The first time Rafe mentioned Sofia, he did it with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching blindly into the cooler for another beer.
There was no hesitation in his voice. No warning hidden in the way he said her name. Nothing that might have given you a few precious seconds to arrange your face into something less honest.
“Sofia’s coming to Midsummers with me, by the way.”
The boat cut smoothly across the water, leaving the Figure Eight shoreline shrinking behind you. Kelce was stretched across the back bench with his sunglasses slipping down his nose, and Topper had been complaining about the playlist for the better part of twenty minutes.
It should have been another ordinary afternoon.
You looked up from where you were sitting beside Rafe.
“With us?”
Rafe glanced at you, his eyebrows pulling together slightly.
“What?”
“You said Sofia’s coming.”
“Yeah.” He pulled a beer from the cooler and cracked it open against the edge of the console. “I asked her.”
The wind caught your hair and swept it across your mouth.
For a moment, you did not understand what he meant. Or perhaps you understood perfectly and simply needed him to say it again, differently this time.
“You asked her?”
“To Midsummers,” Kelce supplied, lifting his head. “Try to keep up.”
Rafe smirked. “Thank you, Kelce.”
You looked toward the water before any of them could see your expression change.
The sun was bright enough to hurt. It scattered across the surface in sharp white pieces, forcing you to squint even behind your sunglasses.
“Oh.”
It was the only word you could manage.
Rafe took a drink. “Figured I should bring someone this year.”
Something inside your chest folded in on itself. You had gone with him every year. Not officially. Neither of you had ever called it that.
But he picked you up. You sat beside him at dinner. You fixed his tie when he inevitably loosened it before you even reached the country club. When the dancing started, he found you in the crowd and held out his hand with a dramatic sigh, as though the entire tradition had been forced upon him.
You had never needed him to call it a date.
You had thought the fact that it was always you meant more than the word ever could.
Apparently, Rafe had been waiting to bring someone who counted.
“That’s great,” you said.
The lie came out smoothly enough that you almost believed it.
Topper did not.
You could feel him watching you from across the boat, but you refused to look at him. Topper had always noticed too much. It was one of the things you usually loved about him.
Right now, you hated it.
Kelce pushed himself upright.
“How’d you pull that off?”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m serious. Did you ask her, or did you just stand around staring until she felt bad for you?”
Rafe threw a bottle cap at him.
Kelce laughed, and the conversation moved forward without you.
You listened as Rafe told them he had asked Sofia the day before. She had apparently smiled. Said she would love to go. He had already made plans to pick her up.
Each detail settled somewhere beneath your ribs.
You tried not to picture it.
Rafe arriving at her house. Rafe waiting while she finished getting ready. Rafe looking at her when she opened the door. Rafe telling her she looked beautiful in the careless, almost dismissive way he gave compliments when he meant them too much.
The same way he had looked at you every year. Or maybe not the same.
Maybe that was the problem.
“You’re still coming, right?”
You turned toward him.
Rafe was watching you now, one hand loose around the wheel. The concern in his expression was so small it might have been imagined.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’ve said about three words in the last five minutes.”
“Maybe I’m enjoying the view.”
Rafe looked pointedly around at the open water. “You’ve seen it before.”
“And I’ve heard you talk before. I wanted a break.”
Kelce laughed from the back of the boat.
Rafe rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “There she is.”
The words should not have warmed you. They did anyway.
He reached over and tugged lightly on the end of your hair before turning his attention back to the water.
It was the kind of touch that had ruined you slowly.
Rafe had never been careful with his affection. He leaned against you when he was tired. Rested his arm across the back of your chair. Called you in the middle of the night because he was bored and knew you would answer. He remembered which drinks you hated and which songs you pretended not to like. He let you drive his truck even though he complained about it the entire time.
He had given you years of almosts without realizing you were collecting them.
You moved away from the console and sat beside Topper.
Rafe noticed.
His eyes followed you for half a second before Kelce distracted him with another insult.
Topper waited until the engine and music were loud enough to cover his voice.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He tilted his head. “You look fine.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
You reached for the drink beside him and took a sip. Topper let you.
Across the boat, Rafe looked back at the two of you.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. He smiled back.
It was instinctive for both of you.
That was the worst part.
— ᨳଓ .
The black dress had been hanging from the outside of your closet for nearly three weeks.
You had sent Rafe a picture of it from the fitting room, along with a second one in pale pink.
His response arrived less than a minute later.
Black.
No reasoning. No compliment. Just a single word.
You bought it anyway.
Now you stood in front of the mirror wearing a dress chosen for a boy who would be arriving with someone else.
The material skimmed your body and fell softly toward the floor. Your hair was pinned away from your face, though a few pieces had already started escaping around your temples. You had spent longer than usual on your makeup, carefully covering every trace of the sleepless night you had spent imagining the evening ahead.
You looked beautiful. It felt useless.
Your phone buzzed on the vanity.
topper: outside
A second message appeared before you could answer.
topper: don’t make me come in there
Then, almost immediately:
rafe: kelce is already drunk
rafe: hurry up
You stared at his name.
Every previous year, Rafe had been the one waiting outside. He would lean against his truck and complain that you had made him late, even when he arrived twenty minutes earlier than necessary.
Last year, he had looked at you for so long that you finally asked what was wrong.
He had shaken his head and opened the passenger door.
“Nothing. You look nice.”
You had replayed it for months.
Now Topper was outside, and Rafe was somewhere across the island waiting for Sofia.
You turned your phone facedown.
For one weak second, you considered taking off the dress.
You could tell them you were sick. You could climb into bed, scrub the makeup from your face and avoid seeing Rafe’s hand on Sofia’s waist. You could preserve the version of Midsummers that existed in your memories.
Then Rafe would call.
He would ask what was wrong.
You would hear music and Sofia’s voice in the background.
And you would have to lie anyway.
You picked up your purse.
Topper was leaning against his car when you walked outside.
His mouth opened, probably to make some impatient comment, but whatever he had planned to say disappeared when he saw you.
“You look—”
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
You walked around him and opened the passenger door.
Topper watched you climb inside before joining you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he started the car.
“You don’t have to go.”
You looked out the window. “Of course I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“He told me beforehand.”
Topper’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “That isn’t what I said.”
You swallowed. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say he did.”
“So why are you acting like I’m heading toward my execution?”
Topper glanced at you.
“Because you look like you are.”
You turned the radio up.
He let you.
— ᨳଓ .
Rafe was already there when you arrived.
You saw him before he saw you.
He stood near the entrance with Sofia beside him, listening while she spoke. Her dress was a soft cream color, simple and elegant, and her dark hair fell over one shoulder.
She was beautiful.
You had hoped she would not be.
It was petty, and you knew it, but some part of you had imagined discovering something about her that made Rafe’s choice easier to understand. Maybe she would be rude. Maybe she would be painfully dull. Maybe she would look wrong standing beside him.
She did not.
Rafe leaned toward her so he could hear her over the music. His hand rested against the small of her back, casual and warm.
He looked comfortable. That hurt more than if he had looked infatuated.
Topper stepped closer to you. “We can go around.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m fine.”
Rafe looked up.
The moment he saw you, his face changed.
His smile came easily, familiar enough to make your heart betray you. He said something to Sofia and started toward you.
“You finally made it.”
Before you could answer, his arm circled your waist and he pulled you into a quick hug. His palm pressed against your side through the thin fabric of your dress.
You hated how naturally you leaned into him.
When he stepped back, his eyes moved over you.
“You wore the black one.”
You stared at him.
“You remembered?”
“Obviously.”
Hope was a cruel thing. It arrived even now, bright and immediate, because he remembered a dress.
Then Sofia joined him.
Rafe stepped back to make space for her, his hand returning to her waist as though it belonged there. “This is Sofia.”
Sofia smiled. “Hi. I’ve heard so much about you.”
You wondered what Rafe had said.
Whether he had told her about the time the two of you snuck onto the golf course at two in the morning. Whether she knew you were the only person he trusted to drive his truck. Whether he had mentioned that you knew every expression he made before he lost his temper and every joke that could pull him out of it.
You forced yourself to smile. “Hopefully nothing too bad.”
“Mostly bad,” Rafe said.
You looked at him. He grinned.
It was the same stupid exchange the two of you had shared a hundred times.
Sofia laughed politely.
Rafe looked between you. “You two will get along.”
You were not sure why that sentence hurt.
Perhaps because he wanted Sofia to fit into the group so easily. As though there had always been a place waiting for her.
As though it had not been yours first.
“I’m sure we will,” you said.
— ᨳଓ .
Nothing terrible happened.
That was what made the night unbearable.
Sofia was nice.
She listened when you spoke. She laughed at Kelce’s stories even when they were not funny. She remembered Topper’s name and asked questions about how the four of you had met.
Rafe was not cruel.
He still included you in conversations. Still looked toward you whenever Kelce said something ridiculous. Still nudged your foot beneath the table when Rose began discussing something painfully boring.
He wanted you there.
He simply wanted Sofia beside him more.
The losses came quietly.
Sofia stood beside him in the group photograph.
You stood beside Topper.
Rafe brought Sofia a drink without asking what she wanted. When he returned, you waited for him to hand you yours too.
He did not.
Topper appeared a minute later with your usual order. “Thanks,” you said.
Rafe looked at the glass in your hand. “Oh, shit. I forgot.”
“It’s fine.”
“You could’ve said something.”
“It’s really fine, Rafe.”
He studied your face for a second. Then Sofia asked him a question, and he turned toward her.
At dinner, Sofia sat beside him.
You sat across the table, directly in their line of sight.
Rafe’s hand disappeared beneath the table. Sofia smiled down at her plate. You tried not to imagine where he was touching her.
When he loosened his tie, Sofia reached over and fixed it.
Your fingers twitched uselessly in your lap.
Every year, he had arrived with it crooked.
Every year, you stood close enough to feel his breath against your forehead while you straightened it.
“Stop moving,” you would complain.
“You’re taking too long.”
“You’re welcome to do it yourself.”
“You know I can’t.”
It had never occurred to you that anyone else could.
Rafe looked across the table and caught you staring.
“What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
His eyes remained on you for another moment.
Then Sofia touched his arm, and he looked away.
Topper’s knee bumped yours beneath the table.
You did not look at him.
— ᨳଓ .
The band began playing shortly after dinner.
You recognized the song within the first few notes.
Of course you did.
It was the song Rafe always found you for.
Not because either of you particularly liked it. The first time you danced to it, you had been fifteen and making fun of the older couples around you. Rafe had bowed dramatically and nearly dropped you while trying to spin you.
The following year, he had found you again.
Then again.
Somewhere along the way, the joke had stopped feeling like one.
You stood near the edge of the dance floor, pretending to listen while Kelce talked about someone you did not know.
Rafe was across the room with Sofia.
You told yourself not to wait.
Still, when the music softened, you looked at him.
Rafe turned toward Sofia and held out his hand.
She smiled as she took it.
He led her onto the dance floor.
There was no moment of hesitation. He did not search the room for you. He did not seem to remember that the song belonged to anyone else.
Because it had never belonged to you.
You had simply been the girl available every time it played.
Rafe placed one hand on Sofia’s waist.
She rested hers on his shoulder.
He said something that made her laugh. When she stepped too close to his shoe, he shook his head, smiling down at her.
Your vision blurred.
Topper moved into your line of sight.
“Dance with me.”
“No.”
He held out his hand. “Come on.”
“I don’t want to dance.”
“I know.”
Behind him, Rafe bent his head closer to Sofia.
Topper stepped forward, blocking them completely. “You don’t have to keep watching.”
Your throat tightened. You put your hand in his.
Topper led you toward the edge of the dance floor, keeping enough distance between you that it could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was.
A rescue.
You rested your hand on his shoulder. His palm settled carefully at your waist.
“You can stop looking over there,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
You looked over his shoulder anyway.
Rafe was already watching you.
For one suspended second, neither of you looked away.
His expression shifted.
It was small. Barely anything.
His gaze dropped to Topper’s hand at your waist before returning to your face. His eyebrows pulled together, confusion passing over his features like a shadow.
Your heart jumped despite everything.
Then Sofia said his name.
Rafe turned back to her.
Whatever he had felt disappeared.
Topper exhaled quietly.
You lowered your head.
“Take me outside.”
— ᨳଓ .
Rafe found you before you made it there.
You were standing near the drinks, trying to convince Topper that you needed a minute alone, when Rafe appeared beside you.
“There you are.”
You looked at him.
His tie was loose again.
Sofia was nowhere in sight.
“I’ve been here all night.”
“You’ve barely talked to me.”
“You’ve been busy.”
Rafe glanced over his shoulder toward the ballroom.
When he looked back, something guarded had entered his expression.
“Are you mad I brought Sofia?”
Your stomach dropped.
This was the moment. You could tell him.
The words had lived inside you for years, growing around every late-night phone call and shared cigarette and careless touch.
You could tell him that you had bought the black dress because he chose it. That every year you waited for his truck outside your house. That you had mistaken his habits for promises because you had wanted them to be.
You could tell him that watching Sofia beside him felt like being erased from a place you had never been allowed to claim.
But Rafe was looking at you with genuine confusion.
Not fear.
Not hope.
He had no idea why you would be upset.
“No,” you said.
His eyes narrowed. “Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
You tried to smile. “Maybe I’m tired.”
“You’ve been weird since the boat.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
Rafe took a small step closer.
For a moment, the noise of the party seemed to disappear. He was close enough that you could smell his cologne, close enough that you could reach up and fix his tie.
His expression softened. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
You looked at him.
That was the tragedy of Rafe Cameron.
He believed you would.
He believed he knew every important thing about you because you had spent years making yourself easy for him to understand.
