. That helped. That always helped.
For three seconds, the scoreboard didn’t exist. Then Nathan came out with the diaper bag.
“Packed extra wipes,” Nathan said. “He had a thing with the applesauce earlier.”
When John took the bag, his hand closed around the strap too tightly. “Great,” he said.
Nathan smiled politely. If he had been insincere in any capacity, John couldn’t spot it. “No problem.”
John wanted to bite through concrete. He hated that Nathan had packed the wipes. He hated that Nathan had been there for the applesauce thing. He hated that he knew there had been an applesauce thing at all. He hated that Nathan’s mug said something stupidly wholesome on it, probably from a farmer’s market. He hated that nobody was doing anything wrong.
Still, he knew Olivia was allowed to date. Nathan was allowed to be nice. Their son was allowed to be comfortable in the house he lived in, and in fact, John was relieved that he was. But that must mean John was allowed to feel complicated about it, too, right?
He was not, however, allowed to turn the whole thing into a personal war.
When he buckled his son into the car seat and glanced back toward the porch, Olivia and Nathan were standing side by side in the doorway. Olivia lifted a hand in goodbye, and Nathan did too.
John lifted his hand back because he wasn’t a monster. Then he got into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and sat there for one second too long with both hands on the wheel.
Winning. She’s winning!!! The thought flashed hot and stupid behind his eyes.
His son babbled a Bluey song in the back seat.
John looked at him in the rearview mirror and forced his grip to loosen. “Yeah, buddy,” he said, calming down almost immediately. “We’re going.”
He drove away like a normal person.
He made it three blocks before he muttered, “Goddamn Nathan,” under his breath like it was a curse.
His son repeated, “I call him Nay-fin because he has pet fish!”
John winced. “Don’t do that.”
“Nay-fin!”
“Buddy, please.”
“Nay-fin, Nay-fin, Nay-fin.”
By the time John pulled into traffic, he was considering whether crashing the car very gently into their mailbox when he came back counted as a setback.
—
There had been incidents, but not capital-I Incidents. John would have made that distinction very clear if anyone had been brave enough to stand in front of him and call them that.
They were simply… small things. Stupid things. Yes, he might’ve put a dent in the elevator panel because the doors stalled. Yes, he might’ve cracked a mug in the kitchen because Ava had asked him if he was “coping”. Yes, he might’ve punched a training dummy hard enough to take out half a weapons rack, which, in his defense, was what training dummies were technically for.
If anyone saw them as individual, isolated incidents, none of it would be considered catastrophic. Nothing made the news, no one got hurt, no country issued a statement. No blurry civilian footage hit the internet with his name trending in all caps. But together, apparently, it made his teammates raise an eyebrow.
Bob noticed first, which made it worse. Bob didn’t make accusations or corner John and tell him to get his shit together. He just stood in the training room after the dummy incident, staring at the wreckage with those worried eyes like the dummy had a soul. Later, he told Yelena that he thought John was “having a hard time.” Yelena told Mel because of course she did. Mel told Valentina because she was contractually obligated to, and Valentina, naturally, couldn’t have cared less. John breaking things barely registered as a crisis to her. It was just another line item in the budget, somewhere below ammunition, blackmail, and whatever Alexei kept charging to the company card under “team morale.” Then Bucky overheard.
So Bucky Barnes, of all people, ended up standing in front of him with his arms crossed and that irritatingly calm look on his face, like he had become the emotional adult in the room through some administrative error. Bucky, who had once looked like therapy was a foreign intelligence operation. Bucky, who had trauma spanning two centuries and nine decades. Bucky, who now apparently had the nerve to look John in the eye and say, “You need help.”
John laughed because the only other option was putting his head through drywall. “You’re lecturing me about anger?” he asked, because there were very few moments in his life where the universe felt this committed to humiliation.
Bucky’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t take the bait. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
“That’s rich.”
“Maybe,” Bucky said. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
Bucky didn’t sound smug or superior. He sounded like someone who had already crawled through the same swamp and hated recognizing the mud on someone else’s boots. John hated being read like that. He hated that Bucky could stand there, calmer than him, more put together than him. His life had to be spectacularly fucked if the Winter Soldier was now the emotionally stable one.
“I’m fine,” John said.
“You punched an elevator,” Bucky replied.
“It got stuck.”
“For eighteen seconds.”
“It was still stuck.”
Bucky blinked at him in a way that made John want to throw something just to justify the conversation. “You hear yourself, right?”
Unfortunately, John did. He could hear exactly how insane he sounded. He could hear the pattern Bob had noticed. He could feel the way everyone had started looking at him, measuring the distance between him and the nearest breakable object in the room. It made his skin crawl.
Bucky sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I don’t care if you’re pissed. Be pissed. But we can’t have another international incident involving you.” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping, and John hated how serious he looked. “So you’re off missions unless you do a couple of crisis de-escalation training sessions.”
There it was, the leash. It didn’t belong to Val this time, who made him go on various suicidal black ops mission. It wasn't even the military’s. It was his own teammate’s.
“You can’t do that,” John said.
“I can.”
“Since when?”
“Since the team agreed.”
The team, huh? Is that what this has come to?
John’s nostrils flared. For one stupid second, he wanted to swing at him. Not really, and not all the way. It was just an old reflex, the urge to make the nearest solid thing pay for how cornered he felt.
Bucky saw it. “Don’t.”
John hated him for that, too. He hated everyone because they were right. John had been angry for weeks, if not months. He had been angry before, but this wasn't battlefield angry. Not useful angry. Not the kind of anger that pointed toward an objective and burned through it.
This was different. This was ugly, sour, domestic anger. Divorce anger. Nathan-knows-where-the-extra-wipes-are anger. It had nowhere honorable to go, so it kept finding walls.
“Who am I seeing?” John bit out.
“Someone I worked with during recovery,” Bucky said.
John scoffed. “Great. So you’re outsourcing me to your therapist?”
“She’s not a therapist,” Bucky shook his head, “she does oversight, that’s all.”
“Your anger babysitter, then.”
Bucky looked exhausted. “You’re really making my point for me.”
John stared at him. Bucky stared back. Neither of them moved, and then John snatched the file out of his hand because apparently that was what his life had become. Mandatory rage oversight, arranged by Bucky Barnes, because even a former Russian asset had managed to become more emotionally regulated than him. Fantastic. Wonderful. Humbling in a way that made him want to chew glass.
“Fine,” John said.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Fine?”
“I’ll go to the stupid sessions.”
John looked down at the file. Your name was printed neatly across the top, along with your credentials. He hated the font. He hated the folder. He hated the idea of sitting in a room while some calm, professional woman asked him where he felt his anger in his body. He felt it in his fist, obviously. He tucked the file under his arm and turned to leave.
Behind him, Bucky said, “For what it’s worth, she helped.”
John swallowed. That was it: proof standing right behind him that a man could crawl out of worse things and still become steady enough to lecture somebody else.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Well. Good for you.”
Then he walked away, already certain you were going to be the worst person he had ever met.
—
Two days later, John attended his first mandatory rage counselling session in an empty conference room on the thirty-second floor of the tower.
He had spent the entire morning in a foul mood about it. He had woken up angry, showered angry, gotten dressed angry, drank coffee angry, and glared at the file Bucky had given him angry.
The conference room was empty when he got there, because of course he was early. Not because he cared. Not because he was nervous. John didn’t get nervous about talking to some government-approved feelings babysitter in a glass-walled room with a bad view and a table long enough to host a hostage negotiation.
He was early because being late would have given Bucky something to say.That was all.
He stood near the window with his arms crossed, watching the city move beneath him like he had somewhere better to be. Which he did. Literally anywhere. A mission, a sparring mat, a shooting range, his truck. Nathan’s front porch, even. Jesus, that was how bad this was. He would rather stand in Olivia’s doorway and watch her boyfriend hand him the diaper bag than sit in a room and answer questions about his anger.
The door opened behind him.
John did not turn right away. It was petty, but he had already committed to being difficult, and there was no reason to abandon the theme this early.
“John Walker?” Your voice was not what he expected.
It was steady, but not cold. Professional, but warm. He turned, already prepared to be unimpressed, already prepared to hate the woman who thought she was brave because she could sit across from an angry man and ask him to breathe.
Then he saw you. And his first thought was: She’s cute.
John actually felt his brain snag on it.
You stood in the doorway with a bag on one shoulder and a folder tucked under your arm, dressed like someone who did home visits all the time. In this case, Tower visits. You looked composed without looking stiff, kind without looking naive.
John blinked. Then, he forced himself to snap out of it.
No. Fuck no.
That meant nothing.
He was just touch-starved, that was all. Recently divorced and hadn’t gone on a date in a while. A pretty woman walked into a room and his brain did the humiliating male thing it had been biologically programmed to do. That didn’t mean anything, right? That wasn’t a crush. That wasn’t even a thought worth dignifying.
He was just being a guy. A tired, divorced guy with bad impulse control and a mandated appointment.
You gave him a small smile, “Thanks for meeting me here.”
John looked around the empty conference room. “Didn’t really have a choice.”
“No,” you said, setting your bag down near one of the chairs. “You didn’t.”
Huh. He had expected you to soften the blow, to say something like, I know this isn’t ideal, or I understand this must be frustrating, or some other fluffed little statement designed to make the whole thing feel less like punishment.
John narrowed his eyes slightly. “That’s it?”
You glanced up from your folder. “Were you expecting me to pretend this was voluntary?”
“No.”
“Good. Then we’re already starting from a place of honesty.”
He hated that he almost smiled.
You pulled out a chair, but you didn’t sit at the head of the table. You sat along the side instead, leaving the chair across from you open. Not a power move, as John had learned to read. For a second, John had to remind himself that you had no reason to take an interrogation setup. John stayed standing.
“I understand Mr. Barnes spoke with you,” you said.
John scoffed. “That what we’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?”
“A threat.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Was it effective?”
John stared at you. You looked back, patient but not passive, pen resting lightly between your fingers.
He hated that question, but the answer was yes. Bucky threatening to bench him had been effective. Bucky telling him he was becoming a liability had worked because John could argue with feelings all day, but he couldn’t argue with being taken out of the field.
He pulled out the chair and sat down. “I’m here,” he said. “That’s what matters, right?”
“It’s a start.”
He leaned back, folding his arms. “And what, you’re gonna fix me?”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look wounded or challenged or impressed.
You just looked at him for a second, thoughtful in a way that made him feel more seen than he wanted to be, and said, “No.”
John blinked.
You opened your folder. “I’m going to help make sure you stop throwing government property through walls.”
For one full second, John could not decide whether to be offended or laugh. Offended won, but only barely. “It was one wall.”
You looked down at the page. “According to the report, it was two walls, one elevator panel, one training dummy, a mug, three chairs, and a decorative glass installation.”
“The glass was ugly.”
“I’ll add that to the mitigating factors.”
He did smile then, and you saw it. Even more unfortunately, you were kind enough not to look victorious about it.
Instead, you made a small note. “I want to be clear about something before we start.”
John’s shoulders tensed. “Here we go.”
“This isn’t therapy,” you said. “If you want a shrink, get a shrink. I have a recommendation list the size of a novella, but I am not that.”
His eyes narrowed. “I know.”
“Good. Then you understand I’m not here to hold your hand through a breakthrough.”
John stared at you.
You continued, voice even. “I’m not here to humiliate you. I’m not here to decide if you’re a good man or a bad man. I’m not here because the director of the CIA cares about your emotional well-being.”
John let out a humorless breath. “At least you know that.”
“Oh, I know that very well.” You clicked your pen once. “I work risk management and crisis de-escalation. I used to work in personal coaching, but now I work for corporate. I am not new to enhanced individuals. I’ve worked with soldiers, fighters, mercenaries, people who can turn a bad mood into a property damage claim. My job is to make sure you don’t cause another PR incident.”
“So I’m a liability.”
“You’re behaving like one.” you said. “Unlike therapy, I’m allowed to be harsh. I’m allowed to be direct. I’m allowed to be mean if mean keeps you from putting your fist through another wall. Got it?”
John leaned back, arms crossed. He still looked pissed off, obviously. That seemed to be his default setting. But now he looked interested too, against his will.
“So what?” he said. “You train me like a dog?”
You looked him dead in the eye. “If that worked, Mr. Walker, Mr. Barnes would've brought treats.”
For one second, he only stared. Then he laughed. You made a note.
His eyes dropped to your pen. “What are you writing?”
“That you’re trainable.”
—
By the second meeting, John had convinced himself the first one had been a fluke.
It was a weird day. He was in a bad mood and drank too much coffee. Of course John had noticed you were pretty. Anyone with a heartbeat and a preference for women would have noticed. That wasn’t a character flaw, nor was it a problem. That was certainly not the beginning of a little crush on the woman assigned to make sure he stopped damaging government property like an overgrown toddler with security clearance.
Except then you walked into the conference room again, two days later, with your bag on your shoulder and your folder under your arm, and John’s first thought was, oh, good.
Not, oh, fuckin’ great, therapy. Not, look, the feelings police have arrived.
You smiled at him. “You’re early again.”