You swallowed. “Of course.”
Sofia called his name from across the room.
Rafe closed his eyes briefly, irritated by the interruption.
Then he looked back at you. “We’ll talk later.”
You knew you would not.
“Go.”
He hesitated.
It was not enough.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He walked away.
He looked back once.
That was not enough either.
— ᨳଓ .
You found Sofia alone on the terrace twenty minutes later.
For one terrible second, you considered turning around before she noticed you.
Then she smiled.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
She rested her arms on the railing beside you. Music floated through the open doors behind you, softened by the ocean wind.
“I was actually hoping I’d get a second alone with you.”
Your heart lurched. “Why?”
Sofia laughed nervously. “I was kind of scared to meet you.”
You turned toward her. “Me?”
“Rafe talks about you constantly.”
Hope rose so quickly it made you dizzy.
Sofia looked toward the ballroom.
“I knew if you didn’t like me, this probably wouldn’t last very long.”
The hope died just as fast.
You stared at her profile.
She was not jealous. She was not warning you away from him. She simply understood that your approval mattered to Rafe.
Not because he wanted you. Because you were his best friend. Because he trusted you. Because he loved you in the only way he ever had.
Sofia looked back at you.
“I know that probably sounds stupid.”
“No.” You forced your mouth into a smile. “It doesn’t.”
“He really cares what you think.”
You nodded.
“He cares what everyone thinks, even when he pretends he doesn’t.”
Sofia smiled. “That’s what I told him.”
You looked toward the water.
“You don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The relief on her face made something inside you ache.
You had reassured her that Rafe was hers.
And she had no idea what it cost you.
— ᨳଓ .
You did not mean to see them kiss.
You had gone looking for Topper.
The ballroom had become too warm, the conversations too loud, and you needed someone who would not ask you to explain why your hands had started shaking.
You stepped outside and followed the stone path around the side of the building.
Then you heard Sofia laugh.
You stopped.
They stood beneath a string of lights near the hedges.
Rafe’s back was partially turned toward you, but you could see Sofia’s face. She was smiling up at him, her fingers curled loosely around the front of his jacket.
Rafe said something too quiet for you to hear.
Sofia’s expression softened.
Then he kissed her.
It was not rushed. That might have been easier.
His hand rose to her cheek, his thumb resting gently beneath her eye. Sofia leaned into him, and Rafe smiled against her mouth before kissing her again.
Tenderly. Like he had nowhere else to be.
You had imagined Rafe kissing you more times than you could count.
In your imagination, it was always sudden.
A confession pulled out of him by jealousy or fear or one drink too many. He would look at you as though he had finally understood something, and then his hands would be in your hair, his mouth desperate against yours.
You had never imagined him kissing someone else with such care.
Topper found you standing there.
He followed your gaze.
His expression changed.
You turned away before he could speak.
“I knew,” you whispered.
Topper said nothing.
“He told me.”
Your voice broke. You covered your mouth with one hand and started walking.
Topper followed. Behind you, the music continued.
Rafe never called your name.
— ᨳଓ .
You made it to the dock before the tears came.
Your heels caught between the wooden boards twice before you finally tore them off and carried them in one hand. The music from the country club faded with every step, replaced by the quiet movement of water against the posts.
You sat at the edge of the dock.
For several seconds, you could not breathe properly.
Topper lowered himself beside you without saying anything.
You stared at the dark water beneath your feet.
“This is so embarrassing.”
“It’s not.”
“He didn’t even do anything.”
“I know.”
“He told me he was bringing her.”
“I know.”
You laughed, but the sound came out broken. “So why does it feel like he lied to me?”
Topper looked toward the distant lights of the party. “He didn’t lie.”
The answer hurt, even though you already knew it.
“I know.”
Your first tear slipped free. You wiped it away angrily.
“He never said we were going together. He never asked me. We just always did.”
Topper remained quiet. “I thought that meant something.”
“It doesn’t have to erase it.” Your voice shook. “It just makes it what it always was.”
“And what was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“It wasn’t nothing to me,” you corrected. “That doesn’t mean it was something to him.”
Topper looked at you then, really looked at you.
You hated the sympathy in his face.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel sorry for me.”
His voice softened. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because I spent years convincing myself he just needed time.”
The admission cracked something open. You looked back toward the country club. The lights were blurred now.
“I didn’t think he already loved me,” you continued. “I’m not that stupid.”
Topper did not interrupt. “I just thought maybe one day he would.”
Your chin trembled.
“I thought eventually he’d look at me and it would be different.”
Topper swallowed.
You stared down at your reflection in the water.
“But he already looks at me exactly how he wants to.”
The first sob escaped before you could stop it.
You bent forward, pressing one hand against your mouth.
Topper moved closer.
His arm came around your shoulders carefully, giving you enough time to pull away.
You did not.
You turned into him and cried against his jacket.
Every breath hurt.
You cried for every time Rafe had held your hand without thinking. Every night he had called because he could not sleep. Every Midsummers dance you had treated like evidence.
You cried because Sofia was kind. Because Rafe had remembered the dress. Because he had almost noticed.
Almost was beginning to feel crueler than never.
Topper held you without trying to fix it.
The party continued behind you.
Every so often, footsteps sounded along the path, and your head lifted before you could stop it. A couple laughing. Someone searching for a cigarette. Kelce’s voice in the distance.
Never Rafe.
Topper noticed.
He did not say anything.
You waited anyway. Minutes passed. The music changed.
Your breathing slowly steadied, though tears continued sliding silently down your face.
“Do you think he noticed I left?”
Topper went still.
The pause lasted only a second. It was still too long. “Yeah,” he said.
You stared toward the lights. “Do you think he knows why?”
Topper looked at you.
You already knew the answer.
“No.”
Somehow, that hurt more than seeing the kiss.
Rafe was not ignoring your heartbreak.
He did not know it existed.
You lowered your head back onto Topper’s shoulder.
Across the lawn, hidden by darkness and distance, Rafe stood near the edge of the ballroom with Sofia’s hand in his.
Kelce had asked where you and Topper had disappeared to.
Rafe looked toward the dock. “She’s been weird all night,” he said.
Kelce shrugged. “Probably tired.”
Rafe kept looking toward the water.
For a moment, a faint unease settled in his chest. The strange sense that something had shifted while he was not paying attention. That there had been a conversation he was supposed to have, a moment he had somehow missed.
Sofia tugged lightly on his hand. “You coming?”
Rafe glanced at her.
Then he looked toward the dock one final time.
He could not see you from where he stood.
He let Sofia lead him back inside.
At the dock, you cried for a love Rafe Cameron had never known he was being offered.
You only agreed to be Leon Kennedy’s fake girlfriend for one night, help him make his ex jealous at a couples-only party, collect a nice purse as payment, and go home. But when old feelings get dragged into the open, a suspicious Chris calls your bluff, and seven minutes in heaven turns into something a lot hotter and messier…
Warnings:Leon Kennedy x Fem!Reader • smut • fake dating • angst?• 7 minutes in heaven • friends to lovers •
The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards of Chris Redfields extravagant house as starlights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting everyone in a warm, hazy glow that made the whole thing feel a little too intimate for a random Saturday night except it was a Couples-only party, you found out when Leon had shown up at your apartment two hours earlier with that half-sheepish, half-cocky grin you knew too well, holding up a bottle of your favorite wine like a peace offering.
"Fake date. One night. My ex is gonna be there with the new guy she's been throwing in my face for weeks. I'll owe you big time." Your payment? You could pick out anything from the mall the next day, it was on him. Now here you were, playing the doting girlfriend while his ex never even glanced your way the whole night.. wow Kennedy, your plan is working out great. Half an hour later, Chris clapped him on the shoulder with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"Man, didn't know you were seeing someone. She's cute. How long?"
"Few months," Leon answered smoothly, thumb stroking your hip. Chris's gaze narrowed.
"Right. So how'd you two meet again? Because last time I saw you, you were bitching about being chronically single. I didn't think you'd even show up to the party.."
The air thickened. You felt Leon tense. You laughed lightly, turning to kiss Leon's jaw. If you're already here the least you could do was take advantage of the situation.
"Blind date, mutual friend set us up and what can I say.. it was love at first sight. End of story."
Chris hummed, unconvinced. "Cute story.." But there was something about his tone.. like he wasn't fully convinced.
The night wore on and still not even one look from his ex, so Leon upped the ante: a hand sliding down to squeeze your ass when he thought she was looking, a slow kiss at the corner of your mouth–never a real one–that left you breathless and wanting for more. The line between pretend and real blurred with every passing minute. Your skin felt too hot and you kept pressing your thighs togheter, but you had to remind yourself that this was not real, it was just a game for him, for his ego. At least you'll get a cute designer purse.
Eventually the host banged a spoon against a bottle. “Alright, degenerates! Classic rules. Seven minutes in heaven. No backing out. We're drawing couples so no one leaves heartbroken"
You fought a groan from bubbling up your throat while the circle formed. When Chris pulled the slip with both of your names,he barked out a laugh from across the room.
“Perfect timing,” he called. “You two lovebirds need a minute to cool off anyway. Go on.”
Leon’s jaw flexed, but he played along, taking your hand and leading you into the small guest room. The door clicked shut behind you. A single lamp cast low golden light over a made bed and a closet full of coats. The lock turned, Chris had clearly decided to play enforcer. Silence stretched for three heartbeats.Then Leon exhaled a low laugh, running a hand through his hair. “We’re busted. He knows.”
“Probably,” you agreed, pulse hammering. “So… do we just stand here awkwardly for seven minutes?” Leon stepped closer. The fake-dating tension had been simmering all night, his hand on your thigh under the table, the way you’d leaned into his neck and inhaled his cologne, the heated looks neither of you had needed to fake. His eyes darkened as they dropped to your mouth.
“Or,” he said, voice rough, “we stop pretending.”
Your back hit the door. Leon caged you there with one arm, the other tilting your chin up. The first kiss was testing. Then you parted your lips and he groaned, deepening it instantly. His tongue slid against yours, hungry, years of buried want suddenly unleashed. You fisted his shirt, pulling him flush.
“Fuck, you’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he growled against your mouth. His hands roamed down your sides, gripping your ass and lifting you so your legs wrapped around his waist. The hard line of his cock pressed against your core through his jeans, and you rocked into it shamelessly.
“Leon— I thought you still liked your ex" you pant between kisses "isn't that why you invited me in the first place?"
"Fuck no,” Leon growled between hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat
“I stopped caring about her the second you said yes. I just needed an excuse to finally have you like this.”
"Tell me to stop and I will.” His hand came up, thumb brushing your lower lip. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this.”
Your hands fumbled with his belt. He helped you, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock, already thick, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. You wrapped your fingers around him and stroked once, twice. Leon hissed, hips jerking forward.
“Careful,” he warned, voice rough. He pushed your dress up to your waist and yanked your lace panties down your legs. He tucked them into his pocket with a wicked little smirk, then dropped to his knees between your spread thighs.
“Look at you,” he breathed, spreading you open with his thumbs.
“So fucking wet for me already.” He leaned in and licked a slow, broad stripe up your center, groaning at the taste. Then he stopped teasing. His mouth sealed over your clit, sucking gently while two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right.Your head fell back, a broken sound escaping your throat. He ate you out like he was trying to ruin you for anyone, sucking until your thighs shook around his ears. The wet sounds filled the tiny room, obscene and perfect.“Leon...fuck, gonna come..”
He hummed against you and pumped his tongue inside you faster. You came hard, hips bucking against his face, biting your lip to keep from screaming loud enough for the whole party to hear. He didn’t give you time to recover. Leon rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pulled you to the edge of the couch. He rubbed the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your sensitive clit until you whimpered, then pushed in with one deep thrust.
“Shit—” you gasped at the stretch. He was big, but you were so wet it didn’t matter. He bottomed out with a low curse, forehead pressed to yours.
“Been wanting this for so long,” he admitted, voice ragged as he started to move. Slow at first, savoring it, then harder, deeper, the couch creaking beneath you. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging in, legs locked around his waist. Every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you, building the pressure again impossibly fast. His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, slick strokes.
“Come on, baby. One more. Want to feel you milking my cock”
The words tipped you over. You came again with a sharp cry, clenching around him so hard his rhythm stuttered. Leon followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name as he spilled inside you, hips grinding through the last pulses.
For a minute you just stayed connected, breathing hard, his face buried in your neck when a loud knock rattled the door.
“Time’s up!” Chris yelled, sounding way too amused.
“You kids decent in there?” Leon huffed a laugh against your skin. He pulled out slowly and rolled his eyes, but his hand found yours, squeezing once before he unlocked the door.
“We’re good,” he said casually as you both stepped back into the party lights, your cheeks flushed and a very obvious hickey blooming on your neck. Chris took one look at the two of you: messed-up hair, swollen lips, the way Leon’s arm stayed wrapped possessively around your waist and let out a low whistle. “Yeah… thought so. About damn time.”
summary: firelord zuko's hair is a mess after a mission with team avatar. his disheveled appearance sparks concern—but his refusal for any help reveals that the only person he allows to take care of his hair... is you.
pairing: firelord! zuko x reader
content: his hair is so beautiful and luscious and i just can't, fluff, zuko yearning
"Zuko, your beautiful—lushious hair!" Sokka gasps. "It's a bird's nest!"
Zuko’s hair is in a haphazardly tied bun, barely hanging on through sheer willpower—and his loosened strands are a tangled mess. He runs his hand through his bangs, and his fingers catch onto the knots.
Shrugging, he tugs his hand away from the mess he’s worsened with a singular touch. “I don’t mind it.”
“You could use Katara’s help.” Sokka offers, desperately staring at Zuko’s hair as if it were his own. “She’s good at untangling hair knots, though I can’t guarantee it’ll be painless—”
“No, it’s fine.” Zuko waves it off. “I prefer—”
His voice shuts down immediately, lips clamping into a thin line. That was close, dancing too near to what would certainly be his demise.
Sokka, half-digging at his ear, cocks a brow. “Huh, prefer what? If there’s a particular hairstyle you want, you’ll have to ask nicely.”
“No, I don’t have a style I prefer.” Zuko answers with a deadpan. His words trail off before eventually settling on a semi-truth. “…My hair will be redone once I return to my nation.”
Sokka’s brows furrow together before his lips part. “Ah! How could I forget? The Fire Lord probably has his own team of personal hair stylists.”
Zuko restrains a sigh. He doesn’t let just anyone touch his hair, much less an entire team of strangers. It doesn’t matter if they’re the best in the entire nation, he would not have them, not when he has… you.
He’s gotten used to your delicate touch, braiding intricate braids into his hair—or even a simple bun. The habit of being pulled by the wrist to rest in front of you, your skilled movements undoing your own work once you’re tired of the previous one—brushing your hair comb through his locks before starting on a new pattern.
He misses that. Misses you.
“Something like that.” He settles on instead.
”Man, you’re lucky.” Sokka sighs in discontent. “All I got when I was younger—was a bunch of pulling and tugging into the tightest bun possible.”
Zuko blinks at the information before casting Sokka a side-eye. “And you wanted me to ask Katara for help?”
Sokka grins sheepishly. “I never said it didn’t come without sacrifice.”
If Zuko had known his brief mention of having a hairstylist would backfire on him when his hair becomes a topic of conversation, he would have just kept his mouth shut and dealt with the teasing.
His hair has become an unbearably, obvious distraction by the end of their mission. Every wash during stay-in nights at inns has led to its own self-assured destruction, with each shower complicating the knots, wounding them tighter and tighter till the point of no return.
“Looking at that makes me grateful I don’t have hair.” Aang winces.
“Why?” Toph whips her head around, eyes widening in curiosity. “What does it look like? Describe it to me.”
“A bird’s nest. A genuine nightmare.” Sokka snorts. “You might have to shave it off and start over.”
“We’ll be matching.” Aang grins.
“It’s barely in-tact. Hanging by a literal loose rubber.” Katara sighs, hand reaching out. “Let me fix it.”
“Don’t.” Zuko’s voice breaks out—defensive and panicked, before he can stop it.
Everyone freezes at his sudden outburst.
Katara pauses—retracting her hand, brows pulling together in confusion. “You prefer not being able to see past your bangs?”
Zuko pushes his bangs back, and his fingers catch once more in the knots. “See? It’s perfectly cooperative.”
Sokka scoffs. “Yeah, at least try getting your hands untangled from your hair before convincing us.”
“We’ve almost reached.” Zuko sighs in exasperation. “It’ll be sorted once we’ve landed. I don’t mind the mess, so just—look away if it bothers you.”
“You keep mentioning that.” Sokka mutters, catching onto Zuko’s slither of frustration. “What’s waiting for you back home? A five-star hair stylist to sort out that monstrosity?”
Zuko doesn’t answer, gaze lingering on the map. Anytime now, he estimates they’ll be landing within the hour. He can only hope his impatience isn’t obvious to the others, not when he’s barely restraining the bouncing of his leg in anticipation. Partly from the mess that was his hair, but mostly because he’s itching for your warmth, your hands unravelling his knots, your nails scratching into his scalp as you part his hair into sections.
He misses you… desperately. Time spent away from you, and the constant reminder that he can barely function without you being a part of his daily routine—till the point where he’s forgotten how to take care of his own hair and yet, still automatically refuses to let anyone assist him? Yeah, he’s done for.
“Hey! Earth to Zuko?” Sokka’s hand waves in front of his eyes.
Zuko barely restrains a groan. “What?”
“I was asking if I could get a free, personal booking with your hairstylist—”
“Absolutely not.” Zuko’s gut flares with an irrational temper, something he’s long retired since his youth. Or at least, he had assumed so that this familiar fury had been left behind in the past. Yet, just the thought of you working on anyone else’s hair except for his… leaves a dreaded, sinking feeling in his gut.
“Yikes, possessive much?”
He shrugs noncommittally. Maybe he was being overly protective. His self-control always slipped when it came to you, or the thought of anything endangering the soft, rare intimacy and vulnerability he only shared with you. Your soft hums, your random ramblings as you did his hair—it was all precious to him. He’ll send a talented hairstylist to Sokka if need be, but in regards to you? Is it truly a selfish wish, if he wanted to keep you all to himself?
A large crowd has gathered for Team Avatar, mostly for Aang, who has grown in popularity—especially among children. The cheering, the excitement all falls flat on Zuko’s ears. His gaze fleets over the numerous unfamiliar faces in search of one in particular.
His breath stops when he spots you, waving your hand enthusiastically so you’ll catch his eye. Not that you needed to, how could he not notice you? You’ve been the singular anchor that his thoughts have been warping around throughout the entire mission.
It doesn’t even occur to him that there’s still people around—or that the sight of the Fire Lord running towards a stranger in a crowd is unbecoming. Who cares if they’re staring—or if they notice the absolute unkempt chaos that was his hair.
When you’re within reach, his hands make contact with your waist and he wastes no time pulling you into his embrace.
“Zuko!” You gasp, fingers coming up to caress the loose strands come loose from his loose bun as you hang onto him. “Your hair—it’s a mess!”
He doesn’t care, still gripping you tight in his arms. It’s been awhile since he’s gone this long without you near—that the very sight of you consumed his rationality.
“I couldn’t.” He mutters, burying his nose into the crook of your neck.
“Couldn’t what?” You whisper, fingers resting softly on the nape of his neck, and he sighs at the touch.
“Let others take care of it.” He admits shamefully, twisting his head so you could hear him more clearly. “…That’s your duty.”
Your lips part and close, processing his admission. After a moment, you let out an amused chuckle. “You missed me taking care of your hair?”
“Yeah.” He lets out a breath. “It was driving me crazy.”
“The hair?” You guess.
“Not being able to see you.” He answers honestly. There was more, there always was when it came to you. Still, he was never good with his words, so he’ll have to settle on that.
”You…” You exhale, sounding content as you relaxed in his hold. “I’ve missed you too, Zuko.”
Your admission is a warm, soothing reminder of just how much he cherishes you. Only you could make him feel seen, or have such a strong desire to allow only you to take care of him. He’s meant to be a symbol, a strong leader—but there’s nothing more than he wishes for than to be whisked away to the privacy of his palace gardens, with you alone.
A loud whistle cuts through the roaring of the crowd.
Almost begrudgingly, Zuko lifts his head from the crook of your neck to meet Sokka’s smug expression.
“Sokka.” He warns, sensing mischief before it has even struck.
“What?” Sokka replies. “Just wondering when you’re gonna introduce us to your personal hairstylist.”
“What’s this about being a hairstylist?” You cock a brow.
“He’s twisting my words.” Zuko groans.
“No, I’m not!” Sokka huffs. “You’re the one bragging about having a whole team of hairstylists, even refusing help to fix that disaster messing up your good looks.”
“Bragging?” You muse, much to Zuko’s chagrin. “I’m honoured, but if you’re thinking of a team, then it’s sadly a one man show.”
Sokka grins. “Even more impressive! Could I book your services sometime—”
“No.” Zuko‘s hand out-stretches, tugging you by the waist back to his side. There isn’t a single gap left between you and him, and his gaze narrows. “Her hands are to only touch my hair.”
You blink rapidly, trying to process this rare side of Zuko that you’ve never truly seen before. A slow smile teeters on your lips, a happy satisfaction lingering in your gut as you lean into Zuko’s touch. “Sorry, Sokka. Fire Lord’s orders.”
“Oh man!” Sokka stomps. “I was so close to getting a free service from the Fire Lord’s personal hairstylist. Great going, Zuko.”
“Who said anything about it being free?” You grin innocently.
“Oh…” Sokka scratches at the nape of his neck, chuckling nervously. “Two birds of a feather do truly flock together. The price only the Fire Lord is willing to pay…. Consider my request retracted, M’lady.”
Zuko’s irritation—his desperation wound up in his chest, finally unravels the moment he’s alone with you.
No, it wasn’t just a simple unraveling. He has never felt so unconditionally happy—than in a mundane, normal manner like this. From the moment you’ve dragged him into his bedchambers, snapping the rubber that’s loosely holding onto his bundle of hair and grabbed for your comb and a new set of rubbers, he’s been needlessly pliant and cooperative.
“I appreciate the loyalty sentiment, but you’ve got to bring a comb with you next time, Zuko.” You mutter, lips bitten in concentration as you untangle his knots with your brush.
Zuko half hums in acknowledgment, too caught up in the feeling of your nails unintentionally scratching against his scalp as you re-do his hair. He’s gone so long without these secluded moments in his room, with your thighs over his shoulders as he sits on the floor, your skilled hands combing through his locks.
In the quiet, he feels the weight of all the expectations of being the Fire Lord roll off his shoulders with every brush of your fingers through his hair, and he just becomes… Zuko again.
It’s a peace he’s only had a taste of in the briefest moments of his childhood. Between the terror, the expectations—there was once where his mother used to comb through his hair in a similar fashion, and he would cherish it deeply in his heart.
You tug playfully when you notice he isn’t listening, caught in a daydream, and he whines.
“You listening, Fire Lord?” You tease. “Don’t you know the saying that if you leave your hair this tangled, you’ll lose it all before you’re fifty? That means you won’t be able to ask for my professional help anymore.”
He stiffens at the thought of never having your aid, your presence in his room over mere excuses of touching up his hair. He barely survived these past few weeks, much less forever. “I’ll bring a comb.” He answers obediently.
Humming a sound of approval, you resume your hand work. ”You know..” You murmur, beginning on your first braid. “Now that it’s been mentioned, I did notice that you don’t have a hairstylist.”
He furrows his brows. “Why would I need one?” Not when I have you.
“It’s just that..” You pause, voice softening. “Well, I’m no expert. Only the simple braids and buns, y’know? Even for your coronation as Fire Lord, and your yearly banquets, you called for me to do your hair.”
“…I don’t want anyone else.” He answers truthfully.
Your hand falters over your braid, and he feels you start over as your fingers thread through the top of his scalp. “Even if I put your hair into pigtails?” You tease, but it’s a silent prodding, a test to see how far he’d let you go.
”You can do whatever you wish.” He shrugs. “I have no complaints as long as you’re not providing your assistance… to others.”
“Still sour from that incident earlier, huh?” You snort. “I don’t know. I could charge a high price if I revealed that I’m your only, personal hairstylist.”
His hand catches your fingers right as they moved to begin the second braid. Caressing your hand gently, he slots his fingers between your own and interlocks them. “I won’t allow it.”
“Banning my business before it even starts?” You’re poking fun, but there’s a delight in your tone that tells him you’re enjoying this. “Don’t tell me you’re switching to a dictatorship.”
“I’ll offer you everything I own if it means being the only one who gets to have this. What’s mine is yours.” His voice is brash—quickened in his decisiveness, his other hand tracing the braid you’ve left that brushes past his shoulder. “My hair, my personal quarters, my trust—it’s all given only to you.”
Your lips part, not expecting him to take your words words so seriously. Swallowing your shock, you smile gently as your hand runs through his locks again. “Is that why you’ve been refusing to cut your hair?”
“You—” His ears redden, and he averts his gaze. “You mentioned before that you liked men with long hair.”
You’re silent. For long enough that he’s beginning to writhe slightly under the long minutes of sitting still on the floor. Zuko feels the heat burning at the back of his neck, and he thinks the long distance away from you for these past few weeks has finally run its course and fried his brain completely.
He’s caught up in his shame, his impudence to admit something so embarrassing that he didn’t have time to think of a proper excuse—when he feels your lips peck against the crown of his head.
He blinks once. Did—you just kiss him? If his brain wasn’t fried before, it definitely is now.
“I only mentioned that—” You reveal slowly, head still lowered so he can hear your hushed voice. “—because I like your long hair. Not anyone else’s. I wouldn’t trade this for anything else, so don’t get it confused.”
His heart stutters, quickening in its pace as he processes your words. A small smile spreads over his mouth as he leans further back, letting you do as you pleased. You’re right. He wouldn’t trade this for anything either.
He’d already quietly kept it as a promise that he’ll never cut his hair if it means you’ll stay here with him like this, tying childish braids into his hair that’s unbefitting a Fire Lord. No matter what comments his chamberlain tries to advise him, he’ll never undo them for as long as it’s to your design and liking. He’ll even go as far as to forget how to tie his hair into a minuscule bun if it meant having the excuse to feel your touch. He’s long past the point of rationality, but here in this moment, he finds having you do his hair is all that he needs to feel contentment.
He’s never felt more thankful to outgrow his old haircuts, than he did in this present moment.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
༄ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 under the moonlight, feelings become more apparent but uncle iroh interrupts an intimate moment between you and the Fire Lord.
༄ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 kiss!! not a full confession but we’re getting there. kinda implied non-bender!reader but it’s very ambiguous. probably incorrect tea practices and etiquette sorry im too burnt out to do proper research rn. reader’s hair long enough to be tied back! idk iron AND zuko feel ooc to me yall tell me if it does or nah. not proofread!!! if you see any mistakes no you don’t!!!!
← 𝐜𝐡.𝟏 ༄ 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟑 ->
“What’re you doing out here at this time?”