John looked down at his watch like this was news to him. “Traffic was light.”
“You live in the building.”
“Elevators were fast.”
“You took the stairs,” you said, “I ran into Mr. Reynolds in the lobby. He mentions something about you always taking the stairs after the… elevator incident.”
His eyes ticked a bit.
You sat down across from him like you hadn’t just dragged him by the collar into the truth with one hand. “So. We can start with why you feel the need to lie about it. Panels in this building cost taxpayer money, and frankly, John, you are not interesting enough to justify a renovation budget.”
John leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. “Are you always this charming?”
“Not always,” you said. “Sometimes I’m much worse, but I try to save that for people with better excuses.”
He hated that you were funny. He hated that your voice stayed even when he pushed. You let his attitude lay itself on a silver platter, looked at it, and then kept going like it was mildly inconvenient rather than intimidating.
John hated that you were basically a leash on him. He hated the way you could walk into a room, say his name once, and suddenly everyone expected him to behave like a domesticated pet with paperwork. He hated that you were basically a corporate muzzle with a company badge. Most of all, he hated that it worked. He hated that you were good at crisis de-escalation, that when you told him to sit down, he sat.
That session was worse than the first because he talked more. Not willingly or gracefully. John didn’t spill his guts; he leaked under pressure and acted indifferent when anyone noticed the puddle. But you were good.
You didn’t say, “Tell me about your feelings” like a shrink would. You asked practical things. What happened before the elevator stalled? What did he think before making the decision to do it?
He told you the elevator made a noise. He told you the noise reminded him of a transport door jamming during a mission that went badly.
You nodded.
John hadn’t realised until now, just how much that helped.
By the end of the session, he had only snapped at you twice, which apparently counted as improvement.
“That was progress,” you said, clicking your pen closed.
John scoffed. “Barely.”
He stood too quickly, because staying seated under your steady almost-smile felt too intimate. He picked up his jacket, glanced at you, then glanced away.
“Same time next week?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he said, and then, because his mouth had apparently decided to ruin his life, he added, “Works for me.”
Works for me. Like he was looking forward to it. Like this was a coffee date. Like he was not going to spend the next ten minutes in his room mentally punching himself in the face.
That night, he dreamed about you.
The first dream was almost merciful because it was vague. Your voice, mostly. The conference room, dimmer than it should have been, the blinds drawn over the glass walls. Dream-you said his name in his ears, and it sounded sensual.
John woke up annoyed at himself.
Fine. Whatever. People had weird dreams. That meant nothing.
Then it happened again. And again.
By the fourth dream, his subconscious had apparently lost all interest in being PG-13.
In the dream, you were still in the conference room, but you weren’t sitting across from him anymore. You were on the edge of the table, folder abandoned somewhere behind you, your knees bracketing his hips as he stood between them. His hands were on your thighs, warm through the fabric of your skirt, and he knew even then that he should not be touching you. He knew there were rules.
But dream-you did not care.Dream-you looked at him with your head tilted, eyes steady in that same infuriating way you looked at him in real life, except there was nothing professional in it now.
“You’re very good at pretending you don’t want me,” dream-you said.
John’s hand tightened on your thigh.“I’m not pretending,” he lied.
Dream-you smiled, and hooked one finger beneath the collar of his shirt and pulled him in like he weighed nothing at all.
The kiss was filthy. It was hungry and open-mouthed, your fingers in his hair, his body crowding yours back over the table until the folder slid off the edge and papers scattered across the floor. He could feel your legs tighten around him. He could feel your breath break against his mouth when he dragged one hand under your shirt and you said his name like you were giving in.
John woke up hard, furious, and staring at the ceiling like God owed him an explanation.
“Nope,” he muttered to the dark.
Fuck!
He spent the morning in the gym punishing a punching bag for crimes it did not commit, then took a cold shower and told himself, very firmly, that this was normal. He had been through a lot. You were pretty, direct, and unfortunately the person his idiot brain would latch onto after being emotionally starved for a year.
That didn’t mean anything.
It especially didn’t mean anything when he got dressed for the next session and changed shirts twice.
The fifth meeting was where you noticed.
Not the dreams, obviously. Christ. He would have walked into the Hudson before admitting those. But you noticed something.
“You seem tired,” you said.
John’s hand tightened around his coffee cup. “I’m fine.”
“You have shadows under your eyes.”
“I have a face.”
You paused, then you smiled down at your notes, and it was so small he almost missed it.
“Okay,” you said. “You have a face. Gotta do better than that if you want to be on the full mission roster again, John. I might have to tell Barnes you should work strictly recon only.”
He hated you.
Liar, liar, liar.
Still, he was starting to like the rhythm of the session. You didn’t chase him when he dodged, but you also didn’t let him disappear completely. You remembered details from the last session without having to flip at your notes. You asked about his son without making it feel like a test. You said Olivia’s name carefully, like you understood there was history there but didn’t assume the whole story.
You asked about Nathan once, asking how much of a liability he made him. John groaned so hard you actually laughed.
“I’m sorry,” you said, still smiling. “I shouldn’t laugh.”
“No, go ahead. My pain is hilarious.”
“It is a little pathetic that you hate him mostly because he packs a good diaper bag.”
“I don’t hate him.”
You looked at him and lifted an eyebrow.
John sighed. “Fine. I hate him a little.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s there.”
You didn’t write that down right away. You let it sit.
See, you never rushed to dissect the truth. You didn’t pounce like you had caught him revealing evidence. You just let the truth breathe for a second. Then you said, “Because he’s where you used to be?”
John stared at the window. His reflection looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders too tight. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Maybe.”
It was the first time he had admitted it without turning it into a joke.
You didn’t say that was progress immediately, which was good, because he might have thrown himself through the window. Instead, you said, “That makes sense.”
John looked at you. His muscles loosened so suddenly it almost pissed him off. That was all he wanted, apparently. Not permission. Just someone saying the feeling itself was not insane.
Then, after the talking part of the session, came the training part of it. That’s the whole point of these meetings, right?
You weren’t gentle with him. You didn't treat his temper like a tragic creature that needed to be understood by candlelight. You treated it like a workplace hazard. Like bad wiring. Like a loaded weapon left too close to civilians.
“Again,” you said, tapping your pen against your clipboard. “You’re in a hallway. Civilian contractor panics. He raises his voice and gets too close. You do what?”
“Tell him to back the hell up.”
You sighed. “Try again.”
He looked at the ceiling like he was praying for patience, which was funny because you had been fairly sure God had blocked his number.
“I create distance,” John said tightly. “I keep my hands visible and lower my voice.”
“Beautiful,” you look pleased. “Look at that. A whole adult sentence.”
“Do you have to say it like that?”
“Yes,” you said, sipping your cold brew. “It’s how I stay awake.”
You circled him once, unimpressed, watching the set of his shoulders, the way his hands curled when he got annoyed, the way he always shifted his weight forward like every conversation was one rude comment away from becoming a contact sport. “There,” you said.
“What?”
“That.” You pointed your pen at his right hand. “You made a fist.”
“I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me when I’m literally looking at the problem. That’s embarrassing for both of us.”
John looked down. His hand was, in fact, half-curled. He didn’t even realise. He flexed his fingers open, irritated.
“That,” you said, “is the part we fix. Not your childhood. Not your marriage. Not whatever patriotic hellscape lives in your frontal lobe. That. The two seconds between insult and impact. That is my jurisdiction.”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice just enough. “When someone escalates, you do not match them, do you understand? You don’t get to make it a dominance contest because your ego gets lonely. You create space, you name the behavior, and you give one clear instruction.”
He looked unconvinced.
You sighed. “For example: ‘Step back. Lower your voice. We can talk when you’re calm.’ See? Simple.”
“I know how to talk to people.”
“You know how to issue commands,” you corrected. “That’s not the same thing. Golden retrievers know how to bark. We don’t make them hostage negotiators.”
His mouth twitched up into a smile before he could stop it.
You caught it instantly. “Oh, good,” you said. “There’s a sense of humor under all that rage.”
“Are we done?”
“No.”
You made him run the scenario again. And again. And again.
You played the panicked contractor. Then an angry civilian. Then a reporter shoving a phone in his face. Then a teammate ignoring his order. Every time he got too mad, you stopped him. Every time his posture turned threatening, you pointed it out. Every time his voice dropped into that dangerous register, you made him start over.
“Less divorced drill sergeant.”
He tried again.
“Better. Still terrifying, but now in a way HR can plausibly defend.”
John looked like he wanted to throw your clipboard through a wall. But he didn’t.
By the end of the session, he had forgotten to be hostile for nearly ten whole minutes.
—
Unfortunately, everyone else noticed him being weird about these sessions before he did.
It happened after the eleventh meeting.
He had put on some fancy cologne. Maybe he had sprayed once more than usual. Maybe twice. Maybe he had stood in front of the mirror afterward, frowned, and changed his shirt because the first one looked too tactical and the second one looked like he was trying too hard, which meant he had landed on the third shirt, which looked like he was trying exactly the right amount.
Whatever.It wasn’t a thing.
He walked into the common area afterward feeling, unfortunately, good. The session had gone well. You had smiled at him twice, called him out on his bullshit once, and told him he handled a frustrating call from Olivia better than he would have a month ago. He had pretended that meant nothing when it meant everything.
He was still thinking about it when Yelena looked up from the couch and sniffed the air.
John stopped walking. Ava, sitting beside her with a bowl of cereal, paused mid-bite.
Yelena sniffed again. “Oh,” she said. “Interesting.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Ava looked him up and down. “That’s a lot of… smell.”
“It’s cologne,” John said flatly. “I wear cologne.”
Yelena leaned back against the couch, pleased. “People wear cologne. You are marinating in it.”
Ava looked him over, not unkindly. “The training went well?”
John pointed at her. “Don’t.”
Yelena’s grin sharpened. “Oh, it went very well.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You wore the good shirt,” Ava pointed out.
“Oh!” Yelena made a delighted little sound. “He knows it is the good shirt.”
John felt heat crawl up his neck. “I don't know what the hell you guys are talking about.”
“You have many shirts,” Yelena said. “Most of them say divorced military action figure. This one says”—she waved a hand vaguely—“please think I am emotionally available.”
Ava snorted into her cereal, which by the way, she was eating at four in the afternoon.
John stared at them both, wishing briefly and sincerely for a mission, an explosion, a portal to hell, anything. “I don’t have to stand here and take this.”
John left before he could prove exactly why Bucky had sent him to counseling. But he did not slam the door.
—
John had a dentist appointment that day, and he only found out his regular dentist was on leave while he was already in the chair.
Great.
He already hated the dentist on a good day, but most people did, though. Nobody liked being tilted back beneath a blinding light while someone told them to relax with cold metal in their mouth. Nobody enjoyed lying flat and useless with their mouths forced open, unable to swallow properly, unable to answer questions, unable to do anything except stare at the ceiling tiles while the scrape of instruments were shoved in there. It was an inherently vulnerable place to be.
The angle of the chair was bad enough. The bib against his chest, the plastic suction tube pulling at the corner of his mouth, the hygienist’s polite voice telling him to open wider, the scrape-scrape-scrape of metal against enamel was worse.
He had one hand curled around the armrest and kept telling himself he was being ridiculous.People did this every day. Accountants did this. Schoolteachers did this.
John was already in a bad mood when the hygienist leaned back, pulled off her gloves, and said, “Dr. Hayes will be in to do the final check.”
John went still. Hayes?
It was a common last name. That was what he told himself first. It could be anyone. New York was full of Hayeses. Thousands of them. Maybe millions.
Then the door opened.
The dentist stepped in wearing scrubs, gloves, a mask, and magnifying loupes pushed up over his forehead. For one glorious, stupid second, John didn’t recognize him. The mask hid enough. The entire situation was absurd enough that his brain tried to protect him by refusing to connect the dots.
Then the dentist looked at the chart and said, “Hey, John.”
John’s soul left his body.
Nathan.
Nathan Hayes, D.D.S., apparently.
John knew he should’ve listened to what he did for work.
Of course Nathan was a dentist. Of course Olivia’s boyfriend had a respectable job where he helped people and owned tiny mirrors and probably lectured about gum health with sincerity. Of course John had somehow ended up flat on his back, jaw aching, beneath the one man in the city he least wanted to see, while said man held a small, gleaming instrument between gloved fingers. There were levels of hell, apparently. This was a new one.
Nathan’s eyes crinkled above the mask in what John assumed was a smile. A normal smile. A professional smile.
“Dr. Miller’s on leave this week,” Nathan said. “I know this is a little weird. I can keep it quick.”
A little weird. Ha!
John stared up at him, pinned by the chair, pinned by the light, pinned by his own body’s immediate reaction to being trapped.
The overhead lamp hummed. The air smelled like mint paste, latex, antiseptic, and the sterile bite of metal, though it just smelled like a fresh magazine of bullets. The tray sat beside Nathan’s elbow, lined with instruments John’s brain catalogued before he could stop it: Probe. Mirror. Scaler. Suction tube. Polisher. Little hooked things. Silver points. Thin handles. Glass jar on the counter. Cabinet door half-open. Exit to the left. Nathan on the right.