The voice doesn’t startle Zuko, but a sense of calm washes over his demeanour, like always when it comes to you. Turning his face, he sees you approaching, tea tray in hand, nightgown fluttering in the gentle breeze of the calm night. The moon is high in the night sky, well past sundown, but Zuko’s mind hasn’t calmed down enough for slumber.
“I could ask you the same thing.” He murmurs when you get close enough. The full moon illuminates the city with its pale light, contrasting the exuberant warmth of the Fire Nation, but it’s almost soothing, a quiet reprieve from what is your everyday lives.
“I wanted to keep you company.” You answer, setting the tray down on the floor a person’s length away from Zuko. The construction of his chambers was quite unique, something Zuko has specifically asked to be added, there was a small open courtyard in the middle of the wing, a small private space where he could have fresh air without any prying eyes, except you.
Zuko extends his hand up and you take it, your fingers resting on his palm as you settle down between him and the tray, letting go of his hand to turn away, fumbling with the tray but Zuko’s hand hovers in place for a moment longer before dropping, watching you prepare his tea the way he likes.
You turn back to him, the jade coloured ceramic cup, steam swirling before disappearing into the night air, your fingers brush ever so slightly as it exchanges hands, a tingle where it touched remains even when you go for your own cup. “Are you feeling okay, My Lord?” You ask as you watch him raise his cup to his face.
Zuko grimaces before the cup touches his lips, he always disliked it when you teased him with his tittle, you were always someone who got to know him as Zuko not the Fire Lord, but it’s too intimate. To ask him about his well-being without being honorific about it. For you to pretend you’re asking out of professional concern and not your personal worry, it’s just easier on your own heart.
Today was one of the more exhausting days, you watch the tea swirling in your cup, the reflection of the moon on the ripples in the tiny space, endless meetings and hearings from dawn to dusk, endless chatter and endless personnel to the point all their faces blended together in your mind. And you were beside him for it all.
You would always ask your friends about their well-being but you and Zuko weren’t friends, you didn’t want him to be your friend. There will always be something more between the two of you even if you don’t acknowledge it. You glance at him, watching him take a sip too long, sluggish as he brings the cup down. Zuko doesn’t look at you immediately, eyes fixated on the moon.
“Are you?” The question is small, voice almost lost to the wind. You like moments like this, where you can see him at his barest, it’s unreasonable but he always looked more handsome to you when his role of Fire Lord was off his shoulders, when the regalia, the crown and robes came off. When it was just Zuko. Right now, his eye squinted thoughtfully, the question hanging in the air.
“Quit echoing my questions back to me.” Your voice is pinched with slight annoyance at not getting straight answers, your hands tightening around the cup in your hands as you watch the tips of his lips quirk up minusculy.
You roll your eyes when he lets the silence answer for itself, settling into the comfortable kind that the two of you shared often, just the comfort of eachother’s presence. The seconds and minutes tick by as you’re both lost in thought, maybe about the same thing, maybe something wildly different.
It’s takes a breeze a bit too strong and a bit too cold to have you hissing, the gown not providing enough warmth on such an uncharacteristically cold night. So you move, subconsciously, towards a source of warmth, the well regulated body next to you, enough for your thigh to brush against his, your bicep pressing into his.
Zuko’s breaks contant with the moon to glance down at you as your head lulls and rests against his arm. You look up at his golden eyes, the intensity of them burning the through you, too many emotions that you’re not sure you want to dissect behind the amber glow.
He looks back at the moon, still silent in contemplation, your lips jutting out in a subtle pout he doesn’t catch. You shiver again, at another gust of wind regardless of the warmth you with siphoning off of Zuko, the chill catches your spine. It’s wordless as Zuko hooks his arm around you, his palm pressing over your bare upper arm, starting to run up from your elbow to your shoulder in an effort to warm you.
Heat of a different kind presses over the bridge of your nose and spreads to your cheeks, breath hitching ever so lightly as he continues, motion slow and soothing. You look ahead of you instead, bottom teeth sinking into your bottom lip at the rush of emotion due to just a simple gesture. With that, you don’t catch the same heat on his cheeks either.
A secret weighs on your conscience, something you discovered shortly after Aang’s letter and your discovery of Zuko’s feelings. The silence takes over again, a little heavier now, like there’s something unsaid, which is true. There is something, you should tell Zuko, tell him before it’s too late but every time you open your mouth…the words don’t come out.
“We should talk about it.”
The words cut the string of silence, Zuko catches a moment then he looks back at you but your eyes are ahead, a brief moment where his face bears all the emotions he wants to voice, but fading when you turn your head, cheek pressing against his shoulder as you ask, “About what?”
“Aang’s letter.”
Zuko immediately regrets uttering those words as you let out a sigh through your nose, gently pushing off of him, sitting up straight, your head is no longer on him and you practically shrug off his other arm when you turn to keep your tea cup back onto the tray. You blink an expressionless face, thinking for a quick second.
“What about it?” You ask, casually, as if he hadn’t been thinking and overthinking what the relationship between the two of you was now. You reach beyond hand behind you, pulling away the ribbon holding your hair back, the strands falling and fluttering slightly in the air.
Zuko’s stunned expression earns a shrug from you when you look up at him, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. “You didn’t say anything explicitly, so, what about it?” You bring the red ribbon to rest on both your palms, fiddling as you decide to then avoid his gaze.
“We are not children, Zuko, for Aang to run up to me while playing games and tell me that you have feelings for me.” You recount in your head the number of times you’d see that happen, the times you yourself confessed in a friend’s stead as a child.
Zuko doesn’t admit out loud that he doesn’t know what you’re referring to, not to state the obvious, but he wasn’t exactly allowed to play with other children, and certainly not games. He stays silent, letting you finish, you pause a moment as your finger traces the ribbon before you continue.
“If you have feelings, for anyone in-fact, you should tell them yourself.” You conclude, adding a subtle nod of your head as you speak, a subconscious habit Zuko had noticed that you had.
“Is it not obvious?” Zuko replies, almost immediately. You look up at him, his expression bearing slight hesitation. You hear him take a quiet inhale before he continues. “I wear my heart on my sleeve for you.”
The words come out a whisper, as if they’re shift too many balances if he admitted it with reverence. You want to crumble under his gaze, the vulnerability that he’s giving you at this very moment. You want to joke it off, tug at his sleeve and ask if it was that one or the other, but you can’t find it in you. You can’t find any words in you at all.
So you swallow down anything you want to confess, shaking your head slightly before moving back close to him, resting your head on his shoulder but snatching his arm gently before he can wrap it around you again. You tug at his wrist, resting his palm on your knee. Zuko watches wordlessly as you loop your hair ribbon around his wrist, once, twice, then you tie it off, examining it before taking his arm and guiding it around you, back to where it was, earning a small chuckle from him.
The chuckle leaves a ghost of a smile on his face, same one mirroring yours when you look up to him, your head snuggled into the muscles of his shoulder. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t hate you all that much either.” You whisper back, voice also soft, Zuko’s smile twitches higher, his hand rubs down your shoulder to your elbow, you feel him hesitate, his eyes crinkle for just a moment too, but then his palm slips lower, the warm imprint of it on your waist.
Now you’re close, your faces are too close and you couldn’t help it, almost involuntary when your eyes skip down to his lips, lingering there a moment too long before coming back, and Zuko catches it, how could he not? His head tilts ever so much, as the thought forms in his head, eyes skipping down to your eyes too.
“May I?” The question barely leaves his mouth and your nodding, the action a bit too eager, and Zuko takes just a moment, like he couldn’t believe that you wanted to, before he’s on you.
The first press of his lips against yours is gentle, almost like he was pressing his warmth into your body. It’s almost innocent, and breaks apart after a breath, both of you leaning back enough to look at each other. You blink up at Zuko as his hand tightens around your waist.
When he dives back in for the second time, it’s deeper. Unhurried as you mould your lips into his, slow as he presses down into you, pushing you up into him slightly and you reach your hand up, to cup his face deepen it more, ready to fall into him completely when—
“Ahem, ahem.”
The sound startles both you, enough for you to pry yourself off of Zuko, jolting back from his body in surprise. Zuko himself was on guard instantly, the palm that was previously on your waist was now held out, small fire cradled between his fingers.
“I seem to have interrupted you youngsters.”
“Uncle!” Zuko exclaims, fire in his palm extinguished as you cough into your hand in embarrassment, head dipped down as you pull yourself off the ground and to your full height. Zuko follows immediately after, dusting off his own nightwear as you pick your abandoned tea tray too.
Zuko’s palm finds its way to the small of your back, contact you’d normally relish in but the embarrassment and possible consequences, even though it’s only Iroh, runs through your head. You keep your face down, in a respectful bow towards the older gentleman who is sporting quite the happy smile. “I thought you could use a cup of good tea but seems that someone beat me to the idea!” Iroh beams, no malicious intent behind his voice.
“Uncle.” Zuko said again, trying to gauge your reaction, his own eyes widened to the max and face almost as read as the Fire Nation colors. “Oh, you two are adults.” Iroh waves. “You’re allowed to do whatever it is you please.” He laughs but it only brings more heat to your cheeks.
You hadn’t thought much of it before. No one could entire the Fire Lord’s chambers without announcing themselves—except you and Iroh. A crucial fact you had forgotten. You don’t catch the quick whispers between Zuko and his uncle, choosing rather to dip into a proper bow, bending at your hip to the older man. “I will take my leave.”
You begin walking away before either of the men can say anything, moving with feline grace as you turn the first corner you find, hearing heavier footsteps follow yours. Zuko calls out your name, causing you to halt abruptly and him almost crashing into you, all of it a little too awkward.
Even before you can help it, a giggle bubbles out of you. It’s quiet but prominent, pulling a smile on Zuko’s face too. The lamps in this hallway are brighter, letting you see his face, his scar, his nose, his beautiful eyes and those lip properly. “I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of his mouth, your hand coming up to smother your sounds of laughter.
“Do not apologise. Agni, why did I run away like a teenager?” You exclaim, another laugh tumbling out of you. “We were caught like we were teenagers.” Zuko says as he closes the distance between the two of you again, hands circling your waist, the warm from them returning to you. You smile up at him, leaning up to your toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips, “Go back to your uncle, we can finish this later.”
“I want to finish it now—” Zuko doesn’t even get to finish his sentence that you interrupted with another giggle, You shake your head, one hand balancing the tray and the other sneaking up his chest to push him away. “Go!” You shout in a whispered hush, dismissing the Fire Lord with a wave of your hand pushing off of him and disappearing away into the maze that is the Fire Nation Palace.
uhhh self deprecating a/n notes time!! it’s 4 am i just wrote the ending and i dooooont liiiiiike itttttttt. i was struggling to find a way to flow into a kiss and i was struuuuuggling cause i highkey suck as describing kisses😃😃. i was also tempted to make this into a make out sesh too icl<3 BABE the first time i wrote this it went UP angst hill, it was literally angst galore and that’s coming out as pt.3
BONUS!!!
“Did you know the moon is Sokka’s ex girlfriend?”
“What?!”
“It’s a long story.”
“Do you think she can hear us then? Talking here.”
“Spirit world is complex, so maybe. Probably.”
when avatar aang’s letter accidentally outs firelord zuko’s feelings for his royal advisor. oh my gosh i’ve been so obsessed with that^^ picture it’s insane i need him to look at me like that. oh and! flirty!reader kinda
<- 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟐 ->
“Your Highness, the Royal Advisor is—”
“Send her in, please.” The guard doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before Zuko interrupts him. It’s practically routine now, he doesn’t understand why they need to ask him repeatedly, you’re there practically every night!
Not for nefarious reasons, Zuko would never do that. No, it was your duty as his advisor to talk to him and give him advice pertaining to anything he wishes to discuss, be it the weather, your favourite meals for some reason, submarine formations, or just talking, about nothing in particular, your voice always just had a calming effect on him.
“Your Highness.” You greet him as you enter his chambers, a lavish room fit for the Fire Lord indeed. This wasn’t the same chambers that previous Fire Lords had resided in, when Zuko took the throne, he had the Princely palace wing that he grew up in converted to his chambers. The place is beautiful regardless, endless sea of different shades of red that come together just perfectly.
Zuko doesn’t look up from his paperwork as you also greet and then dismiss the guard. “Zuko.” You call out softly after the door closes, leaving you two alone during this beautiful night. There were several lamps lit across the room, illuminating the entire space in a warm glow, but the moonlight tonight is strong too.
Zuko finally glances up at you at the beckoning of his name, the tip of his lips quirking up in the faintest smile. He has disregarded his royal regalia for the day, the crown and heavy robes resting on the other side of the room. Now he’s in simple, comfortable sleepwear, which does nothing to hide his well-built muscular form underneath.
It was no surprise the friendship between you and Zuko. You’ve known eachother since you were children, you weren’t particularly friends, you were just his father’s advisor’s daughter that he interacted with occasionally. The only reason he picked you to be his advisor very early into his reign was the fact that you were critical of his father’s practices since a young age, privately of course, words only Zuko would hear.
It was only after then that a friendship blossomed. You were around him so much that it was inescapable, you were his closest confidant. You knew everything this about him, you were the only person he felt truly open and comfortable around in the Fire Nation, so it also wasn’t quite the shock when Zuko realised the ache in his chest when he saw you was not only platonic or professional but romantic too.
He greets you back with a soft whisper of your name, going back to skimming through whatever the document in front of him was. Zuko cherished moments like this. When it is just the two of you alone, when you could too let your guard down with no watchful eyes and just call him ‘Zuko’.
You were too dressed in casual wear, robes and the pins and medals that are usually decorated on them missing, simple red dress with a hem that kissed the ground and you walked, like you always were during these meetings with him.