John’s fingers tightened around the chair until the vinyl creaked.
He wanted to break something, but he didn’t, not even in a million years, want to accidentally hurt Nathan.
He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He just wanted out. Out of the chair, out of the room, out of his own head, out of being compared and found lacking by a scoreboard nobody else knew existed.
Nathan just adjusted the light and asked, “You okay?”
John felt the breath catch in his chest. “Fine.” It came out too flat.
Nathan paused, just barely. The hygienist glanced between them. He didn’t push, though. He nodded, lowered the loupes over his eyes, and said, “All right. Open for me.”
John almost laughed because there was no way this was his life.
No way Nathan’s gloved hand was braced near John’s chin, steady and gentle, while John’s whole body buzzed with the urge to move, to sit up, to take control of the room by force simply because lying still felt unbearable.
Still, opened his mouth.
The first touch of the dental mirror against his teeth made his spine twitch.
Nathan told the hygienist something about the back molars. He heard the scrape of the instrument traveled through his jaw in a way that felt too invasive and too loud. John stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe through his nose, but even that felt wrong, like he was barely holding the lid down on a volcano.
Then, Nathan’s phone rang.
He said something about being done anyway, and told the hygienist to take over as he went outside to take the emergency call.
Then he heard Olivia outside the room.
He caught it by accident. The door wasn’t shut all the way, dammit. It’s not like he was actively trying to eavesdrop.
“Hey, Liv. Everything okay?”
Nathan’s voice was quieter now, but John could still hear it, because the serum made sure there was no privacy from the things that would ruin him.
“Yeah. No, I can help. Give me twenty minutes. Is he still fussy?”
John’s vision narrowed around the ceiling light. His son.
Olivia had called Nathan because she needed help with his son, and Nathan had answered like that was normal. Like he was allowed to be the easy call. Like John was not sitting there twenty feet away with mint on his tongue and a paper bib on his chest.
The hygienist said something about rinsing. John did it automatically.
He wanted to break something. A tray. A light. The plastic cup. His own knuckles if that was what it took to keep the feeling from becoming bigger than the room.
Then your voice came back to him. You weren't there, but he remembered your advice: Name the feeling before it names you.
John squeezed his eyes shut for half a second.
Fear. Loss. Control. No. Lack of it.
That’s it. He felt out of control. His normal dentist already made him feel out of control, and Nathan holding metal near his mouth while Olivia trusted him with John’s son made him feel like control was a house fire and he was standing there with a cup of water.
His hands shook once against the chair.
He breathed in. Four counts. Held. Out for six.
He had mocked the breathing exercises when you taught them to him. He had called them tactical breathing with better marketing. You had looked at him and said, “Mock it while you do it correctly, then. You think you’re helping the team with that mouth?” He had almost smiled. He had done it badly on purpose. You had noticed.
Now he did it the way you had taught him. Again. Again.
By the time Nathan came back in, John hadn't broken anything.
By the time Nathan finished the appointment, John hadn’t said anything cruel.
By the time he got to his car, John could finally breathe normally again
He sat behind the wheel with both hands gripping it, staring through the windshield at nothing. His mouth tasted like fluoride. His teeth ached. His heartbeat was still too fast. He hadn’t shoved the tray over. He hadn’t crushed the armrest. He had recognized that he was standing on the edge and backed away from it.
So why did he feel like he was breaking apart?
—
He did not remember deciding to drive to your place.
Your address was in the file, because you, for some reason, hosted emergency sessions for selected individuals. Because you were a professional and John had no business using that information because he felt like he was coming apart.
But the thought of going back to the tower made his skin crawl, and you were the only person he could think of.
When he reached your building, there were two cop cars outside.
John stopped on the sidewalk, every nerve going cold.
Then the door opened, and two uniformed officers came out, speaking quietly into radios. Behind them, you stood in the entryway with one hand on the doorframe, your hair a little loose, your shoulders set. You looked… tired.
You looked up and saw him. “John?”
It was not your session voice. It was just your voice, surprised and worried all the same.
His throat tightened so suddenly he almost looked away. “I need to talk about something,” he said.
Your eyes moved over his face, quick and careful. He watched you read him the way you always did. “John, this isn’t—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I know it’s not appropriate. I just—” His voice cracked, and he hated that it did. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
And because you were kind, you sighed and stepped aside. “Come in.”
The second your apartment door shut behind him, the effort of holding himself together finally gave in. He did not explode. Instead, he just stood there in your entryway, too broad for the narrow space, breathing too hard through his nose, eyes burning.
You turned toward him.
He reached for you before he could stop himself.
It was not a romantic gesture, at least not yet. Not like this. But it was too desperate to be anything casual. His arms came around you, and for one terrible second he held on like you were the only real thing left in the world.
You went still.
He felt the professional calculation, the boundary, the line drawn and redrawn in the beat between one breath and the next. Then your hand settled between his shoulder blades.
You hugged him back just enough to keep him from falling apart.
He closed his eyes. His face turned slightly toward your shoulder, not buried, but close enough that some aching part of him wanted to stay there. He wanted to press closer. He wanted to let the day end inside the mercy of your hand on his back.
He pulled away first because he had to. Because if he didn’t, he might forget himself.
Your eyes searched his face. “Sit down,” you said gently.
He did.
You brought him water.
He sat on your couch like a man trying not to collapse through it, staring at the glass in his hands while you took the chair across from him.
“What happened?” you asked.
He laughed once. “My dentist was out on leave.”
You blinked.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. “Nathan was covering.”
Your face changed. “The Nathan?”
“Yeah,” John said. “The Nathan.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He let out a breath that almost shook. “Oh.”
Then it came out of him in pieces: The chair. The light. The tools. The fact that everyone felt a little powerless at the dentist, but for him it had been worse, because he could hear too much and see too much courtesy of the serum and his body kept cataloguing exits and weapons like everything was a threat courtesy of the military training. He talked about Nathan holding tools in his mouth. Olivia’s voice outside. Nathan saying he could help with John’s son.
He stopped there.
For a second, all he could do was stare at the water glass.
“I wanted to break something,” he said, voice low. “There were so many things in that room. And I knew where all of them were, and I hated that I knew. I hated that my head went there.”
You were very still.
“But I didn't want to accidentally hurt him,” John said, and that broke slightly on the way out. “I didn’t. I don’t. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s good to Olivia. He’s good with my son. He’s just—” He swallowed hard. “He’s there. And I hate him for being there, and then I hate myself because he’s just being a good boyfriend and a good dentist and I’m sitting there thinking about breaking the tray.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “I felt like I was losing control.”
You didn’t rush him. You didn't jump in to make him feel better. You didn't perform comfort.
Then you said, “But you didn’t.”
John shook his head. “It felt like I did.”
“John.”
He looked at you.
Your voice was gentler now, but no less firm. “You were in a setting that already makes people feel vulnerable. You had someone in your personal space holding metal instruments, and then the person holding those instruments was someone tied directly to a major emotional trigger. You recognized that. You recognized that you didn’t want to hurt him, or yourself. You used the breathing exercises. You left without escalating the situation.”
He looked down.
“You came here,” you added, trying to hide the painfully obvious amusement and failed. You chuckled a little, “And we do need to talk about that boundary. But the dentist’s office was not a setback.”
He stared at you.
“It wasn’t even an incident,” you said, almost proud. “Because you handled it.”
Oh. Right. This was the point.
Still, tears came before he could stop them. Not many, but a few hot and furious tears that blurred his vision before he wiped them away with the heel of his hand. “Fuck,” he muttered.
You tilted your head and gave him a box of tissues, and that somehow made him want to cry harder.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For crying?”
“For showing up here.”
“I’m glad you looked for someone,” you said, a faint smile along your lips, and it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.
John looked at you. Someone, you had said, someone?
That was a polite way of saying it. It was professional, safe enough to sit between you without making him admit what was probably painfully obvious on his face.
That someone had been you.
He could’ve driven around the city until the anger burned through the soles of his shoes. He could’ve wandered Manhattan like a lost man, fighting the urge to snap a street sign in half or put his fist through the nearest lamp post. But he had not done that. He had come to you.
You.
And there was a hint of something in your face when you said it that he couldn’t quite read. Professional concern, sure. But beneath it, he could’ve sworn he caught something warmer. Something that had no place in reports or progress notes or mandated training in empty conference rooms.
Fondness, maybe. Affection?
No.
No, he couldn’t do that to himself. He couldn’t convince himself of that. That was just heartbreak in a bottle, because there’s no way you feel the same about him, right?
Right?
—
After a while, when his breathing stopped sounding like it was trying to crawl out of his chest, John started noticing your apartment.
He didn’t even mean to. He just needed somewhere to put his eyes that weren't you.
The place was warmer than he expected. You didn’t seem like the sort of person who arranged throw pillows for emotional fulfillment, but there was a lived-in clutter that was almost charming. Books were stacked near the couch, a mug was abandoned by the sink. A cardigan was draped over the back of a chair, one sleeve turned inside out. Shoes had been kicked off by the door like you’d come home in a hurry and forgotten.
It was endearing, how human it all made you.
Of course you were human. You had a kettle. You had overdue-looking mail on the counter. You had a slightly crooked lamp and a blanket folded badly over one end of the couch. You probably had preferences about laundry detergent and favorite takeout and stupid little routines you did when no one was looking.
Then he saw the photos on the wall.
Sam Wilson, smiling beside you with VA badges around both your necks. You with Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, caught mid-laugh. You with Natasha Romanoff in a theme park somewhere. And beside them a photo of you standing next to the late King T’Challa of Wakanda, doing a peace sign together.
Huh.
Apparently every person designed to make John feel like an underqualified replacement came with a personal connection to the old guard.
“You know them too?” he asked.
You followed his eyes and nodded. You looked almost embarrassed for a second. You, who had no problem calling him a patriotic parking violation to his face, suddenly shy because he had noticed your wall of impressive friends.
“Oh,” you said. “Yeah.”
He turned back to you, eyebrows raised. “You said that like it’s normal.”
That you knew two of the other Captain Americas, and yet you didn’t tell me.
For once, he wasn’t really angry about it. For lack of a better word, he felt blank. Like great, nothing I ever do will impress her.
You looked down at the mug between your palms, thumb brushing the handle in a small, unconscious circle.
“I used to work for Homeland as a hostage negotiator,” you said, as if it was nothing. “Then I worked with Sam at the VA for a while. Y’know, reintegration and risk assessment.” You glanced toward the photo of Sam again. “Sam was better with people than I was.”
Yeah, tell me about it, John wanted to say, but kept his big mouth shut for once and listened.
“He still is,” you said. “He could sit down beside someone and make them feel like they had room to breathe. I was more…”
“Mean?” John offered.
You looked at him with half a scowl. “Practical,” you corrected. “After that, he asked if I could consult with Steve and Nat on a few things.”
You shrugged, like any of that was casual.
His eyes flicked back to the photo of Bucky and Steve. “So that’s how this became your… niche?”
You huffed a small laugh. “Enhanced individuals with authority issues? Yeah, it pays very well.”
“Oh,” John said. It was a stupid answer, but the only one he had.
You looked down again, and he could have sworn you were hiding the beginning of a smile, and not even a professional one. Not the weaponized one you used when you were about to call him a liability in three syllables or less. This one was private. As if you were amused by him and trying to be decent about it.
He looked toward the door, partly because he needed to put his eyes somewhere else, and partly because the police cars outside had finally pushed their way back into his mind. The flashing lights had been turning the street blue and red for long enough that he had almost forgotten to ask the obvious question. “What were the cops about anyway?”
You sighed and looked down. You were anxious, and that set off the slightest alarm in his head. “You’ll probably see it on the news.”
John straightened. “What happened?”
You were quiet for half a second too long. Then you said, “I was on the subway earlier.”
John waited.
“There was a shooter in my train car,” you said. “I had to talk him down.”
Shit.
For a second, John couldn’t speak. His mind gave him the picture before he could stop it: Crowded bodies pressed too close together, nowhere to go, doors shut, the violent metallic shriek of the tracks. He saw a gun in someone’s hand pointed to you, standing there with nothing but your voice and the infuriating calm you used on guys like him when they were too angry to know they were scared.
Anger rose in him so fast it scared him. Not at you, but at the world. At the train. At the man with the gun. At the fact that you had been there, trapped underground, while he had been sitting in a car losing his mind over a dentist appointment like an idiot. At the fact that someone he…
Someone whose apartment he had come to, had been in danger. You had been in danger, and he hadn’t known. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been able to do a single thing with the useless, violent instinct that roared awake inside him now.
His eyes moved over you before he could stop himself: Your face, arms, torso. He was searching for blood. Bruises. A limp. Anything that signalled that you were anything but okay. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, John.” His name sounded different when you said it like that. You weren’t irritated. You were trying to reassure him.
It made the anger worse for a second because he had nowhere to put it. He couldn’t hit the past. Couldn’t storm onto a train that had already stopped. Couldn’t grab time by the throat and drag it backward until he was there between you and the danger.
He could only sit on your couch with his hands curled uselessly around his knees. And he could tell you knew what was happening, too. But you weren’t in a great state of mind right now, so maybe you couldn’t waste your energy to tell him to come down.
So he did a new-ish coping mechanism. He cracked a joke. “Kids these days, huh?”
He hated that that was what he said. He hated it even more when shook your head.
“No,” you said quietly. “He was a vet. Vietnam, I think.”
John’s attempt at humor died immediately. “Oh,” he said.
For a while, the room was silent.
The anger didn’t leave him. It lost the directionless edge and became… more familiar.
He looked at you again, at the fatigue under your eyes, the tension still sitting in your shoulders. He wondered how long you had been holding yourself still while he ranted about his stupid Nathan.
You had let him into your apartment while your own hands were still shaking.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
You gave a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re not my shrink, John.”
“You’re not mine either,” he said. “And yet.”
That got him half a smile.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, studying him with that careful, cutting attention he had learned to dread. “Why do you wanna know?”
John swallowed.
Because you were in a train with a gunman. Because I care. Because the thought of you being scared makes me want to tear the world apart, and that is exactly the kind of thing you keep trying to train out of me.
He said none of that. He wasn’t brave enough. Not yet. “I’m asking as a friend,” he said instead.
Friend. The word felt small the second it left his mouth. But it was the only one he was allowed to use. Even that felt like reaching across a line.
You looked at him. Then your eyes dropped briefly to his hands. When you looked back up, your eyes had changed a little.
“Yeah,” you said finally. “Yeah, I am.”
John nodded once. He didn’t believe you completely. You seemed to know that, because your mouth curved faintly.
“Mostly.”
It was not what John wanted.
He wanted to do something. To fix something. To stand in front of something. To put his body between you and every terrible thing that had already happened, which was useless and stupid and exactly the kind of impulse you would probably write down in your notes with a little disappointed frown. So he just sat there, close enough to notice the tremor had started to fade from your hands.
And because you also used humor as a distraction, you gave him a sad smile. “The gunman has nothing on me, John,” you said, “I’m actually good at my job.”
John chuckled.
That, you were.
—
The next meeting was supposed to be easy. You had prepared a mandatory mission readiness evaluation for John. It would maybe take forty-five minutes, and be made up of observation notes, updated risk profile, and recommendation to Barnes by end of day. You had printed the forms. You had set up the conference room. You had brought three different colored pens because, apparently, somewhere between Homeland, the VA, and corporate risk management, color-coding had become very important.
Then your sister called. Which was how you ended up standing in the middle of a government training room with a clipboard in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in your mouth, and your four-year-old niece sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath the evaluation table, coloring a dinosaur pink.
Her parents were both paramedics. This meant their lives existed in a state of organized chaos: Shifts changed and childcare fell through, so you had babysat her before. Sometimes, someone got stuck transporting a patient across town. Someone else got called in because two ambulances were down and the city, apparently, was held together by caffeine, duct tape, and exhausted women with emergency medical certifications.
Your niece’s name was Mina. She was four and a half and you loved with all of your heart.
You really did, but not in the way people were when they wanted credit for liking children. You didn’t coo or perform sweetness. You didn’t become a different person around Mina.
You were still you, efficient and as practical as a legal memo. But your hand automatically moved the juice box farther from the forms before Mina could knock it over. You noticed when she chewed on the end of the crayon and swapped it out without hesitation. You opened her apple slices one-handed. You brushed purple crayon dust off her cheek with your thumb, and Mina leaned into it without even looking up, like that touch was ordinary.
“Yes, I can take her for an hour,” you had said to your sister on the phone. “No, I cannot take her for six. I have work. Actual work with unstable adults.”
Your sister had said something frantic.
“Fine,” You had sighed. “And no, that was not a dig at your child. Mina is emotionally more regulated than half my roster.”
And now here you were. Mina was under the table, humming to herself as she gave a stegosaurus what appeared to be purple lipstick. Her plushie sat beside your shoe, slumped with the weary dignity of a stuffed rabbit who had survived a lot of childcare emergencies.
“You can use blue,” Mina said, holding a crayon up toward you without looking away from her dinosaur.
“I’m working.”
“You can work in blue.”
“I can’t evaluate a federal asset in crayon.”
Mina looked up at you, deeply unimpressed. “Why not?”
Hm. That was a good question.
“Because,” you said finally, “corporate is joyless.”
Mina nodded like this made perfect sense (it didn’t) and went back to coloring.
That was when John appeared in the doorway. He stopped dead when you looked up.
He looked at you. Then at Mina. Then at the juice box on the table. Then at the open packet of baby wipes beside your neatly stacked mission readiness assessment forms.
For several seconds, nobody said anything.
Mina looked him up and down with the suspicion of a tiny secret agent. John looked like he had walked into the wrong room.
You took the protein bar out of your mouth and said, “Before you speak, choose your words with the same caution you should be bringing to crisis de-escalation.”
His eyes came back to yours. “She yours?”
“Do I look like I have time to produce children?”
His mouth twitched.
You pointed your pen at him. “No.”
Mina crawled out from under the table just enough to examine him properly. She had your sister’s eyes, which meant she could look judgmental without trying. It was honestly impressive and slightly unsettling.
John noticed her staring and immediately adjusted. He shifted his weight back and lowered himself just a little, enough to seem less like an unwelcome wall.
“Hey, buddy,” he said. His voice was gentler than you expected.
Mina narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
“John.”
She looked at you. “Is he in trouble?”
John’s eyebrows rose.
You took a slow sip of coffee. “Constantly.”
Mina nodded with grave understanding, like she too had dealt with federal compliance issues. Then she held up her stuffed rabbit. “Auntie works with people in trouble.”
John’s gaze flicked up to yours. “I’m not in trouble,” John told Mina.
Mina considered this, then looked at you for confirmation. You tilted your hand. “He’s in evaluation.”
“What’s eval-vul-wation?”
“It means we check whether someone can behave in public.”
Mina looked back at John. John looked at you like he was trying very hard not to smile.
Mina held up her stuffed rabbit. “This is Mr. Bun. He has anxiety.”
John’s attention shifted immediately to the rabbit, not fake attention and patronizing adult attention. He gave her real attention, serious enough that Mina seemed to approve of it.
“Mr. Bun,” he said solemnly. “Good name.”
“He gets scared when people yell.”
John’s eyes flickered to you, and you just smiled brightly. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t train the rabbit.”
He didn’t quite laugh, but some of the tension left his mouth. His shoulders settled by a fraction. He looked down at Mina’s coloring page and, without thinking about it too much, picked up a green crayon she had abandoned near his boot.
“What’s the dinosaur’s name?” he asked.
Mina looked pleased, because this was apparently the correct question. “Princess Stomp.”
“Strong name.”
“She bites bad guys.”
“Useful skill.”
“John,” you said.
He looked up, innocent in a way that did not suit him at all. You went back to your clipboard immediately.
“Mission readiness evaluation,” you said. “Slightly modified.”
“Modified how?”
“My niece is present, so we will do our written evaluation first and the practical one next week. It means no shouting, no tactical demonstrations involving doors, no threats, no furniture damage, and no saying anything that will get repeated to my sister in law while she’s holding trauma shears.”
John looked at Mina, and she smiled back at him with a colourful crayon mark smeared on her cheek.
John looked back at you. “Trauma shears?”
“Both my sister and her wife are paramedics,” you said. “Which means Mina can identify a tourniquet, tell you why you don’t move someone with a suspected spinal injury, and constantly asks grown adults why they look tired.”
Mina, without looking up, confirmed, “He does look tired.”
John stared at her.
You pressed your lips together to hold back a smile. “See?” you said. “Gifted.”
John cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”
Mina looked at you. “He’s lying.”
You sighed. “We’re working on that, honey.”
John gave you a look. You gave it right back.
This should have been irritating. One more stupid thing shoved into an already overpacked day. Instead, John stood there with his hands loose at his sides, and Mina pushed a spare coloring page toward him like she had decided he was permitted to exist.
“You can color if your work is boring,” she told him.
John looked at the coloring page. Then at you. He picked up the green crayon.
Oh?
“You do realize,” you said, “If you draw during a mission readiness evaluation, I will include it in the report.”
John looked down at the paper. “What if it’s good?”
“That’d be more concerning.”
Mina leaned over to inspect his work after approximately fifteen seconds of scribbling. “That’s not a dinosaur.”
“It’s a tank.”
You looked up from your clipboard. “John.”
“What?” he asked defensively. “It’s not armed.”
“It has a turret.”
“It’s decorative.”
Mina frowned. “Make it a turtle.”
John paused. Then, in grave resignation, he drew legs and a head on the tank. Mina nodded approvingly. “Better.”
You stared at him. John did not look at you, but the tips of his ears had gone slightly pink.
You wrote something down.
John tried to look annoyed, but he was terrible at it with a child in the room.
He was not awkward with Mina. He was good with her. He listened when she spoke, even when she was explaining that Mr. Bun couldn’t sit near the door because he hates doors. He didn't laugh at her or rush her. When she dropped a crayon, he bent and picked it up without comment, placing it back beside her little hand like it mattered.
John Walker, who could turn a hallway into a warzone, somehow knew not to make a four-year-old feel small.
You hated that your heart noticed before your brain could tell it to stop.
John seemed to notice things you did for her, too: The apple slices you had cut into careful half-moons because Mina liked them that way. The way you reached down without looking when she leaned against your calf, your hand landing briefly on the top of her head before returning to your clipboard. The way you were brisk with her but never careless. Practical, but never cold.
You told Mina not to wipe her hands on your trousers, then handed her a napkin before she had to ask. You fixed the little cardigan slipping off her shoulder with one hand while reading John’s file with the other. You were not nurturing in an obvious way. You were efficient love. Competent love.
The kind that remembered snack preferences, packed extra socks, and still said, “No, you cannot lick the marker, even if it smells like grapes, because capitalism is trying to kill you.”
John watched you do it and felt his brain go very still.
Oh shit.
His crush had been manageable when it was only about you being hot. It was easier when he only thought of sinful things when he looked at your mouth. But this was worse.
This was you with a child leaning against your leg. You with crayons and classified paperwork sharing a table. You telling Mina no with the same clean confidence you used to tell John to unclench his fists.
John’s mind, apparently determined to ruin his life, supplied an image of you in a kitchen, feet kicking over the edge of a counter as he cooked dinner.
Oh, no, he thought. No, no, no.
No, because now he was thinking about coming home to you, and not even in the fun, stupid, crush way. Not in the she’s pretty when she’s mean to me way. Worse. So much worse.
Desire was simple. Embarrassing and inconvenient, sure. But it was simple. This was not simple.
Now he was thinking about the sound of your keys in a lock. About your shoes kicked off by the door. About you by a dining table, practical and beautiful, telling him not to hover while you cut apple slices into moon shapes because a child liked them better that way.
Now he was thinking about your coffee going cold because you got distracted helping a child zip up her cardigan. About your hand landing automatically on a child’s head when she leaned into your leg.
And then his mind went somewhere sweeter. His son.
Oh, God.
John imagined bringing him around you. He imagines the way you would speak to him like he was a person, not a prop in John’s life, not a fragile little extension of his failures. You would be direct with him, gentle in that dry, practical way that made care feel less like pity and more like a crutch.
You would remember what he liked. You wouldn’t let John dote, like he always did . You would probably look at him over his son's head after you woke up in his bed and say, “Stop making that face, John. He’s eating cereal, not defusing a bomb.”
Oh, no. Because that was it, wasn’t it?
He didn't just want to sleep with you. He wanted to build a life with you.
He wanted mornings, errands, and arguments about nothing. He wanted your jacket over the back of a chair. He wanted a second chance at something he hadn’t even let himself admit he still wanted.
Family. Not the perfect kind. A patched-togethed, difficult one.
And that was when John realized, with a stomach-dropping horror, that this was not a crush.
It had probably stopped being one weeks ago. Maybe it stopped being one the second you let him sit on your couch after the subway and asked for nothing from him but the truth.
He wanted to be with you.
“John?”
He blinked hard.
You were watching him, clipboard lowered, a bit concerned because he usually didn’t space out this long. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
You clearly didn’t believe him. Before you could say anything else, though, Mina tilted her head, looked from him to you, and said, “I think he likes you.”
John forgot how to breathe.
Mina hugged Mr. Bun to her chest. “Like likes you.”
John cleared his throat, desperate for a way out. “I don’t think she’s qualified to make that assessment.”
But you weren’t laughing. You just looked down at your clipboard, and there was… a flush on your cheeks.
For the first time since he had known you, you looked shy.
John’s heart did a stupid little flip.
Mina leaned against the table, peeking over it, pleased with herself.
You lifted the clipboard like it could still save you. “Back to the evaluation.”
John nodded once, and neither of you looked at each other for the next several seconds.
Mina sighed as if she was the only adult in the room.
—
By the time the written evaluation was done, the room had settled into a strange middle ground, where your printed leg forms sat beside Mina’s half-finished coloring page, and John sat still, trying not to look too pleased while you reviewed his final notes.
You read in silence for a moment, pen tucked between your fingers, your mouth composed in that way he had learned meant you were thinking rather than judging. Mina was near your chair, humming softly to herself while trying to fit Mr. Bun into your tote bag. She was failing, but Mina wasn’t one to give in easily.