“Avatar Aang sent a letter through.” You announced as you walked across his room, one hand holding up your dress so you don’t trip on it and the other waving a piece of parchment around. Zuko is situated in the floor, on a cushion with his legs crossed, a small, short table in front of him with ink, documents and a lamp rested on it.
“Read it out for me?” Zuko asks in a low voice, sleep infecting it and making it gravelly, enough to send a chill down your spine. You feel a slight rush of heat to your cheeks, feeling lucky that he wasn’t looking at you. Is it really your fault? Has anyone taken a look at this man? It’s unfair!
The way the light from the lamp was illuminating his side profile, in the way you could see every contor of his face and scar. He grew up, losing his childish features, replaced with sharp contours of his cheeks, nose and jaw. Zuko glances up at you again, wondering why you’ve suddenly gone silent, with you looking away before he caught you staring.
“Flameo Hotman. How goes running the Fire Nation?” You begin to narrate dramatically as you sink into the floor, tucking your legs under the table on the opposite side to Zuko so that you sat facing him. You continue reading, the two issues that the Avatar requires help with, something in Republic City and something related to food. You converse with Zuko, talking through the problems, his sassy remarks extracting chuckles and giggles from you occasionally.
“And lastly I am curious, did you tell—Oh.”
The documents he was examining earlier is now left abandoned as Zuko was solely focused on you, and now your reaction has his eyebrows scrunching. You were smiling till a moment ago, but whatever you read at the end had the joy leave your face and…a smirk stretching across your lips.
You glance up at Zuko from behind the piece of parchment, an odd glint in your eyes, maybe even…heat? Your teeth bite into your lower lip as you glance back at the letter and then back at Zuko. “What is it? What does it say?” Zuko questions, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening.
A soft huff of amusement leaves between your bitten lips, trying your best to keep your composure. Zuko watches as you fail and burst out into a giggle, your face reddening slightly. You look back at him, the same glint still in your eyes.
“Lastly I am curious.” You start and pause dramatically, the look in your eyes darkening a little. Agni, Zuko swears in his head, this is not helping the ache in his chest, the way you were looking at him, the smile stretched across your lips.
“Did you tell your royal advisor of your romantic feelings…for her?” You read out, voice dipping by an octave.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, Zuko is fucked.
“And asked if she is a bachelor or not? Seize the opportunity before it slips out of your fingers, my friend!” You finish reading, silently folding it before pressing the letter into the table, looking up at Zuko’s expression of being caught off guard.
The silence is very loud as you two just look at eachother, all color drained from his face and pure amusement on yours. Zuko’s eyes bare into yours and you can almost see the way he’s not only registering what you said but also working out on what to say, clearly unable to think of anything to say.
“Do you have other Royal Advisors I am not aware of…or?” You start, smirk still stretched across your lips. Zuko just blinks at you, his hetrochromatic eyes shining, his adam’s apple bopping as he swallows nervously. “He was simply…jesting.” Is somehow the only thing he can come up with currently, the usual sassiness you see in him completely disappeared.
“So you’re not in love with me?”
You say, a little too quickly causing Zuko’s eyes to widen, his scar stretching because of his surprise. “Uh…” Zuko quirks, but you smile smirk at him sweetly. “I…Its not…That’s, it’s. Um.” His hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck as you look at him expectantly.
You can see him buffering in real time, the machinery in his brain short circuiting as it’s unable to process what’s happening. You stay smiling at the Fire Lord as he just stares at you, probably praying for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.
You roll your eyes at his stupor, taking it into yourself to make a move, you prep yourself up into your knees, pressing you palms flat onto the mahogany wood as you lean cross the table as Zuko sits as still as a statue. You lean close enough for your nose to hover right over his cheek and partially his scar.
“I am a bachelor, Your Highness. Veeeery lonely.” You whisper as his face reddens even more before you rush forward to press a kiss his cheek, his skin soft beneath your lips. You feel Zuko let out a harsh exhale as you pull away, standing up to your full height, looking down at him a moment before turning to walk away.
“Goodnight, Zuko” You wave as you leave.
lmk if you wanna be tagged in the next parts/be part of the taglist!!!!
first time writing for him and i hate this cause it’s like 4am and i need to sleep😔😔 yeah no i just hate this BUT I MADE THE MISTAKE OF SNEAK PEAKING IT SO NOW I HAVE TO POST IT- anyway. adult zuko has me KSKSKKDKDKDJDJDK
summary: zuko's straight-forwardness in appreciating the attractive qualities of the lone stranger saved by aang has you curious on whether you could get him to spill on what he thinks of you. (no major movie spoilers)
"He's very attractive." Zuko admits, eyes unblinking as he stares at the unconscious stranger.
The entire team whips their heads to stare at Zuko in unconcealed shock.
"What?" Zuko mutters, gaze lingering on the surprised expressions casted onto him, before eventually landing on yours. "He is. It's all in the bone structure."
You blink, unable to process his straight-forward words that landed on you like a gut punch. You've never considered it, the fact that Zuko also found others attractive.
It seems like a completely, silly notion now that the thought has verbalised itself in your mind. Of course Zuko would notice if others were considered attractive. Maybe it just never occurred to you in all your years of knowing him—of also finding him—
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his prying gaze, confusion alight in his eyes from your taken-aback expression.
If he's unconsciously considered the attractiveness of this stranger... has he ever—no, this should not be your priority. It doesn't matter what he thinks of you, it's not like it would change a thing. He's practically admitted it non-verbally through that monotonous admission of his, that a person's looks is assessed by him in a completely, impersonal standpoint.
Bone structure? You shouldn't be curious. Knowing Zuko, he might accidentally insult your structure if you asked.
The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.
It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.
It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.
Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.
"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"
Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.
Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.
"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.
"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."
There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.
"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"
He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.
Why is he looking at you like that?
It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.
"You were saying?" He prods gently.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"
His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."
"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.
"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."
"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"
"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."
You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."
As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.
"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"
"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.
You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"
He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."
No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.
"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."
"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."
Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.
"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"
A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.
"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.
He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."
"Was the view bad then?" You prod.
"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.
Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.
"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."
The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.
"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.
He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."
Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.
"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.
"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.
Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."
"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"
Surprise colours your features.
Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.
Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.
He's— "Beautiful."
By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.
You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."
"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.
"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."
It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.
He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."
You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."
"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."
You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?
You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.
"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."
He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.
"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."
The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"
"Never."
He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"
"Who's finding who attractive?"
Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.
"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"
"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"
You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.
Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.
"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"
"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.
"Agreed." He mutters.
Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.
You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"
His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."
His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
a/n: i need to write more firelord zuko stat. he looks so good and still so awkward my childhood crush has been reignited.
clark kent is your mortal enemy; it's been a constant battle between who's going to get front page privileges and clark always manages to top you with superman. when you both get a little too drunk and repressed feelings rush to the surface- surely it can't be real? how could it be real when you wake up naked in his bed, unsure of how you ended up there? when you've accidentally sent the department the doc you made in a rage listing all the reasons you hate clark kent? it can't be real so why does it hurt so much when he calls it quits- when you cry to superman of all people- when everywhere you go reminds you of him? (THIS IS CLARK HURT COMFORT FINAL BOSS- you have been warned- also very long soz)
superman! clark kent x fem! journalist! reader (no use of yn- clark nicknames you neutron)
themes: onesided enemies to lovers (you are enemies- he thinks you're lovers but he's also a brat), hidden feelings, workplace rivalry, drunk shenanigans, kissing, implied smut, and love confession, fluff, angst, betrayal (juicy angst), mentions of insecurities, feeling overwhelmed, confiding in superman, previous relationships and an ending inspired by "how to lose a guy in 10 days"
masterlist.
it's the smug half smile that catches your narrowed eye unwillingly, the sympathetic look your best friend jimmy sends your way and the fresh copy that lands at your desk to settle the fire in your blood.
you love the smell of fresh paper printed; the crispness, the warmth of the stories it tells and trusts you with. the faint inky scent that bleeds under your fingertips, excites you to new highs- you're sure this could very well be a strange addiction. but now? seeing clark kent's name printed small under the overbearing headline that's most certainly not yours but very well deserves to be, you've never felt the urge to scrunch it up, crumble it to death as it shreds along with your pride.
metropolis' man in the cape saves again: his thoughts on humanity, hope and his place in the world.
and he might've. you applaud superman, he's a man of the people, a story worth writing and you've even asked to interview him once- he never replied, like a ghost, except he haunted you through repetitive interviews with your mortal enemy clark kent and it burned. and from that day? you preferred batman, at least he rejected you with honesty and a bluntness you could appreciate. he didn't get cosy with the enemy, he punished them and relished in the feeling of it, just how you wished you could do yourself to one person in particular.
"you'll get em next time tiger," and its a stiff pat of the lazily dropped on to your shoulder, a smile imprinted in the air that englufs you. you don't even have to look up to recognise the unwanted looming 6'4 shadow towering above you, as if from that height you couldn't feel anymore smaller- be anymore smaller compared to him. the rage bubbles over in your stomach, steaming at your organs and quietly releases through the air that flares from your nostrils. you're seething and he knows it, he tortures you with the same lame comfort every time he makes the front page and you don't- which these days, feels way more often than not.
but you won't burst, not yet, and definitely not infront of the one person who's waiting for it to happen. you wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he's won, he's under your skin and you let him roam free there. so you grit your teeth, open your document and begin to list all the things you hate about clark kent.
. . .
"golly, if it isn't jimmy and neutron," shining blue eyes twinkle with a tease and you feel the bile rising up in your system already. the play on words had gotten old very quickly; matter of fact a day after he met you quickly and decided that because you were pushing in the field of science journalism, using your physics degree to explore current trends in space with an environmental focus often- clark had used his big brains to label you as neutron, fitting for your best friend jimmy. it was also the last time you wore red, clark's evil pretty smile basically bursting when he saw the correlation and on your first day, before lunch time had even hit- clark kent had made two embarrassing (on your part) mistakes. first, he had thought you were the latest intern and asked for his coffee order and then came the likening you to a fictional character- the nickname sticking to you with hot embarrassment. months later and you're still neutron, you're pretty sure you may die as neutron.
"ha, ha," the stale echo leaves your mouth as you shoot him your best disapproving glare. it doesn't deter him one bit, you get a flash of teeth in return, a blinding superstar grin that just fuels your disgust- god, how could anyone be as obnoxious as him, you think.
"hey clark!" jimmy calls out and clark responds with a wave, you hiss at your friend, the outward act of betrayal infront of your own eyes as you duck your head low to avoid any further confrontations with your mortal enemy. that's enough evilness for one day, anymore and you'll be at the gates of pure hell, clark kent's poster face ready and waiting.
"keep walking jim," you whisper through your teeth, giving clark one last glare before continuing on to the lifts and into your lunch time plans- the weather seemed nice enough to eat outdoors, you two had thoroughly checked the weather days in advance, hoping to get some much needed serotonin, sunshine and serenity the city can offer.
"hey jim, say if you see this nerd about yay big," he levels your height with his hand, purposely making you look smaller, "tell her the second page is looking for her," and you flip him off as you walk away, hearing a loud weight of boyish laughter thud in the air of the daily planet. a sliver of his stupid face disappears once the doors shut, though it lingers at the forefront of your mind- the crevices and lines etched of his skin burnt into your memory as the words echo again. you rub at your temples, massaging them softly as you slump your body against the wall- jimmy immediately taking your bag from you and lightening the load on your shoulders.
he doesn't have to say anything; he knows what has you so uptight and part of him thinks its the funniest and silliest game of cat and mouse that you and clark are locked in, both blissfully and painfully unaware.
"i hate when he calls me that," you mumble into your hands, feeling the anger seethe, bubble and then you mute it down into what feels a lot more like practised exhaustion and fatigue. there's no bark in your bite whenever clark isn't around, there's just something in his presence that greatly amplifies your annoyance and the secondary feeling of insecurities pushing on you. he's clark kent. he's loved by the whole team, he's buddies with superman, he makes the front page like it's his birthright with such ease, he's built like a damn machine and he has a dog, he talks to his parents every other day, he watches star wars and he is kind- albeit kind to everyone but you. you can't help but feel like this is all a personal attack- of course clark kent isn't perfect and has enemies, he chose you as his target, you as his nemesis- he must've seen some sort of match to play though often than you'd like to admit you do feel way out of your sparring depth.
"i think it's cute," jimmy shrugs, and by the downward turn of your curled lip, bordering into snarl territory he knows you disagree- and hard.
"he said i had a big forehead!" you didn't mean to shout, but the outrage is astronomical, the disbelief burns in your veins. clark kent cannot find you cute- he's satan in disguise, this will ruin everything, everything you've worked for and against because that will mean you are wrong and clark kent is actually capable of being a decent person.
"he called you a genius!" jimmy tries to reason and the look you level him with incredulity makes him want to hide away and wait this out.
"a young boy genius-"
"the most renowned of minds," he compliments, trying to make it sound way better than what it is, not that you have a giant forehead or the one instance you wore red and became the butt of a joke. you're his best friend, and he loves you more than anything but some part of him wants to just shake you awake, that clark kent must be drawn to you if he only ever acts this way around you. for two incredible journalists, you two are so stupid with the evidence right there infront of you.
"oh yes jimmy, because that's what every girl wants to hear- not that i'm hot or that my work matters and is good enough to make the print but that i'm a young boy genius with a forehead the size of fucking space- what? why are you looking at me like that?" you take a step away from him as the lift finally opens and leads you outside and on a pathway to the nearest park where you can settle down, let the breeze run through your skin and hair and squash any thought of a certain black curly haired nuisance in your already occupied brain.
"oh nothing," he teases, "why would you care about clark kent, your quote unquote "nemesis", calling you hot?"