John kept his eyes on the floor for as long as he could. It lasted maybe three seconds before he looked at you again.
You had that slight crease between your brows. The one that appeared when you were concentrating. Your jacket sleeve had ridden up your wrist, and there was a faint crayon mark on the side of your hand where Mina must have gotten you earlier. You hadn’t noticed. Or maybe you had and decided it wasn’t worth the battle.
Finally, you lowered the page.
Mina seemed to notice as she appeared beside your knee and leaned her whole weight into your leg. “Is John done?”
You set your pen down and rested a hand lightly on top of her head without looking. “He is.”
“Did he do good?”
John raised his eyebrows.
You looked at him for half a second, then down at Mina. “He did,” you said.
Oh.
Good. John let out a deep breath he didn’t even realise he was holding.
Mina nodded, satisfied, then looked up at him with a thumbs up. “Good job.”
He swallowed a smile. “Thanks, Mina.”
You seemed to notice his voice changed for her. It made you pause for just a breath while packing your clipboard into your bag.
John wanted to offer something. Anything. He wanted to stay in the orbit of this little half-chaotic scene for a few seconds longer, which was insane because he had spent most of the session being dismantled by a woman with a toddler snack container in her bag. “I can walk you to the elevator.”
You paused again, just enough for him to wonder if he had overstepped. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Sure.”
His heart made a hopeful jump.
Mina immediately lifted both arms toward him. “Uppies.”
John froze.
You looked down at her. “Mina.”
“My legs are tired.”
“You have been sitting on the floor for an hour.”
“They got tired from coloring.”
“That’s not how legs work.”
Mina only held her arms higher.
John’s gaze flicked to you, careful now. He was asking without asking.
Your eyes softened, assessing, like you were checking a bridge before letting a loved one cross it. Then you nodded. “My sister said any Avenger I trust is allowed to give Mina uppies.”
Any Avenger I trust.
You said it lightly, like it was just logistical. Like it didn't matter.
How well had he done on that assessment?
Because you’re not just tolerating him. You’re not just professionally managing him. You trusted him.
He must have looked as pathetic as he felt, because your smile softened by half an inch before you covered it with impatience.
“Well?” you said. “She’s not going to levitate.”
John crouched in front of Mina. “You sure?”
Mina nodded fiercely. “Uppies.”
So he picked her up carefully. Mina settled against him immediately, one arm looping around his neck, Mr. Bun squished between them. John adjusted his hold with the caution of a man who knew kids were not fragile exactly, but precious.
Your eyes glittered before you could stop it.
John saw it. He looked down at Mina quickly, like that might save him.
Mina rested her cheek against his shoulder and pointed toward the door. “Elevator.”
You cleared your throat and reached for your bag. “Bossy,” you murmured.
John looked at you over her head, a helpless sigh at his mouth. “She learns from her aunt.”
You shook your head and started walking out of the conference room.
And John followed you out with Mina in his arms, feeling trusted and doomed in equal measure.
—
That night, John Walker paced into the common room like a race car doing 200 laps in the Indy 500.
He wasn’t even sure when he had started. One minute he had been standing in his room, staring at his own reflection in the dark TV screen with his arms crossed, and the next he was out here, walking the same ugly little path around kitchen island like a man trying to wear a trench into corporate flooring.
Do not ask out your crisis de-escalation trainer. He turned at the window and came back. Do not ask out your team-mandated crisis de-escalation trainer.
He stopped, dragged both hands over his face, and made a noise between a groan and the beginning of a breakdown.
Because, sure. Fine. He could admit it now, in the privacy of his own head, where nobody could testify against him later.
He liked you.
No, actually, that was stupid. That was insulting. He didn’t just like you. Liking you would’ve been manageable. Liking you would’ve been noticing your mouth when you smiled, or standing a little straighter when you said his name, or feeling vaguely pathetic because you wrote a note down and he wanted it to be good.
This was worse. This was full-body, humiliating, high-school-level idiocy with the added horror of being a grown man with a divorce, a child, a government file, and a history of public property damage.
He liked you so much it made him feel unstable. He liked you so much that your approval pulled a physical reaction out of him. It got under his ribs. It made him want to show up on time and do the exercises properly. It made him want to be better in a way that had nothing to do with mission clearance and everything to do with the way you looked at him when he managed not to be the worst version of himself.
John resumed pacing.
And then there was the other problem. The worse problem. The problem so embarrassing he almost said it out loud just to hear how pathetic it sounded.
He hadn’t asked a woman out since high school.
High school.
He had no idea how to do this now. What did people even say?
Hey, I know you were assigned to me because I’m a liability, but have you considered dinner?
No.
What if he was bad at it? What if he came on too strong? What if he didn’t come on strong enough? What if you gave him that calm face and told him this was inappropriate in the same voice you used when he had to restart a de-escalation scenario?
John stopped again and stared at the ceiling.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“Jesus is not here.”
John turned.
Alexei stood in the doorway wearing a robe and sweatpants. He had a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, like he had wandered in for a snack and discovered live entertainment.
John stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Eating cereal.”
“At 9PM?”
Alexei looked down at the bowl as if this explained itself. “Yes.”
John exhaled through his nose and turned away. “Forget it.”
“No, no.” Alexei stepped farther into the room, eyes narrowing. “You are pacing.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“You are thinking about woman.”
John’s shoulders went rigid. How the fuck did he know?
Alexei gasped, delighted. “Ah! It is woman.”
“No.”
“It is the trainer woman.”
John closed his eyes. Great. So everyone knew before he did.
Alexei pointed his spoon at him. “Crisis lady.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Oh-ho.” Alexei’s grin widened. “You defend title. Very serious.”
John turned back. “I said forget it.”
But Alexei had already moved to the kitchen island, and John was suddenly reminded that Alexei had never once taken a hint as anything but a challenge. “So ask her out.”
John stared at him like he had suggested setting himself on fire for morale. “I can’t just ask her out.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my crisis de-escalation trainer.”
Alexei shrugged. “So be very calm when you ask.”
John blinked at Alexei, who looked pleased with himself.
“That’s not—” John stopped, dragged a hand over his mouth, and tried again. “There are rules.”
“Always there are rules.” Alexei waved his spoon. “Rules for missions. Rules for weapons. Rules for not microwaving fish in common kitchen. Rules can be respected. This does not mean you die alone.”
John hated that there was a point somewhere in there. Sure, you were his trainer, but you weren’t his counselor. You weren’t his therapist, or his doctor, or some sacred keeper of his deepest psychological wounds You were corporate. A well-paid professional brought in to stop enhanced idiots from turning emotional dysregulation into infrastructure damage. And honestly? People dated at work all the time, didn’t they? Accountants dated other accountants. Lawyers dated other lawyers. Half of corporate America was probably one badly timed office romance away from an HR seminar. So, yes, there were rules. But this wasn’t impossible. It wasn’t simple, but it wasn’t forbidden by the laws of God and man either.
“She’s assigned to me,” he said anyway. “It’s not like I can just show up and say—” He cut himself off.
Alexei leaned in. “Say what?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“You want practice?”
“I will walk into traffic before I say it to you.”
Alexei nodded sagely. “Bad opening line.”
John glared.
Alexei ignored him and set his bowl on the counter. “You go to her. You say, ‘Hello. I like you. I understand this is problem. Can this be problem later, when you are not making me less angry?’”
John stared at him for a long second. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
Alexei shrugged, just a little. “You are allowed to want things, Walker.”
John’s throat tightened. For a second, the common room felt too quiet. The city glowed cold beyond the windows. John stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for his own life and too old to be this scared of a woman saying no.
Alexei picked up his spoon again. “Worst case, she says no.”
John looked at him.
“If you do nothing,” Alexei said, pointing at the floor, “you keep moping. Then we all suffer. I am already suffering.”
John looked toward the hallway.
He thought of you in the conference room. He thought of Mina announcing his feelings to both of you like she had been appointed by the God of crayons. He thought of the flush on your cheeks.
Maybe he was being stupid. Maybe this was a terrible idea.
Maybe he was about to ruin the one thing in his life that had started making him feel like he could actually become something other than angry.
But then again, maybe he wasn’t.
John grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.
Alexei’s eyebrows shot up. “You are going now?”
“Yes,” John was already heading for the door. “Before I change my mind.”
—
By the time John reached your building, the bravery had started to wear off. That was inconvenient, considering he had already parked.
He sat in his car with both hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield at your apartment building like it was an enemy compound.
He wasn’t going to lie, he considered leaving.
He should’ve gone home. He should’ve sent an email, which was what normal people with impulse control probably did when they developed feelings for the person assigned to help them stop behaving like an angry forklift with a gun license.
John let his head fall back against the seat and shut his eyes.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “You can still not do this.”
Then he pictured Alexei’s disappointed face if he came back.
Nope. Not coming back to that.
John got out of the car.
The air was cold enough to bite through his jacket, which helped a little. It gave him something else to focus on besides the fact that he was walking toward your front door. He had faced down armed men with steadier hands than this.
By the time he reached your door, he had rehearsed and discarded six different openings.
Hi.
Too casual.
Can we talk?
Too ominous.
I know this is inappropriate.
Great start, Walker. Lead with the lawsuit.
I have feelings for you.
Jesus Christ, no. Absolutely not. Was he twelve? Was he about to hand you a folded note in the homeroom?
He stood outside your door for three seconds too long, staring at the chilled paint on the frame. Then he raised his hand and rang the doorbell before he could lose his nerve.
The apartment stayed quiet.
For one second, relief flooded him. You weren’t home. Great. Perfect. Act of God. He could leave and pretend he had made an attempt.
Then the lock clicked.
John’s spine straightened.
The door opened just enough for you to look out, and he immediately forgot every reasonable thought he had ever had.
You were in home clothes. You were wearing a loose sweater, your hair gathered messily away from your face, one sleeve slipping down your wrist.
Your eyes widened slightly when you saw him. “John?”
“Can I ask you something?” he said abruptly
Your brow furrowed, and you glanced behind you into the apartment before looking back at him. The hallway light caught the side of your face, and John thought it was the most angelic sight he had ever seen. “Why are you here?”
John opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Amazing. Wonderful. He had made it all the way across the city and failed at the first hurdle.
Your eyes moved over his face, reading him. He watched concern take over. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I’m not- uh— this isn’t a crisis.”
You sighed, relieved. “Okay.”
“It’s not that kind of thing.”
“John.”
He swallowed. You were already drawing the line. He could see it happening. The professional part of you stepping forward because that was the safe thing, the right thing, and he knew it. He respected it.
He hated it.
“I know,” he said. “I know this is probably crossing every line.”
Your face went still.
Behind you, he could see the dim gold light of a lamp. There was a small pair of tiny shoes near the wall outside your unit, Mina’s, probably, because her parents were still clocking in a late shift.
“Mina’s asleep,” you said quietly. “So if this is going to be loud—”
“No,” John said, too quickly again. He lowered his voice at once, almost wincing. “No. I’m not here to be loud.”
Your eyes flicked back to him, and your pupils in them softened. “This,” you said, still quiet. “Is usually not the beginning of a calm conversation.”
“I know.” He looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.”
And he meant it.
John took one step back, creating more space between you before you had to ask him to.
He couldn’t make this worse by standing too close to you in a hallway like a man who didn’t understand how doors and boundaries worked. “I can leave,” he said. “I should probably leave.”
You didn’t say yes, though. In fact, you looked like you wanted him here.
Huh.
You didn’t step back and close the door. You didn’t give him the clean professional dismissal he had probably deserved. “What do you need to ask me?” you asked.
John let out a short breath.
This was it, then. The line was right there. He could still back away from it. He could make something up. He could say this was about his next session, or his evaluation, or some bullshit about the remaining paperwork. He could spare both of you.
Instead, he looked at you and found he was tired of being brave in every direction except the one that mattered.
“Okay,” he said, more to himself than to you.
Your mouth twitched into a small smile. “That’s not a question.”
There was that dry little edge he was so fond of. Fuck, he was done for.
“No,” he said. “It’s me trying not to make an idiot of myself.”
“Is it working?”
“Not even a little.”
You chuckled, looking over your shoulder again, listening for Mina. Your unit remained quiet. When you looked back, your voice dropped even lower. “John, whatever this is, you need to say it carefully.”
Did… did you know?
“I know.” John gulped.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Your fingers tightened around the doorframe. “I am still assigned to you.”
He nodded once. “I know.”
Your eyes searched his face.
That was another thing you had taught him, even if you had never meant to. How not to crowd. How not to fill the room just because he was nervous. How not to make the size of his feelings everyone else’s emergency. So he stood there, hands visible, shoulders tense but back, voice low.
“I’m not asking to come in,” he said. “I’m not asking you to make this easier for me. I’m not asking you to pretend this is normal.”
You tilted your head in curiosity, and he took another breath.
“I just need to say it. And then you can tell me to shut up, and I will.”
For a second, you said nothing.
The silence was deafening. He could hear someone’s television through a wall somewhere down the hall. A car moved along the street outside.
John immediately lowered his voice even more.
“I like you,” he said finally.
The words came out rough.
“I like you,” he repeated, because apparently he needed to make sure he had really done it. “And I know this is inconvenient.”
You didn’t smile, but he could tell you felt something.
It was not nothing.
It was so clearly not nothing that John felt his chest loosen, just a fraction.
“I don’t like you because you’re nice or some shit,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re actually pretty mean to me.”
You looked down, cheeks burning with a smile you couldn’t help anymore. He almost smiled back, but he was too terrified to let himself have that much.
“And not because you’re helping me,” he added. “Not only that. I mean, yeah, maybe that’s part of it. You got stuck with me at a bad time and somehow made me feel less like a walking lawsuit, so I’m sure there’s some stupidpsychology in there.”
Your eyes narrowed faintly. “That was self-aware.”
“Don’t start.”
“Sorry,” you whispered, not sounding sorry at all. “Continue.”
Fuck, you were awful. He still adored you, though.
John looked away for half a second, then back at you. “You don’t let me get away with anything,” he said. “And I know I need that. I know that’s the whole point of why Barnes brought you in. But it’s not just that. You don’t look at me like I’m already a lost cause.”
Your face grew very still again.
This time, he knew it was because he had gotten too close to something real.
“You see me,” he said, and the words were quieter than he meant them to be.
Your breath caught on something that almost became a laugh.
He looked at you then. Your hand was still on the door. Your thumb moved once against the painted wood, a nervous motion. Your hair had slipped loose near your temple. You looked like you were trying to keep every feeling behind your teeth, and for the first time since he had known you, it didn’t quite work.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” you said.
“I know.”
“You really shouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
“You’re making this difficult for me.”
His heart flipped. “Am I?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
The hallway seemed to shrink around the two of you.
Your voice, when you spoke again, was very quiet. “Yes.”
Oh.
John forgot how to breathe for half a second.
“You need to understand,” you said, “that me saying that doesn’t change the rules.”
“I know.”
“I can’t encourage this.”
“Of course.”
“I can’t say anything that blurs the line.”
“You’re not.”
You looked back at him then, and the look on your face nearly ruined him.
You were being so careful.
You were so obviously trying to do the right thing, but the right thing looked like it hurt a little.
“And I can’t invite you in,” you said.
He nodded. “I’m not asking.”
“But I also…” You stopped. You closed your eyes for one brief second, like you were annoyed with yourself. When you opened them again, your voice had become a teeny bit more professional. “I also don’t want you to think I’m… dismissing what you’re saying.”
John swallowed.
Again, not nothing.
“Okay,” he said, because his vocabulary had apparently been reduced to one-word responses.
Your mouth softened. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” He nodded once, then again. “I know there are rules. I’m not asking you to break them. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want. But if there’s a way to transfer me to somebody else, or close this out, or whatever has to happen so this isn’t…” He grimaced, searching for the least terrible phrasing. “A whole ethical disaster.”
Your lips pressed together. He could tell you were fighting a laugh.
“A whole ethical disaster,” you repeated quietly.
“Is that not the technical term?”
“No,” you said. “But it’s vivid.”
“I’m trying to respect the seriousness of the situation.”
“You drove here at night to confess feelings to the woman.”
That time, you did laugh. Then your eyes widened slightly, and you glanced back into the apartment unit.
Both of you froze.
From somewhere inside came the faintest sleepy rustle, then silence again.
You turned back to him, relieved.
It was stupid, how much that he wanted you, even when you were just standing there in the doorway, trying not to smile because Mina was asleep, because rules existed, because the world was inconvenient.
John said the next part before could stop himself. “I’d like to take you out.”
This time, there was no joke to hide behind this time. No self-deprecation.
Your eyes changed again, and he saw the answer before you said anything.
And then your gaze dropped, just for a second, like you needed somewhere safer to look. When you looked back up, you had pulled yourself together.Mostly.
“John,” you said softly. “You can’t ask me out while I’m training you.”
“How many remaining?” He asked.
“Four.”
John stared at you. “Four,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He looked briefly toward the ceiling like patience might be stored there. He thought the next session was the last, but apparently three more had been added for whatever fucking reason. He assumed Barnes had something to do with it (he was right).
You folded your arms loosely, still half-hidden behind the door, and there was something almost teasing in your eyes now. The kind that kept both of you on the correct side of the line while acknowledging that, unfortunately, the line was very much there and both of you could see it.
“You survived worse,” you said.
“People keep saying that to me.”
“Maybe you should start believing them.”
“I’d rather complain.”
“Ha.”
He looked at you again.
Your emotions were unguarded second, and he could see the things you weren’t saying. It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t you reaching across the line.
But it was interest.
John lowered his voice. “What happens after?”
You went quiet.
Inside, Mina slept on, blissfully unaware that the adults were being stupid in the hallway. Thank god.
You looked at him for a long second, and he watched the argument happen behind your eyes. He watched you measure ethics against honesty, professionalism against whatever had just happened between you. He watched you decide exactly how much you could give him without breaking the rules you clearly cared about.
Then, finally, you said, “After four sessions, you can ask again.”
John nodded like you had just handed him coordinates for rescue. “Yeah.” He breathed out. “I can do four sessions.”
Your smile broke through.
Suddenly, he felt the bright, aching, want-to-be-good-for-you feeling climbing up under his ribs and made a home in his heart. The same feeling that made four sessions feel less like a punishment and more like a mission he intended to pass with honors.
He stepped back, giving you the space again.
“I should go,” he said.
“You should.”
Neither of you moved.
Your fingers were still curled around the edge of the door. His hands were loose at his sides. The hallway light hummed above you. Somewhere inside your apartment, Mina made one tiny sleepy sound and then went quiet again.
You lowered your voice even more. “And John?”
“Yeah?”
“Call me first next time, like a normal person.”
“I can do that.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
“I can learn to do that,” he corrected.
You smiled again and he felt hopeful. “Goodnight, John.”
He swallowed. “Goodnight.”
Then, before either of you could make it worse, you stepped back and closed the door gently, careful not to wake Mina.
John stood in the hallway for one second after the lock clicked.
He didn’t move.
For once, it was not because he was frozen or furious or trying to wrestle his way out of his own head. He just stood there, staring at your closed door while his heart skipped several beats, in a good way.
He could do four sessions. He could wait. He could earn it.
He could do it right.
For you, he wanted to do it right.
John turned toward the stairs with the stupidest smile of his adult life pulling at his mouth.
And for the first time in a long time, John wanted to be patient.
He didn’t throw anything through a wall that week, or any of the weeks after.
He did, however, spend the next day thinking about you the entire drive to pick up his son.
And when Nathan helped carry the diaper bag out to the car, John managed to take it and say, “Thanks, man,” without sounding like he was chewing glass.
Olivia noticed.
She gave him a small, knowing look while he buckled his son into the car seat. “You seem better.”
John tightened the strap, smoothed a hand over his son’s little jacket, and tried not to smile too much.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
—
Eight months later…
John was standing in your kitchen wearing an apron Mina had picked for him.
It had tiny unicorns on it.
He had argued, briefly, that he was a tough superhero and he didn’t need to wear the unicorn apron. Mina had stared daggers at him, held it out, and said, “Chefs wear aprons.”
So now John was wearing the Unicorn apron.
And for the last six months, that was your life.
He had held up his end of the bargain: he asked you out after the sessions were complete, kissed you on the first date, and never looked back.
You stood beside him in your apartment now, trying not to laugh while he stirred soup on the stove. His son and Mina were in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the rug, making Mr. Bun and a toy dinosaur get married under a blanket fort. Mina had been another last-minute addition, because your sister and her wife had a last-minute shift. John had only looked at you and said, “Good. More taste-testers.”
You kissed him then and there.
Olivia and Nathan came over, too.
That should have been strange. Maybe it still was, in tiny little ways. But it was also sweet. Nathan brought dessert. Olivia brought wine.
Somehow, against all sense and probability, you and Olivia had become friends. And not even polite co-parenting-adjacent friends. Not awkward, mature, “we are all adults here” friends.
Actual friends.
It made no sense. You two were polar opposites.
Olivia was soft-spoken where you were snarky. Olivia asked gentle questions; you asked questions like you were trying to locate immediate weakness. And yet there you both were, basically best friends.
Olivia had started texting you pictures of terrible PTA emails. You had started sending her voice notes about work drama with all names redacted for legal reasons. The two of you had brunch without John once, which had made him pace the kitchen for twenty minutes until you came home and told him, very sweetly, that you weren’t going to break up with him because his ex-wife aired all his dirty laundry. Because “remember, there was nothing Olivia could say that wasn’t already in your file, honey.”
John made up for it by teaming up with your sister to make fun of your cute little snores. But anyway.
It was strange, but it had become one of the best things in his life, because his son had more people loving him in one room than John had ever known how to ask for.
“I can’t believe you finally learned how to make vegetables taste good,” Olivia said, poking at her plate.
John pointed his fork at her. “Don’t sound shocked.”
You leaned toward Olivia and said, “He needs praise or he gets difficult.”
Olivia nodded solemnly. “I remember.”
John looked between you both. “I hate this alliance.”
“No,” Nathan chuckled. “I don’t think you do.”
He was right. He loved it.
He loved watching you and Olivia lean over the table together, laughing quietly while Mina and his son bartered potato cuts like tiny criminals. He loved that Nathan could ask him about his dental health without making it a big emotional event.
And when John mentioned wanting to join a veterans support group, it felt… easy.
“After listening to your subway thing,” he said, glancing at you. “And everything else. I think it might help.”
Your hand found his under the table first.
Olivia smiled at him sincerely. “I think you’d be good there, John. And I think it’d be good for you.”
Nathan nodded. “Sometimes it helps to be around people who understand without needing the whole story.”
You just kissed him on the cheek. “M’ proud of you, sweetheart.”
John looked down, thumb brushing over your knuckles, clearly trying not to get emotional about everything.
Then his son looked up from his peas, very serious. “Do you get snacks at support group?”
John blinked. “Probably.”
His son nodded, satisfied. “Then you should go.”
Everyone laughed.
Later, in the kitchen, while the kids were distracted and Olivia was explaining something to Nathan, John caught you by the waist and pulled you gently toward him.
“Hi,” he murmured.
You smiled. “Hi.”
Then he kissed you.
It was supposed to be quick— it was most definitely not. Your hand curled into the front of his shirt, and John smiled against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe he got to have this. You, in his arms. Dinner in the next room. His son laughing. Olivia and Nathan not annoying him. Mina yelling something about Mr. Bun requiring surgery.
“John,” you whispered, laughing against his mouth. “Children.”
“They’re busy.”
You rolled your eyes, but kissed him once more before slipping out of his hands.
Near the end of the night, his son got sleepy and serious, leaning against John’s side while Mina sat on the floor beside him with Mr. Bun in her lap.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
He pointed between himself and Mina. “Are me and Mina cousins now?”
Oh.
John looked at you. You looked back, before glancing at Olivia. Olivia looked like she was trying not to cry, which immediately made Nathan look concerned, because Nathan was Nathan.
You smiled first, a wordless permission without making it a whole thing.
So John shrugged, easy as anything, and kissed the top of his son’s head. “Sure,” he said. “Think of it that way, kid.”
His son beamed.
Mina nodded once, very pleased. “Can I be the in-charge cousin?”
“No,” you and John said at the same time.
Olivia laughed. Nathan smiled. The kids immediately began negotiating cousin rules on the carpet.
For once, nothing in his life felt like a scoreboard. It didn’t even feel like a competition.
Listening to Andy Weir talk about eridians is so funny because fans are always talking about Rocky and Adrian as these “soft” adorable aliens but Weir won’t ever let us forget that their species are apex predators on their planet. Not like humans who became apex predators by inventing weapons, but natural top of the foodchain like lions or polar bears. So far I haven’t found an interview where Weir explains who ate eridians in the ancient past that caused them to watch over each other while they slept; another predator species or rivaling eridians.
Grace is joking around with a selectively violent creature that can rip his soft squishy body apart in an instant!
But it’s also a lot of fun to hear Weir talk about all the stuff he wants to include in a possible sequel, like the fact that eridians can have several conversations at once even with the same eridian. He imagine Rocky and Adrian bickering in one conversation while having a nice conversation at the same time that slowly turns into a fight and all of a sudden they’re yelling at each other in two conversations about different things.
He also says they have terrible spacial memory because they can see everything around them all the time thanks to their echo location so to them it’s crazy that humans can only see in one direction but still remember what’s behind them and even what the last room they were in looks like. Apparently eridians mostly just remember that the room exists and that it has the computer in it but if you asked them where the computer is placed in the room they’ll struggle to give a precise answer.