"i don't," you immediately spit out, aware of how suspiciously quick the response came and the smug look jimmy olsen tries to hide. it's like your brain had this rehearsed, formulated in a strict "clark kent protocol" and shot it out along with any inclination that you could feel anything other than a strong dislike for your co-worker.
"okay," jimmy shrugs, his hands drop lazily in surrender but the smile he sports is as clear as day; soft as the clouds you sit under as you unwrap your sandwich and kick your legs free.
"i said i don't," you repeat, even minutes after the conversation dies down and jimmy is busying himself trying to find a movie on his laptop, but it bugs you the indifference- no, jimmy not siding with you immediately, like there's some secrecy he's holding to himself instead of defending your honour boldly.
"i heard you the first time babe," he mumbles, scrolling and clicking, "how do you feel about star wars?" he asks, and your heart knocks against your ribcage, a slump at having to work overtime at the constant reminder of clark fucking kent. but you know jimmy, saying no and bringing up clark's strange addiction with the series would only prove his point- that as much as you dislike him, some part of you searches for his opinion in a sick and twisted way.
so you take a bite of your sandwich, swallowing pesto and your pride and let it grow stale in your mouth as you nod, "sounds good to me," you try for a careless, offhanded comment of indifference but it burns, it bothers you in ways you can't even explain.
"okay," fuck you, okay.
. . .
"oh, she loves when i call her that," he doesn't even try to dull out the laughter when he spots your middle finger sent his way, his tongue presses in his cheek, mischief laced in his mind as he watches your form disappear through the doors and out into the wind. he swivels back in his chair, the wheels rolling as the gears in his brain turn- he really needs to think of a new article for next week's brief, check in with perry, come up with something that can top your new advancement on the science column. that task enough was difficult, you were smart and everybody included clark kent knew it and had to deal with it, you really gave him a tough run for his money in the fight to make the front page.
"do you know if she's seeing anyone? she's hardly with anyone other than jimmy- maybe she's seeing jimmy," he mutters as he closes the millions of tabs open on his screen, his stomach rumbles and he's due for a break soon. he was tempted to join your and jimmy's picnic, overhearing you guys from across the corridor and he salivated at the mention of you bringing some banana bread and tea in flasks. he lingered at the printers, waited to be given an invite, even focused on jimmy- the weaker of you two to crumble first but the pure steel you gave him as you moved to the opposite side of the room with your best friend following like a lost puppy as soon as you caught sight of clark staring intently, it was clearly not going to happen.
"clark, what do you care? you give her absolute hell-" lois' warning is cut off by clark's brows shooting to the ceiling at her admission.
"i do not! it's our thing-"
"i think this might be a you thing-" she tries to reason to her colleague, bring him out of the depths of delusion he's ran himself through and back to the surface of reality.
"she likes it!" clark scoffs, you engage in this mini war just the same as he does- the effort does not go unnoticed by him. out of everyone he's ever met, only you've come close to his wit, his intellect, his humour- you're his equal and if he has to mess with you to keep the competition on your toes and your focus on him, clark kent will spend the rest of his life playing this dangerous game. and if anything, he loves a challenge. you didn't swoon when you first met clark, you didn't bat an eyelid or even go out of your way to impress him but you've stolen his attention from the first look and the rest is history.
"and what makes you think she likes it?" you. lois wants to say, but she doesn't think her friend is ready for that type of conversation yet. but the real meaning is unspoken but heard, lingers in the air as his eyes are struck on the spot where you've left.
"she smiles," and he sports one of his own, if lois focused a little longer than maybe she would've heard the subtle pick of his heartrate, the dreamy sigh that leaves his lips followed by a little gasp when he pictures you, how he has to press his lips together to stop himself from bursting out the seams.
"at everyone but you," lois, the true voice of reason and honesty, tries to hit him with.
"exactly," he's smug when he faces his friend, kicking his feet up on his desk and relaxing back in his chair, "mine are reserved," he brags. he thinks about the small smiles kept with clark kent's name attached to them. how they're half teeth but all heart, with your lips pressed together but clark can see the small curve of your lip. the smirks that radiate confidence, how clark marvels at your talent and intellect, the small snarls where you mean to throw disdain but clark catches it with pride that he can rile you up this good. then there's the smiles where you don't think he's watching but he always is, where your eyes crinkle and your whole existence seems to soften with something gentler, something kinder, something so overtly hidden from him that he doesn't want to ruin the moment and let you know he's there.
he must've trailed too far off into the distance, overstayed in the shrine he's built of you in memories that lois' knowing look pulls him back to the surface and he tries to return back to their earlier conversation- the start of it all, questioning the existence if there's someone out there other than clark who is deserving of your attention, "i don't think her and jimmy are a thing, i mean i saw her wrestle him for a coffee mug in the break room earlier," and he tries to hide the fondness with a poorly executed scoff.
"clark again, what do you care?" except this time lois doesn't bother to hide the giggle of stupidity at one of her closest's friends and clark panics, he doesn't care. he can't care- it'll ruin his easygoing relationship with you and if you have to hate him for him to get access to a side you don't give out to anyone else, clark kent will do it.
"i don't, i told you, maybe if neutron got laid or was seeing someone, she'd like i don't know lighten up," he excuses but the words feel as misplaced as they leave him, when they linger in the air and cut through the thickness with a swift elbow jab from lois. it feels wrong, like a branding he's put out there- a label on your character but he needs to throw his friend off his trail. he's clark kent, he's number one and you're the competition. and then a heavy silence takes over and clark trails lois' apologetic gaze to where you stand just a few feet away from him, sporting the same glare you always mean for him but a new faint red blush creeping up your neck.
oh lord, he thinks.
because somewhere along from torturing yourself with star wars and your work nemesis thinking of your smile, you've made it back to the office- forgetting a cup for your flask. and at that moment in time, fate is a cruel twisted and funny thing because your ears burn hot with the intensity of the words he's hit you with and they paint a tomato hue of embarrassment you can't bring yourself to die down.
"dick," you scoff in his direction, disgust laced on your features but its a little more of a weaker whisper than you'd like.
"hey, you can borrow it whenever," he tries to recover, regain the comedic banter and shoots you a wink to recover from his stumble. but you just stare, stare and stare till he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. when you're satisfied with his squirming you turn to head back to your desk to grab a small blanket and some cups.
"i'd rather eat glass," you return smoothly, "glad to know a dry spell is also hitting you too or do you just you offer your services up to anyone?" it's snarky, but if you weren't so thrown off guard, you know you could've done better.
"ah, not anyone, just you babe," another smirk. but when you've disappeared he faces a stern lois who stands with her brows raised clearly unimpressed, theres just something about you that brings out the competitive childish side in him and he doesnt know what to do. his mouth moves far too quick for his brain to keep up with, anything for you keep your eyes on him. until you don't.
"oh gosh," he breathes when you're out of earshot, though he'd never let you hear or give you the satisfaction of throwing him off his usual calm, collected and smooth game.
"a little too far, kent," she pats him on the back, its a little harder but carries the consequences of him mouthing off "keep that up and you'll drive her too far out you'll need a damn map to bring her home."
"oh i'm not trying to bring her home," he rolls his eyes and a beat of silence passes the two of them.
"clark, i think you like her," lois softens.
"i think you're being crazy and should just help me with damn article," he huffs, directing his attention to literally anything but the confession his friend hits him with. he can't like you- he can't, but lois saying it doesn't make it feel any less real. so she lets it go, settles into their easy routine and helps nitpick where he's gone wrong and what he can do better, clark listens obediently and tries to focus but he can still feel you in his orbit. he needs to do something to salvage the mood and so he does what he knows he can do- pure journalism.
"full disclaimer not that i care or anything but for purely based on my outstanding deductive skills as a journalist- that means she's not seeing anyone," he breaks the shifted mood to recall your earlier comment from memory, like his muscles remember the contraction, the wave of oxygen it takes to formulate your name and your entire existence like its a secret oath he's sworn to protect.
"not that you care though right," lois teases and he feels his friendship slowly restores its balance, his earlier slip up not forgotten, just lightly grazed over into something familiar.
"of course not," he confirms and ducks his head lower into his desk, not without sneaking a look in the direction of your desk that still sits empty- you must've returned to your picnic with jimmy and afternoon without the tyranny of clark kent.
"it was on the record- observational, i'm a journalist," he excuses with a shrug. lois catches the ramble fondly but clark is too far in his head to notice. and maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it enough.
. . .
the thing is, clark kent has tried to be nice to you. a truce of some sorts.
it started with coffee cups that he would leave on your desk, watch you sniff cautiously and the first few you spilt down the sink along with his eager-eyed hope for peace. you weren't sure of who was leaving them until you arrived to work a lot earlier than usual- your plans to leave a lot earlier that day and make up the time.
you watched him pick up your mug from the cupboard through blinking tired eyes- it had to have been a blur, a lapse in judgement you were half asleep. but the guilty look, his widened eyes like a deer in headlights, its a look you'll score into your memory.
from there, he still made the coffee and he'd watch you drink it in agonising slow slips, never once did you acknowledge it, thank him other than a slight nod, but he held onto it.
he tried through giving you pointers on your work, just little comments to push you in the direction and you were pushed alright. you didn't speak or look his way for days, the cold shoulder freezing clark out as you poured yourself into long days glued to your desk to come out better, to do better, to be better.
he even offered to walk you home and you looked at him like he was insane; and maybe he was. maybe he shouldve known it came across as weird, out of the blue, i mean you two were hardly even friends and your commute was in the entirely different direction of his but he thought it was gentlemanly, honourable even but you gave him one weird look and left. and he never asked again.
and from then, clark decided there was higher reward that came from annoying you than what came from being nice to you. nice didn't earn him your attention, didn't push him to be his best for you and him, in fact he owes a large part of his career growth to you- it's nice to be challenged but being nice wasn't going to get you to look in his direction and linger. nice was for strangers, for friends and you and clark? he knew your connection was meant for more.
. . .
it's wednesday and you have the mornings off, entering the daily planet just after the callback from lunch is announced and you step into the meeting room ready for a debrief.
you've had your hair cut, clark notices immediately as he catches sight of your frame slipping through the door behind perry. he likes it, a lot, he decides. it looks so soft and bouncy, styled in a blowout that clark for a second, thinks what it would be like to feel the strands through his fingers, like silk. do you use silk pillows?
you catch sight of lois, send her a sweet smile and it drops to a slower polite one at clark, who lets his fingers dance in a teasing wave as you walk past the pair to get to your usual seat- right across from him. he gets a faint smell of vanilla and deeper notes of cherry that intoxicate his bloodstream and lure him deeper in your vicinity- is that a new fragrance? he doesn't have time to notice because a laughter like sunshine streaks through the sky, throwing planet earth off orbit.
"that good?" jimmy murmurs, and you shake your head, eyes widening and flashing in delight,
"incredible," you gush in a whisper and clark feels left out. there's clearly something unspoken in the air, you just feel lighter. you've abandoned your usual slacks for a fairy-like skirt, paired with a simple knit sweater and bow ballet flats, you look ... nice, he wants to say. like, you always look nice but today, you look really nice. you look softer, less guarded and it is drawing clark in like a magnet he can't turn from.
before he can even tease you, the room drifts off into a deep discussion as they pass around their ideas for the week and when it gets to you, clark uses the opportunity to ask you the most useless questions, hold your gaze intently as he quizzes on random hypothetical scenarios and when he hears the frustrated sigh leaves your lips as you pack up your things, clark faces a tired lois, ignoring how he hears you mumble a faint "i'm going to kill him jimmy, i'm going to go down for first degree murder and i give lois permission to have that story."
"what?" he questions. she levels him with a look and he shrugs it off, "she looks different today," he adds a little quieter today.
and then lois swats his shoulder in annoyance, "dude," she breathes, "you know, maybe she finally got laid and eased up a bit" lois repeats a stale regurgitation of his previous words and scoffs at how ridiculous it sounds. and as if by instinct, clark's fists clench and rumble under the table as he pins a dark look to your seat. he can't imagine it- you? sharing an electric chemistry with someone other than him? must be a nightmare he's stuck in because suddenly clark doesn't feel as special anymore. he feels lonely, and a little bit childish for getting such a reaction out of you. he tunes out on lois' teasing and taps his fingers against the table in thought and then without saying goodbye, he leaves lois lane confused behind.
for this type of journalism, clark has to go out on the field.
he tries to find you on many occasions to conduct his investigation on your love life but it seems you're playing hide and seek, though he does spot jimmy olsen refilling his coffee in the break room and very subtly leans his back to the counter, facing jimmy cooly.
"can i help you, clark?" jimmy furrows his brows, looking around to see if there's anyone else clark is here for.
"hey jimmy," he smiles and it's strange, unnerving even. clark has always been nice to jimmy but his little stunt flustering you in the break room after you've clearly had a good morning, jimmy feels the need to protect his honour and show his loyalty today to you today.
"listen, i gotta go," he swats off clark, holding up two mugs and clark catches it instantly- the mug he used to refuel so often for you. he matches jimmy's stride within seconds, his longer legs having to slower down a few steps to keep up in tandem with him. jimmy catches on slowly to what clark's doing and speeds up, narrowing a corner and hoping to lose him.
"what do you want?" jimmy breathes out, trying to catch his lungs up to this metaphorical turned physical chase.
"neutron," clark stops him, extending his arm as a physical barricade to the wall and cutting him off and jimmy nods slowly, careful not to pour any more spillage from the steaming mugs he's transporting. "she uh, she doing okay?" he asks.
"is she doing okay?" jimmy dumbly repeats, "yes?"
"yes?"