And Rocky got scared when Grace hugged him because eridians don’t have a concept of expressing affection with physical touch. To them it’s only neutral or violent because thanks to their hard shell they can’t really feel much. They only use it to move each other around or to break through their prey’s shell to get to the soft insides. So in their inter-species friendship only Grace would feel any desire to touch Rocky. It makes it very cute that Rocky joins in on Grace’s hugging ritual. It’s purely for Grace’s sake.
lights, camera, action! (colt seavers x afab!reader)
summary: tom ryder backs out of acting in a sex scene at the last minute. colt, tom's stuntman, graciously takes his place as a body double. the line between faked pleasure and real intimacy get a little blurry in the heat of the moment
wc: 5.8k
cw: kissing, grinding, lots of sex talk but no actual sex, faking sex while like 20 people are watching
a/n: I couldn’t get this stupid idea out of my head so yeah here’s a full fic for this little imagine. I’m sure parts of this are inaccurate as to how this kind of situation would actually play out on a real film set, so lets all just close our eyes if we notice those discrepancies
“We have a Code Red!”
Charlie was a good friend of yours and a brilliant creative genius when it came to directing films. His eye for action, romance and then weaving the two genres together to make a gripping movie was what drew you to auditioning for one of his projects in the first place. Currently, he was the director of the film you were part of- a sequel to the blockbuster hit that you’d starred in a couple years prior (that Charlie had also directed) as the love interest of the main character.
Charlie was also terrible at knocking apparently, shoving your trailer door open and looking purely panicked in the soft lamplight. If it was anybody else, the sudden intrusion of your privacy would’ve irked you, but Charlie was one of the only exceptions. Besides, he would only do it if he had a good reason. Usually upbeat and happy-go-lucky, it was concerning to see him look so worried about something.
You gave Charlie your undivided attention, scooting over on your plush couch to give him room so he could sit, setting down the script you had been meticulously going over. It was late, you were freshly showered and nearly ready to call it a night until his interruption. Sleep would have to wait, it seemed.
“What’s a Code Red?”
“A problem! A horrible, terrible, awful problem.”
It definitely must’ve been bad if he was this worked up. “Ok… and that would be?”
Charlie fell onto your couch and put his head in his hands. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Tom’s out.”
“Out? Of the movie?”
Tom Ryder- your co-star and the man with the leading role. After the first movie had been a booming success, he was quick to accept the offer to come back for the sequel. You didn’t doubt it was for the large paycheck and the added fame. Given the publicity of this movie and the attention he would get when it released, it was hard to believe he would just dump the whole thing, especially since you were already more than halfway through filming. Then again, Tom was an interesting individual and you wouldn’t put it past him to quit if he suddenly didn’t feel like doing it. But Tom quitting the job would mean the whole project was doomed and the whole team was screwed. You couldn’t go on without the leading role and it was too late to find a new actor to fill his spot this deep into production.
“Not the whole movie,” Charlie shook his head. Your chest deflated a fraction at that somewhat good news. “Just the sex scene we’re supposed to be filming in three days.”
That was another surprise. “Tom Ryder- the Tom Ryder- doesn’t want to film a sex scene?!”
Charlie flung his arms into the air. “Apparently not! He called me an hour ago and just said he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t give me any explanation beyond that.” Charlie kicked his feet up on the coffee table with a groan and shrugged. “Maybe he’s nervous?”
You crossed your arms and shook your head. “I find that hard to believe. He’s filmed sex scenes before so this wouldn’t be any different. It’s not even that intense of a scene, just a little kissing and action below the sheets you can barely see. I’ll be more naked than Tom is!”
“I know! That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”
This was a conundrum. Charlie was obviously flustered and frantically trying to figure out how to fix this issue with his movie. Next time you saw Tom, you’d give him a passive aggressive piece of your mind (you still have a third of a movie to film, you didn’t want to make it completely impossible to be around each other just yet. You could do that once filming wrapped and hope the audience didn’t want a third movie).
“Shit,” you breathe. “Shit. Ok. So what does this mean? We just cut the whole scene?”
Charlie immediately shook his head. “No. No no no. We can’t cut it. It’s a pinnacle moment in the character’s relationship. All of their tension has been building up and up and up to this moment! The fans will riot if we don’t deliver. The audience score will plummet and we won’t break even in the box office and poof! My career is up in smoke. They were already upset the two didn’t get together in the last movie so they’ll be expecting it in this one. We can’t cut it."
He wasn’t being dramatic. The die hard fans of the series weren’t above sending death threats if their favorite characters didn’t get the ball rolling. “Alright so we can’t cut the scene. What now? Without Tom, what options do we even have? CGI a fake Tom over a mannequin?”
“We have to get a stand-in,” Charlie sighed, carding his hands through his hair. “That’s the only option I can think of. If it’s even possible to find a body double who can act out a sex scene in less than three days, that is. Or maybe I just beg Tom to do it and offer him more money that we don’t have. But, we’re already over budget. The studio will tear me a new one if I offer a bigger salary than he’s already getting. Fuck!”
You flinched and leaned over to put a hand on his arm in a manner that you hoped would help soothe him. He needed a calm, rational anchor. “Ok so we’ll get a stand-in. You don’t need to find a perfect physical match Charlie, just someone who has the same body type and hair, right? Once you find someone and we shoot the scene, do shots from above so you only see my face and the back of the body double’s head. Shots from the side might need to be digitally altered a little; you’d have to put Tom’s face over the stand-in’s during post-production but you’re already doing that for his stunts so this won’t really be any different-”
“That’s it!” Charlie flew up from the couch, whirling to face you. Your jaw dropped a little in shock at the sudden change of mood.
“What’s what?”
“Colt!”
Oh.
Colt Seavers. Tom’s stuntman.
You knew Colt of course. This was the second movie you’d been in with the action actor who played Tom’s stuntman, so you’d seen him around set and basecamp. He was friendly, charming and naturally funny. He was also unfairly attractive.
Colt didn’t go out of his way to demand attention from the rooms he was in, choosing to stay in the background until it was his time to shine on set. And God was he good at what he did. You didn’t know how his body took those beatings, but you applauded him for it. It wasn’t too hard for you to admit that your heart raced a little faster when you saw him, especially since he always looked ruffled and dirty.
“It’s not a bad idea but would he agree to it? Has he ever done scenes like this before? He’s usually running around explosives and pulling off impossible feats, not kissing another actor and faking sex. It might be out of his comfort zone.”
“I don’t know but it doesn’t hurt to try! I’ll get on my knees and beg him if I have to. I’ll text you. Goodnight!”
Charlie was out of your trailer in less than 5 seconds and disappearing into the dark, the crunch of gravel following him as he ran away leaving you alone in the quiet.
-
Colt was in.
Charlie texted you only an hour after he’d left with the good news and a slew of extremely elated emojis.
You had a hard time sleeping that night.
You weren’t new to the sex scene game, you’d been in many movies before with much more explicit content. As this was a PG-13 movie, the scene wasn’t going to be anything crazy and easily something you could handle. So why was your heart in your throat?
Tom was not your most favorite person. You were friendly on set and apparently had enough chemistry on screen that the fans of the first movie couldn’t tell that you had a sour taste in your mouth when you had to act with him. He was brash and rude- a bit of a spoiled brat in the movie industry and got jobs he maybe wasn’t qualified for just because of his large following. He had some talent and a nice face, but a personality that was hard for you to be around.
Colt was the complete opposite of Tom. Besides, of course, general physical appearance.
The first time you’d met Colt had been during the filming of the last movie. It was snowy and freezing outside the warehouse where most of the set was. With the terrible weather, all you wanted was a hot cup of coffee. During a break between shoots, you seeked refuge in the craft services tent to find a drink.
The tent was packed with people you didn’t know trying to stay warm but thankfully the coffee cart was mostly empty besides one, broad shouldered man. If you were being honest, you actually thought it was Tom at first glance. He had the same dirty blond mop of hair on his head that Tom did, and was treating the poor coffee dispenser like Tom would- beating on the lever to try to squeeze a drop out of the obviously empty container.
Then you remembered that you’d just seen Tom not two minutes earlier on set in the warehouse and unless he’d sprinted past you unseen, there was no way Tom had beat you to the tent.
So it wasn’t Tom but someone who looked eerily similar to the actor, at least from behind. The red and black leather bomber jacket he wore wasn’t familiar at all to you, but given the big ‘Miami Vice Stunt Team’ printed on the back, you figured he was one of the dozens of stuntmen hired for the film.
Despite not being Tom, you still sort of expected someone with Tom's personality as you carefully moved to stand next to the stranger to quietly try your shot at getting a cup of coffee.
Colt had been surprised at your sudden appearance, shifting over half a step to give you room at the cart. When you went to try to get coffee out of a different dispenser than the one he’d been abusing, he shook his head sadly.
“They’re all out.” He had a nice voice. Smooth and low.
“Already?” You frown, tapping your cup against the metal. This stranger did sort of resemble Tom, but he was much nicer to look at.
“Right? Three hours into filming and all of the coffee is gone. You’d think this was the set for a high school film project, huh?” Funnier than Tom too.
“No, a high school production would definitely have hot coffee readily available.”
Colt threw his head back with a laugh at your quip and nodded his agreement. He was charming in a way that Tom could only dream of.
Despite the absence of your preferred beverage, the pair of you stayed at the coffee cart as Colt made two cups of hot chocolate. There was no coffee but there was a thermos of hot water and little hot chocolate packets. It wasn’t ideal, but when Colt brandished the warm styrofoam cups and told you to prepare yourself because you were about to have the tastiest hot chocolate of your life (because he’d made it with love), you realised you didn’t care that there was no coffee. You would swear off coffee entirely if it meant Colt Seavers would serve you a cup of cocoa every morning.
You didn’t interact too often after that, only occasionally saying hi when you passed each other between shoots or talking briefly once filming wrapped up for the day. Generally, if he was on set filming, you weren’t. Colt was a stuntman doing action scenes (as Tom’s body double, you'd found out). If your character was in the scene too, you had your own stunt double for that. So, for the most part, you admired him from afar.
Even though you barely knew him, that didn’t stop your itty bitty crush on the guy.
So now, knowing that you’d not only get to act in a scene with him, but a scene where you’d get to kiss and touch him? A dream come true.
-
Colt had never planned on filming a sex scene, no matter how tame.
He didn’t even kiss during films, since they usually wanted the actual actors to do that.
When the director came knocking down his door at 11pm one night, spewing the tragic tale of Tom’s betrayal (not surprising), Colt was suddenly presented with the hard decision. Does he step out of his comfort zone and try something he had yet to do in his film career, or does he decline and tell Charlie to find someone else?
He considered saying no. In fact, he was seconds away from saying no. His sex prowess was not something he had ever planned on sharing with the whole world, no matter the fact that the general audience wouldn’t know it was actually him performing. Plus, pretending to fuck in a room full of people didn’t sound very appealing. Then, he remembered who he’d be acting the scene with.
“I’ll do it.”
-
The intimacy coordinator on set, Tammy, met with you the day before the shoot to go over your boundaries- what you were comfortable with and where you drew the line.
You knew the script like the back of your hand and knew exactly how the scene was supposed to play out. It was simple- passionate kissing until you made it to the bed, Colt would be on top and perform general foreplay until you fake intercourse. It was nice and easy, not too intense.
Tammy went over the stoplight system and your meeting wrapped up in a clean 20 minutes. You didn’t have any worries about acting the scene. You worried about Colt and how he would react to the new challenge more than anything.
If you were doing the shoot with Tom, you might’ve been able to think of boundaries to set up (i.e. no extra groping than what was necessary, because Tom probably would try to cross a line), but with Colt? You realized you didn’t care at all if he got a little too excited and handsy. You would allow it for the 'authenticity of the scene', to make it look real. That and you just wouldn’t mind if things went a little deeper than superficial if it was Colt doing it. You assumed Tammy went to speak to Colt after she’d spoken to you and since she didn’t come back to tell you any of his boundaries, he must’ve not had any either.
The day of the shoot, after hair, makeup and wardrobe where you stripped into practically nothing and shrugged on a robe, you walked into the fake bedroom set amidst a hoard of bustling crew members. Colt was already there, observing the room before turning to smile at you when you approached.
“Hey!” Colt ran a hand through his mussed hair and gestured to your body. “You look nice.”
You snorted. “So do you.”
You were both wearing the same exact robe.
While Colt glanced at a lighting technician that brushed past to adjust one of the warm lights shining towards the bed, you nodded your head at him. “Thank you for being willing to step in for Tom, by the way. You’re saving all of our asses; especially Charlie’s. We owe this movie to you at this point.”
Colt shook his head immediately. “No, no. Please, I'm happy to help.”
“Have you ever done a scene like this before?” You questioned, adjusting your loose robe to make sure your chest stayed covered. Colt’s eyebrow twitched like he wanted to glance down to watch the movement but he didn’t and shook his head instead.
“Nope.” You weren’t surprised. You assumed he hadn’t. “But, I can't imagine it’s any different than the real thing though, right? Just a little more orchestrated and,” Colt gestured to the crowd of people behind cameras, boom mics and monitors a step away. “a little less private. I don’t know about you but I don't usually have this many people watching me perform in the bedroom.”
Your cheeks hurt from your smile. “Neither do I. Not in the privacy of my home, at least. I have done this kind of thing a couple times, though.”
Colt snaps his fingers. “Oh yeah! In that one film uh- Rain? The one with the cowboy? Big fan of your work in that one.”
You quirked a brow and Colt backtracked. “Not just the sex scene obviously, the whole movie. Your whole character. Really likeable.”
Tammy interrupted before you could tease him. Charlie also approached and clapped his hands together so everyone around would listen.
“Alright, everyone! We’re all familiar with the script so you should know how this scene will play out but just in case, we’ll just go over it and walk through the shots we’re looking for.”
Charlie was animated, as he always was when describing the scene he was envisioning.
“Everything we’re recording today takes place after their huge fight.” He gestures to you and Colt. “We’ll film the fight later with Tom, but they’ve been arguing in the kitchen and the tension builds up and up and up until it snaps! The start of the scene will be the two of you bursting through the bedroom door, already kissing. I want passion! You’ve been pining for each other for years and it’s all coming to fruition today so let it show.”
You nod with a smile and Colt does the same.
“Since I want to obscure Colt’s face as much as possible, we’re going to have the camera follow you into the room from behind so Colt’s back is the only thing we can see. (Y/n), I want your hands in his hair, on his neck and shoulders, anywhere that can be seen by the camera.”
Charlie continued to walk through the open space, describing what he wanted from the two of you as he went. You would fall back onto the bed and Colt would follow. The actual scene in the movie was going to be a montage of tiny blips of footage instead of one, continuous shot so you didn’t have to be perfect- you just had to give the editors enough to work with. To keep the PG-13 rating, the two of you were going to be under a thin bedsheet to hide everything from the hips down and most of the camera work was going to stay above the waist anyway, focused on your faces instead of your bodies.
From there, you just had to pretend to have sex with Colt Seavers.
That should be easy enough. You certainly felt more confident faking with him than you would’ve with Tom.
Once Charlie was done going through the scene, some of the crew asked questions and everyone took their positions. It took a second for the crew to be ready, so Colt and yourself went out into the fake hallway to wait. Still in your robes, you got a little worried at the slightly bugged out look in Colt’s eyes.
“Are you alright, Colt? The intimacy coordinator went through the stoplight system with you, didn’t she? If you ever feel uncomfortable and need to stop you just say red and we’ll take a break or switch up the scene a little so it’s easier-”
A warm hand rested against your bicep. “I’m not uncomfortable, I promise. This is all just very different from what I'm used to. I’m usually outside, throwing myself through a window or driving a huge truck over jumps. This is… much quieter and enclosed. Intimate. But I guess that’s the point, huh?”
Colt’s voice was so warm and assuring- it slid down your spine like honey. You were suddenly worried that you wouldn’t be able to handle the scene. Not because you would get uncomfortable, but that you would enjoy it a little too much.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
Tammy interrupted once again and gestured to your robes with a gentle smile. “Ready?”
Apparently, your characters had shed all of their clothing in their passionate journey from their argument in the kitchen to the bedroom door because you're both almost completely bare under the robes. Since everything below the waist was going to be covered by a sheet, instead of a normal modesty garment, you both wore a skintight, skin-colored version of what were essentially biker shorts. Colt had no shirt on, as his torso was going to be one of the main stars of the shoot, and neither did you. Since some shots were going to be from the side, meaning your ribcage would be visible and maybe a hint of breast, you couldn’t wear a bra. To keep a little bit of modesty, you had pasties keeping your nipples covered.
Colt kept his gaze respectful, only looking you in the eye as Tammy scurried off set and was instantly replaced by a gaggle of camera operators. You weren’t shy about your body, not after acting in similar scenes dozens of times previous, but for some odd reason, doing this with Colt felt different. All of the actors you’d acted with in the past were people you respected and had no attraction to. But Colt? You kept your eyes on his face just like he had with you, but it was maybe the hardest thing you’d done thus far in your career.
Once Charlie deemed the dim lighting was perfect and the crew was ready to go, you turned your back to the shut door and looked up at Colt when he stepped closer so your bodies were just barely brushing. The heat of his eyes as they looked back and forth between yours had you grateful you were wearing shorts because you instantly became wet.
The set became silent as you waited for the go-ahead from Charlie. And once he yelled action? You experienced what you were convinced was the greatest onscreen kiss you’d ever get to experience in your career.
Colt’s lips were searing- passionate in every sense of the word. While his mouth rhythmically moved against yours, he reached behind you to open the door, shoving it out of your way and leading you backwards into the room as the camera crew followed. Colt knew just how deeply to tilt his head for your lips to entwine as firmly as possible and just where to place his hands on your spine so you didn’t stumble over your own feet as he blindly led you towards the bed.
His scruff felt wonderful against your face, scratching but not painfully so. You absentmindedly decided that you wouldn’t mind a bit of a beard burn. Your hands were eager to feel the parts of him you were allowed to touch, brushing over the broad planes of his shoulders and sliding up his neck to tangle into his hair. His chest rumbled against you when you fisted your fingers into the blond strands. It had been an accident, you didn’t mean to tug on his hair, but Colt didn’t seem bothered at all.
Colt’s torso was pressed firmly to yours, keeping your breasts hidden from view which had your heart warming in gratitude and had you kissing him harder, this time running your tongue over his. The only sounds in the room were your footsteps and the wet smack of your lips against Colt’s before your knees hit the bed and you fell back onto the mattress. The sheets were already perfectly rumpled thanks to the set design team who’d meticulously staged it beforehand and the material was surprisingly soft against your bare back. Apparently, there had been room in the budget for silk sheets.
You weren’t acting when you watched Colt stand at the foot of the bed, all 6 feet of him tanned and muscled and delicious. The camera crew stood behind him, only capturing his profile from the waist up and the ruffled mess on the back of his head thanks to your handiwork. Your ogling at his body was real but you forced yourself to keep your eyes above the belt, no matter how badly you wanted to look and see if the shorts he wore would leave anything to the imagination on what was hidden underneath.
Colt seemed to be enjoying his view too, pausing for a millisecond too long to hold your gaze. He still kept his eyes professional, as much as you wished he would let them wander now that the camera wouldn’t catch him doing so, and let out a silent steadying breath.
There was no dialogue for the scene, as it would cause a hassle replacing Colt’s voice with Tom’s or dubbing Tom’s voice over the shoot later. Besides, with two perfectly good actors, words weren’t necessary if the scene was done right.
For only being a stuntman, Colt was an expert at expressing emotion through body language.
The way he crawled onto the bed after you- twisting the sheets around his hips to hide both of your lower halves from view, the way his hands slid up your ribcage, then moved to your arms to trail up until his hands planted on the mattress to cage your head- all conveyed the intense hunger of someone immensely in love. His eye contact was red hot. He looked at you the whole time, even glancing down at your parted lips though he didn’t need to.
Colt smelled tantalizing. There was a tiny hint of what you guessed was the spicy smell of his body wash, but other than that, you just smelled, what you assumed was, his natural scent. Most actors you’d worked with (Tom especially) drowned themselves in cologne, especially for scenes like this. You understood why, wanting to smell good when up close and personal with another person, but Colt hadn’t done that. He’d probably showered and gone straight to hair and makeup, meaning what you were smelling was purely him. There was something about that fact that had your eyes almost rolling back into your skull.
Your brain barely registered the camera over Colt’s shoulder that peered down at you to capture every expression you made, the boom mic that loomed overhead or the 20 other people in the room that sat not 30 feet away. Everything you could see and feel and hear was centered around the man straddling you.
While Colt busied himself with trailing his mouth up the valley of your breasts and keeping his face close to your skin, you threw your head back and your fingers found purchase in his hair once again. There was nothing fake about the squeaky gasps that escaped you.
A hot tongue laved over your throat, moistening the skin and pausing to feel your larynx bob with every sound you made. A cameraman now positioned at the side of the bed captured everything. Eventually, Colt moved to tuck his face into your neck opposite of the camera to nose at your jaw, pointedly keeping most of his face hidden from view. That was your queue to wrap your legs around his waist, which you happily did.
Despite having a broad torso, Colt’s waist was slim and muscular underneath your calves. It almost felt like he had no clothes on at all. There was a thicker layer of fabric and padding along the crotch of both of your shorts to keep any contact or stimulation between your bodies at a minimum. Or that’s what they were supposed to do anyway.
Colt’s cock was straining against the shorts so much you could still feel him against your own covered pussy. You couldn’t feel him as much as you wished- couldn’t feel the heat of his skin or the veins along the shaft or the brush of hair at the base- but it gave you enough of an idea to have your hips moving up to tease him for more contact.
No one in the room knew what was happening under the sheet besides you and Colt, and that made it all the more fun. Colt nibbled your skin between his teeth, breath huffing over his drying saliva and began moving his hips. He started slow and steady, gentle gyrations that only gave you a fraction of what you wanted.
The camera above you kept its lens trained at Colt’s back and nothing below the waist besides the tiniest hint of the white sheet. The movement of his hips would be able to be seen but not explicitly so, just the tension in his back as he moved.
You were surprised when Colt let out a groan in response to your legs tightening around him, eyelashes fluttering over the shell of your ear. His thrusts started to get more confident. Not faster, since Charlie wanted the scene to be tender and heartfelt, but he started to press firmly into your heat, grinding when he did. You could barely feel him along your clit, only a fleeting pressure every time he drove forward, but despite the faintest trace of stimulation, you started to worry that you were about to be edged in front of a room of people. Colt didn’t seem to be faring any better.
Since everything was covered with a sheet, Colt wasn’t supposed to actually make contact between your hips if he could help it. As long as he made it look believable, he could thrust into the air and make a decent show. He’d either forgotten that bit of instruction from Tammy or didn’t care to follow it. You weren’t about to stop him- not when it felt this good.
There was something exhilarating about knowing how aroused Colt really was- something no one in the room would know but you. If Charlie, Tammy or anyone else for that matter noticed how much the two of you were doing under the sheet, no one said a word. In fact, you were 100% sure they hadn't noticed because you were 90% sure that what you and Colt were doing was illegal. Some safety guideline was in place in the movie industry to prohibit such contact, no matter how eager and willing the two parties were to save from lawsuits or something. Surely someone would've put a stop to the shoot by now to save the production from a hoard of legal problems once they realized both of you were actually getting off. Oh well, you didn't care to think about that.
You brushed your lips over Colt’s cheek as his face hid in your neck, massaging the solid muscles of his neck under the pads of your fingers. He was tense, but not from stage fright. The arms caging your body that kept him somewhat upright were trembling against the mattress, the tiniest, most indiscreet tremors that you could feel against your back through the padding. He was having a hard time keeping himself in control too.
Truly, you could’ve laid there for hours. Part of you hoped Charlie wanted to rerun the whole scene several times so you could do it over and over again. However, you feared you were doing too good of a job and were about to pull it off in one take.
Colt must’ve brushed off the fog that clouded his mind and remembered where he was when his hips punched forward one final time and stilled. You made a show of your whimpers, faking an orgasm while Colt groaned in your ear, voice melding with yours. Hopefully that wasn’t going to be a problem for the audio team if Colt sounded a little too much like himself.
The room fell silent once the ruffling of sheets stopped, the sound of your shared breathing the only noise on set.
You blinked when the quietness was suddenly broken with a burst of applause and remarks of awe, quickly remembering where you were and just how many people you were surrounded by. Colt seemed surprised too, lifting his face to look at you in shock and then looking over at the hoard of people coming your way.
“That was amazing, you two! A perfect take! Fantastic job, Colt!” Charlie exclaimed, giving a firm smack to the stuntman’s bare back in approval. Colt groaned at the sting and gave you a humorous smirk in response. Tammy rushed over with your robes and a thousand watt smile.
Colt slid off of you, albeit a bit hesitantly if your observation was correct, and quickly took the robe Tammy offered, tying it around himself with great intensity. You realized immediately it was an attempt to hide his erection from any prying eyes. His cheeks colored when you quietly laughed at him, a silent indication to him that you knew exactly what he was doing.
Charlie was elated, letting you put on your robe before throwing an arm around your shoulders and leading you over to the flustered stuntman so Charlie could throw his other arm around him. “Your on-screen chemistry is palpable! Just what we needed for the scene. I was worried we’d have to reshoot several times before we got everything we needed, especially since you’re not familiar with acting in these types of scenes, Colt, but you’re a natural!”
You couldn’t help but smile over at the blond, drinking up his bashful smile. “Thanks, Charlie. It was easy, really. Not too different from my average Friday night,” he joked, until his smile suddenly dropped and he tilted forward to look at you a little panicked. “I mean, not recently. I'm not seeing anyone right now, so my Friday nights are super free. If anyone was wondering.”
Charlie didn’t bat an eye at Colt's words but you did, heart warming at his attempt to correct himself and make it clear to you that he was single and also not currently sleeping around. The cheery director led you off of the set towards wardrobe, still spewing his praises. Only after one specific comment did you feel your face really light up in a blush.
“I know you’re just a stuntman, Colt, but you should really consider taking up other forms of acting because that almost looked real!”
a/n: ngl I felt colt’s spirit possess me for this one, I cranked this bitch out in a couple of hours. I LOVE finding a prompt that I’m super eager to write, it feels so satisfying putting my thoughts into words (even though they sound much better in my head)
divider by @/strangergraphics
dailybridgerton
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