"yes?" he repeats,
"why are you saying it like a question, she is or she isn't," clark rumbles in exasperation.
"yes she's fine! what do you care?"
"why does everyone keep saying that!" clark bursts our and quietens down once he sees the few stares that have accumulated his way. jimmy rolls his eyes and sends him a glare, eerily similar to lois' but all clark can focus on is how its nothing like yours.
"clark, you're like, a menace-" jimmy gets out, "in the nicest way possible, i think you're out of your depth," and clark doesn't make a move, just sets his lips between his teeth and sits on it.
"she's not seeing anyone is she?" he speaks low, a depth he's sure can touch the centre of the earth and meant for jimmy's ears only. a smirk settles on your friend's features as he tries to hide the smile.
"you'll have to ask her yourself," he shrugs trying not to act too smug, "her business is her business." and he ducks his head under clark's arm of a barricade and carries on his way, he walks around the corner slightly again out of clark's way but sends a final look back in resignation and slight pity for your work nemesis who's clearly trying to branch out into friends and more territory with no clue how to, "clark?"
"yeah?" he answers hopeful, the beat of his heart skipping as he jumps to each conclusion.
"save her a dance tomorrow, i think she'd like that," and he nods to himself, that's if you don't kill him before the daily planet gala starts.
. . .
"girl, tomorrow you wear the dress. trust me on this, no questions, just do it."
. . .
there's faint buzz of something questionable, something familiar and something that makes the butterflies soar in your stomach as you take a walk around the room. it's been decorated so beautifully and you take the time to just soak up the ambience- the warmth it offers as you're here so often this place is basically your second home, you've made friends, enemies but so many memories that tonight is a celebration.
you let yourself looser, you dance as much as you can and let the liquid courage swim through your veins as you float carefree, until you hit the deep end. 6'4, 240lbs of a deep end.
"clark," you nod and sip into your drink, you had wanted to avoid him tonight but coming to think of it, there's nowhere in existence you could go without clark kent following you at your side.
"neutron or would you prefer my sweet nemesis?" he grins, taking in your attire and he lets his eyes roam on your frame, it warms a different kind of fire in you, a little bit of a burn that wraps around your frame- the kind that comes from a campfire, settling into the sweet night.
"you look well," you get out, ignoring his trap and his smile grows. well. he straightens to his full length, relishing in your compliment and fights back the drawl, he knows he looks good. and he knows that you know he does. he looks fucking incredible in his navy suit, his slicked hair with a small curl that hangs to the forefront. it drops, dangling dangerously infront of you and you feel the urge to reach out and wrap your finger around it, tug it enough for him to fall into you and-
"you look incredible, you know," he leans in with a tease, "for a nerd," and your heart races at the intensity of being so close. you take a step forwards, ignoring the beat of a drum in your ears and the warnings blarring in your mind and you whisper, letting it simmer in the air and lands on his lips.
"you look well," you repeat, "for someone who's about to be second place to me," and he rolls his lips together, melting your words into his soul, imprinting what he knows and loves. clark kent doesn't come second place- it's not in his nature, but the confidence you shoot at him, it sends something straight to his head and his heart. god, he loves a challenge- he likes you. and he just doesn't know what to do with all of this.
he replaces your empty glass of drink with his own, and when your lips touch the mark where his own had been moments before something tingles down his spine. you chug it down in one go and face him with a smile. your best friend's words come to you earlier and remind you that tonight is a party and you're allowed to enjoy yourself. you're a professional, you work hard, you deserve to let loose and you'll be damned if you let clark kent steal all your energy to keep up with his immature banter. there doesn't have to be a fight or arguement tonight, you could be civil coexist in the same place as clark kent and not have everything go to shit.
"jimmy said you were gonna save me a dance or have you gotten all chicken-shit?" you lay the bait and he takes it, burning at the red of your dress that flashes in his brain. he wants to photograph this moment, burn it into his soul for permanent memory because the twinkle in your eyes is dangerous, he's falling in deep. he tries to play it safe, knowing that you'd hardly let him close to you if you were sober and aware- the alcohol numbing your nerves and feeding in his delusions. so his hands find your waist at a respectable distance as he sways you to the beat, your own wrap around his shoulders and before you know it, he's skipping you around the room, twirling you in his arms and all you can feel is him.
"i need another drink," you laugh when you detach yourself from his hold, patting his chest (and pretending like you didn't feel a whole bunch of muscle under that white shirt) in a forced friendly manner and making a bee line for the table set up.
someone needs to stop you before its too late, so he warns your best friend who cheekily nods at him before he takes off in the same direction, needing the same liquid courage that has you seeing stars though clark kent is far from sober himself; his tolerance just a lot higher than yours.
the shots line up and clark takes them with each loosening his muscles and drowsing him with replays of how you smiled at him, how your laughter sounded when he finally let go of you. how tonight you weren't pretend enemies, he was a man standing infront of the most gorgeous woman alive and pretending like he wouldn't sacrifice anything to be close to you.
it's sloppy to get drunk at a work function, but clark decides its sloppier to let the only person who's ever made him feel so alive walk away so he searches for you in the sea of souls, eyes straining as he dodges body to body till he sees a sliver of red make a beeline to the bathroom and he follows.
come on clark, you're superman, you can do this, the alcohol cheers him on.
you can tell her that you love her and it all won't go to shit.
. . .
the knocks at the door interrupt your application of a fresh coat of lipstick, the red as crisp as your dress and you feel yourself blush slightly; you look good and you feel great too, which makes a really nice change for once.
"occupied," you raise your voice and steady yourself at the sink, taking a deep breath in to pace yourself. it might be a good idea to think about turning in for the night, making sure you have enough rest- you have the day off tomorrow but, still. you've had your night of breathless fun and it's time to clock back into being responsible you.
the knocks clutter again and you huff, ripping the door hinges with more force than you intended that you stumble your balance, reach out for the frame to lean on for support and face the almost intruder.
"clark?" you don't mean for it to sound like a question but it just does.
"you are infuriating," he breathes. his speech is slightly slurred and you scrunch your brows in annoyance, then your nose at the smell heavy in the air. god, he's ruining your mood already.
"all you had to do was wait," you hiss, it doesn't come as quick as you'd like but it lands all the same. he's blocking the corridor to get back out on the dance floor with that looming intensity and you wait, tapping your foot- the click of the heel signalling where you want to be.
clark refines the sound and aligns it to his heartbeat, matching each click with a footstep closer to you until he has you up against the wall, milimetres and months of tension separating the two of you. "i've waited so long," he murmurs, suddenly softer and his hand reaches out hesitantly, his fingers stroke your jaw before he cups your cheek in his hand. the other snakes around your waist and you close your eyes, subtly leaning into his touch and he hums.
"this colour on you," its a whisper as his fingers trace your lips and his eyes darken with something heavier and unfamiliar you can't name but it excites you. you wait so patiently any moment now to feel his lips on yours, if you angle your head just slightly, bend your waist into him, you'll be there yourself
"you talk too much," and sparks fly when you decide to close the gap yourself and bridge something new. theres a soft "oomf" as you throw yourself at him and he bends immediately into you, moulding your soul to his as he lets his lips lock into yours, catching your lip between his teeth as he makes further work down your neck.
"clark?" you whisper and he hums against your skin, the breath as warm as the blood pooling through your veins that you have to press your hand against his abdomen to steady yourself.
"look who's talking too much now," he rumbles and a small gasp escapes you when you feel the graze of his teeth.
"clark?" you call out again, tugging the curls of his upwards to lift his gaze to yours and you find a hint of concern hiding in them.
"yeah, baby?" and the gruff sends a new sensation to your heart, bleeding through the edges as you scramble to find a new home where you can slot the words "yeah baby" into existence for the rest of your life. it goes straight to your head, weakening your knees to jelly as you fold. for a moment it reminds you of why you don't like being called neutron when clearly, baby is the best option out there by lightyears.
"not here," you shake your head softly,
"mine?" he asks in the inches that separate you.
"yeah," you breathe before you're tangled in him again.
you're the picture of grace and elegance as you wobble away back out into the main hall. you wave to your friend goodbye and jimmy yells for you to get home safe. minutes later, clark does the exact same except he doesn't stop for anyone. he tears the front doors down like they're a mission and meets you in biting secrets of midnight. a taxi is called, the two of you two drunk to drive and keep your hands to yourself as you land at his door.
with his mouth on yours and his hands clearly busy, it takes four tries to get the key through the door before you almost trip over yourself getting in. he catches you effortlessly and where the door had taken four attempts, it only takes clark one and possibly four seconds to have you undressed and feel his skin on yours, and not just linger under it like he usually does.
it's a night filled with praises, a messy tangle of the months of yearning and miscommunicated feelings that rush to the surface. and as your back hits the soft clouds of his mattress and he sends you to a new type of heaven, you forget all the reasons you've ever hated clark kent. how could you not? when he's hell bent on making sure you're loved enough in one night for a lifetime.
. . .
the first thing that unsettles you is that when you wake there's no sunlight that peeks through your blinds which alarms you dangerously.
it then amplifies when you sit upright and the sheets slip, pooling at your naked waist that you gasp horrified, clutching them back to cover you as you dart your eyes in your surroundings.
the hangover rushes to your head, a drum that pounds with panic as you bite your lip down, blood rising with a bruised ego as you realise just where in the hell you were.
in hell.
in satan's homeland you've lost your dignity.
you stand, the urge to cry in embarrassment as you flush, desperately grabbing your trail of clothes all over the room and dressing at the speed of light. the mirror catches your reflection, the print of pillows that aren't yours etched onto your cheeks, the ruffled of your hair a sloppy mess- a direct echo of how you feel and you shudder at your appearance. this feels like a far cry from how you looked last night- you just look so undone and it nags at you as you plan your escape.
heels may be too loud with their clicking, you ponder so you clutch as the straps and pad barefoot out of the bedroom door. the eery quiet and silence of the house just makes it easier to hear your heart thud in your chest, begging to break free and relieve itself from the anxiety building up in your system.
just a few steps to go and freedom will feel so incredible.
"not even going to join me for breakfast?" and its a deep runble, etched with fatigue and gentleness that pulls you from your escape plan as you freeze. you're mid-tiptoe and pause, turning swiftly to face the bane of your existence, the cause of all your problems and most recent mistake with a cheesy smile.
its a new one, clark thinks and he makes a mental note to jot it down for later safekeeping. it's childish even, curled with nerves at the edges as he watches you try and come up with an excuse. he sets the frying pan down on his oven and makes his way towards you. unlike you, a hot mess, he's dressed in a cotton t shirt and pyjama bottoms- like a normal person would be and you couldn't help but feel more stupid. he plants his hands on your shoulders and steers you into the direction of his kitchen, ignoring your pleads and excuses with a hand firmly pressed to your mouth, stifling you to silence.
"come on neutron," he mumbles, "eat." and the plate placed infront of you unlocks something ravenous, caveman-like, setting back your mannerisms years to the beginning of existence. you swallow your pride and some of the omlette he's made slowly and clark smiles, it feels like the very first time he saw you actually drink one of the coffees he made for you at the office and its funny how the deja vu just hits him.
if he could take it back, he would have tried harder, he thinks. would've made the coffee regularly into a habit, wouldve showed you in the smaller moments that he can be more than the competition, he could be a steady force in your life. or maybe, he could've just pavlov'ed you into expecting a coffee that when it didn't come, it would've caused you to seek him out either way.
"fuck," you mumble, of course clark kent had to have been a good cook too- this feels highly unfair on you, you think.
"yeah we did," he mutters into his steaming mug of coffee and when he feels you freeze under the table opposite him he apologises. its the softest of "sorry"'s you've ever heard in your life, the first from him for sure that you test how it feels on your ears, savour the sensation and decide you like it almost as much as you loved hearing the word "baby" slip from his lips last night. clark sends you a softened look, hoping his slip up hasn't scared you off- gentle steps, he curses at himself. he knows you, knows the structure you value that any sort of off balance will drive you away and he intends to keep you as close as he can.
he waits for you to finish breakfast and you sit there awkwardly, "i can do the dishes?" you offer and he shuts you down instantly, letting you linger in your shame a lot longer than you'd like as you try to come up with new escape routes.
"i can feel you thinking from here neutron," he offhandedly calls as he dries the dishes he lays on the rack, his broad back is still turned to you and you mouth a plethora of curses at the muscle you could recite like its the word of god. "lay that big brain on me, baby."
baby.
and your heart skips too many beats you fear you may go into cardiac arrest, so you settle for deflection instead, "i think last night was a mistake," you rush out. and its painfully slow how long it takes him to put down the rag, turn around and lean against the sink counter, the slight tense of his forearms as they brace at his sides the main inclination he already doesn't like what you're about to say.
"i don't think it was," he tries to catch your gaze and as soon as he does, its an intense lock of eye contact as he searches deep into your soul.
"clark we were drunk!" you try to reason, squirming under the intensity of it all. and that's the last time you'll ever drink, you swear to yourself.
"and i would do it sober," he shrugs, he bounces off the sink with a little leap as he stalks towards you, each step an echo of how he approached you last night and how you know how easy it could be to just slip and fall into his embrace all over again; clark kent is pure poison, evil and intoxicating that you feel a strong dependancy on him. you don't just love somebody like clark kent and when he leaves you make it out alive- you just about tried hating him and it feels like you're hanging on for dear life. the consequences should be earth shattering, heart-breaking disastrous.
"you don't think we have a chance here?" he asks, his fingers tipping your chin upwards to him, crushing some centimetres of distance.
"i don't think we'd work," you softly speak, "up until last night, i'm sure you hated me," and he recoils, letting out a strained sigh before nodding.
"i couldn't hate you, no matter how hard i try. i don't think we hate each other at all," he confesses, "i think we feel a lot for each other, maybe too much we can handle and know what to do with it so it possibly gets misplaced. warped and wrapped up but it's shaped in the love i feel for you," he reaches out for your hand, lays it on his chest where his beating heart rests and spreads your fingers so you can feel the extent of the contraction. "i don't know what to do with all these feelings but i do know, with my life and more than anything, that i want to be with you and i want to try- we worked so well last night, that was just a tester baby, i'd be so good to you, we," he pleads, "we could be so good to each other." and he presses his forehead so tenderly into yours, a greater look into your vulnerable gaze.
"i don't know how to do this clark," you whisper, "i'm scared," and the voice that escapes you is so small and foreign, clark's own heart breaks at the sound of it.
"we'll do this together, slow. i'll take the lead if you want but i won't pursue this if this is something you don't want," if i'm someone you don't want, he doesn't push to say.
"okay," you swallow, blinking back a few stray tears and he narrows his eyes, assessing if there's any underlying feelings you're hiding from him. part of you doesn't know if this is okay, but the word leaves you before you can stop it.
"okay?" he asks, to be sure.
"okay," you breathe and he holds your head against his chest, rocking you into his embrace and you stiffly pat his back. you've never been anything other than clark kent's work nemesis before and part of you feels way out of your league, this is unfamiliar territory and you're wildly unprepared for being someone he could love. but the way he looks at you, like you've lifted the sky to its height and hold the weight of his entire universe, you have to give it a try or it will crush you whole.
. . .
the first time clark kent holds your hand in his you almost scream.
his own is dropped at its side and when he walks with you up to the office, he tries to be subtle with how it knocks into yours. a soft slide of skin as he slows his steps to match yours. it happens four times before you grow suspicious but he doesn't bother to look down at you, the guilt is already lingering in the soft smile he tries to downplay. and then he just interlocks his hands in yours, sends you a sweet smile and carries on walking like it's the most natural thing to do.
it's unbelievably warm, protective and holds what the future could be like for you one day. it swings in tandem as you walk and he only lets go once you've made it to your desk. he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, then to your forehead and whispers "have a good day honey, meet you for lunch?" and all you can do is stand there, dumbly nod as he stretches out his arm to the full length before he actually has to let go of your hand and walks in the direction of his own desk.
you stand and then you sit, trying to regain composure of how different it felt to not have to have the snark ready on your lips, to not have to brace yourself for a day of matching wit- your heart beats softly, telling you to relax, get a grip of yourself- it's still clark. the clark who's showed you the worst of yourself and has still chosen to take an interest in you. he's clark, for god's sake, that hasn't changed.
"what the heck was that?" jimmy's head pops up into your view and you stutter, trying to find the words, but nothing comes up right.
"i don't know," your wide eyed gaze startles your friend. he's seen you seconds before a deadline, after a five coffee caffeine crash, when your past partner broke up with you months ago because of how much of a workaholic you were but the stillness in your gaze as you wander in the direction of where clark sits. as if he can sense your attention like its a damn superpower he meets your stare with a grin, a poke of his tongue out as he waves and you slowly return the wave back. his grin grows larger and he swivels back around but the nerves in your stomach still stay.
"honey, are you okay?" jimmy crouches to your height, "when did all of this happen?" and you look around before whispering carefully, hoping it reaches his ears only.
"i slept with him the night before last and when i woke up i thought we could go back to normal- he hates me, i hate him, whatever but," and you shake your head, "he's being really nice to me and i don't know what to do, this feels so strange, jim, this is," and you groan, dropping your head into your hands.
"oh honey," he sighs, "do you like him?" he asks quietly and you nod slowly, hoping the tears don't start spilling from your waterline and ruining your mascara.
"i think i might," you murmur, "i don't know yet, i haven't given it the time for this all to really settle yet- am i making sense?" and jimmy hugs you gently. he thinks you do already, it'll just take time for you see past the previous persona clark has shown you- that he can be more than a rival, he can be dependable, trusted, loving.
"i'm giving it a try," you add, "i mean you never know unless you try, right?" and he pats your head affectionately.
"i'm here if you need me, my friend," and you pat his shoulder in return, thankful for one thing that hasn't changed in the last few days that have blurred past and thrown you off course.
"thanks, jim."
. . .
your days moves slower when there's no arguing that takes place; it's kind of peaceful, slower paced in a way that lets you regain control of your feet. it feels a lot more intentional; the uneasy weight from the last few days slowly slipping away as you enter this new normal and you've been enjoying it.
the sex is incredible- it's hard to think when clark keeps you busy when you're alone and when he's so soft and tender in the moments after, you feel incredibly grateful to see this new side of him. there's something special between the two of you and you look forward to seeing clark, to spending time with him as you learn more about him.
like how he also loves the theatre.
you find this out when you're catching your breath, your back to his mattress and bare tummy to the air as he lies next to you.
"question," he murmurs, planting a kiss to your shoulder.
"that's not a question," you tease and roll over to your side, he flicks your nose in return and continues.
"last week when you came into work-"
"i come into work every day, clark-"
"well baby, if you let me finish my sentence," he rolls his eyes and it feels like the clark you've always ever known and you really like it. and then there's that damn baby again that has you weak in the knees all over. you smile and gesture for him to continue, "you had your hair cut, you were smiling- but not like you always do- but like," he pauses, "it was radiant, magnetic like you looked happier," and you stop and try to think of what you had been up to recently.
"oh," you mumble into his chest, noticing the slight tense he holds in his frame that you pull back with a wrinkle in your forehead.
"was there someone else?" and its the quietest you've ever heard his voice before, it wobbles a little at the edges and knifes a jagged edge into your heart.
"oh no," and you try to hide yourself in his embrace, an embarrassed chuckle leaving you as you squirm, "you're going to think this is so lame," you groan and he twists so you're underneath him, trapped by his huge arms as he hovers on top of you.
"what?" he chuckles at your sudden nervousness, an astronomical size of relief taken off his soul knowing that there's only him- even when it hadn't even been him.
"jimmy got me tickets to "hamlet" as an early birthday gift and it was incredible," you beam, "the haircut was just an addition but god clark," and when you're excited, rambling underneath him he can't help but linger into your space, cut you off with a swift kiss to the corner of your lips as you chase him for more.
one ends up into two then three and soon enough, forever.
"that's insane," his breath tickles into your skin and you scrunch your nose in delight, "because i also happen to be a former theatre kid-"
"oh my god, clark," you laugh, "who's the nerd now?" and he pinches at your side, "clark kent, a fellow drama lover- who would've thought?"
he talks with you about his favourite plays, how he wishes he had more free time to see them live, how wonderful acting is as a profession and when he lists off all the things that excite you the very same way you realise that maybe after all, you and clark aren't so different after all.
he makes a promise that this friday, the two of you will see "romeo and juliet" live as an official first date and you can't hide the soar of butterflies swirling in your stomach that you check it down into your calender immediately, pepper him with an insane amount of kisses and mentally start preparing your outfit.
he stares at you with such fondness as he listens to you talk about your family out of the city; how it was your mother who first showed you the importance of maintaing a creative outlet when pursuing such an academic and intensive career and he listens and listens and wants to soak up every single word like a sponge and wash away the doubts that have circled in his head the past week.
he worried he was moving too quick, then too slow but all he really had to do was show you he's here, that he wants to get to know you beyond your work ethic and integrity, beyond the conversations he has to search for details about you and slowly, he thinks its all falling to place.
its in the quiet of the night where he asks you again,"you sure you're okay with this?" he wouldn't be upset if you weren't, he'd bear the weight of patience and wait forever for you, he really would with how bad he wants this to work.
"yeah," you breathe and when you say it this time, the earth settles into a slower spin, and when it tilts you're ready to hold your balance. it feels right when you look into his eyes and say just one word, and you really start to believe it that this is okay, more than okay and you're only scratching the surface of how incredible it could be.
. . .
a week into spending more time with each other and dating, it feels like this is what your soul was meant do that you feel silly for even worrying about this all at the beginning.
it's monday, which means there's four days until your next theatre date with clark, you had so much fun last time that you've decide to make this a weekly occurence when you can. it's a secret you're going to surprise him with after work on the way home, you'll lean into his side, whip out the tickets like theyre gold and you know he'll be insanely pleased; its the first time you're making a move in this relationship and it's a big deal for you.
you don't see clark whilst you're at work and you think it's strange- clark's been known to disappear randomly and you've not noticed it too much in the time you've officially spent together to be bothered by it in the slightest. your main concern is finding your boyfriend and seeing if he has plans after work.
its 3pm and you start to worry, you don't want to draw any attention to you by asking others for his whereabouts but you catch lois lane in the far corner of the room who tenses when you come near and its the first warning that throws you off.
"lois?" you call out and she awkwardly turns around, feigning surprise like she hadnt stalked you for a few minutes before making your way over there.
"hey!" and you watch her cross her arms over her chest, a defensive posture, you note. why?
"have you seen clark anywhere?" you ask, and she shoots you a careful look before sighing.
"i think its best if you give him some distance for a few days," and you crumble immediately, panic flaring in your chest as your gaze narrows. god, you knew this was too much- that you were too much, you should've-
"i didn't realise how deep your feelings were for each other," she mumbles and it cuts your spiral off eerily short.
"what?" you pause, "what do you mean?"
"i think the word document says enough," she winces, "i thought the rivalry thing was a joke but.." her words trail off because you don't give her the time to finish. your heart is racing as quick as your footsteps out the door and you break out into a full sprint.
the purring of cars and clattering of metropoliton city drown out the whispers of gossip from the daily planet and your muscles burn but you keep going, you push and push and push till they give way and your heart collapses.
a sob escapes your throat in a raw guttural sound and this time, you can't stop the tears. you have no idea where you are but you know that this all just fucking hurts. your tears well up and are caught in your hands that also carries the weight of your head and the world as you just cry. knees tucked in close to your chest against the side of a building, you just cry. hours have passed and when you look around, hardly anyone around to have noticed your breakdown you just about stand. the energy completely taken out of as you sigh, you wish the ground could just wake up and swallow you whole for how stupid and careless you had been.
of course it was a word document that was going to be your downfall, you had made a lame list of things you disliked about clark and on the torturously long walk to his house they burn in your mind.
i hate the way he laughs so loudly, it rings in my ears i'm pretty sure i could go deaf in the near future.
i hate the way he looks at me like he's got something to say but never does or maybe he's too much of a coward.
i hate the way he's buddies with superman- lame.
i hate the way he sneaks up on me, throws me off guard- he's so big it consumes my space and i can't think.
i hate the way second best to him still feels like its worth something- it shouldn't.
i hate the way he makes me feel.
i hate him.
you've got to find him, you've got to apologise to him, salvage what you can and make it out of this alive, hopefully still with him but each word you remember, each muscle moved to type the childish betrayal raises a fresh new wave of tears and you're a blubbering mess by the time you reach his door.
"clark!" you shout, your voice raspy from crying, exhausted from thinking if you could run quick enough, you'd be able to outrun all your problems. you tap against the door, then full on bang with urgency as you shout his name, "clark, please!" you try, panicking when you can hear the shuffle of footsteps behind the door but no words in reply.
"clark please baby," it slips from your lips- the first time you've ever called him that in a sheer moment of desperation and you recoil, you don't deserve to call him that right now- you had the privilege and dishonoured yourself with it, "clark please open the door!" and you bang your head against it, the hot touch of your forehead cooling against the steel. "i didn't mean it," you cry, "i didn't mean any of it, i swear- i don't hate you, i promise please just let me in, please let me explain," the choked sobs rise and you're mumbling, half coherent but the words land the same. "i wrote it ages ago long before we started to get to know each other, i don't feel that way god no, you just gotta let me explain, i don't hate you, i lo-" and you're cut short by the rapid movements and the sudden open of his door.
he looks devastated and still so beautiful that it knocks the already very little air out of you. like he too had spent the afternoon working mentally in overtime, he shakes his head, restraint evident as he grips the door. his ocean eyes pierce your soul and when you move to take a step forward he grits out a sharp, "don't" and closes the door just an inch.
you can see forever through that sliver, it's so close but it's so far away, just out of your depth and reach.
"clark please," you cry and he shakes his head, torn between wanting to comfort you and wanting to protect you.
"don't," he repeats, its heavier, a little firmer but still somehow hurts all the same, bleeding through your heart as it crackles and lays bloodied and bruised open for him. and he steps on it with his next words, "god some part of me knew this wasn't going to work and gosh," he breathes, "you really do just hate me,"
"no," you shout in desperation, shaking your head and all your senses, "i don't! i swear- clark, i'm in lo-" and he cuts you off.
"i don't think you should say things you're not ready to mean," he whispers and he looks as though he might reach out, grasp your hand a final time but decides better of it.
"you win neutron," he speaks softly, lethally tender and it destroys your entire existence in one soft breath, "i thought for a second we were working, that everything was fine. but, if everything's ever just been a competition and that's all you've ever seen me as, then you win. i give up, this game? it's not for me, not if i'm never going to come first place for you," and he closes the door with a soft thud.
you don't move from your position, crying and knocking on the door once more, "clark, please!" and you fight the urge to just slump and slide against it, to camp out here forever until he opens the door and gives you an inch to redeem yourself, to clear the air and just listen. "clark, i don't hate you- i could never hate you," and fate is a cruel and twisted thing to have you repeating the same words he promised to you the morning you woke and everything changed. "i can explain, please let me explain," and you know it's heard, it just doesn't matter enough to be actioned.
you hang your head low, the image of the door closed bruising your optic nerves that it's time to go home. the damage is done and its time to mourn the casualties of getting crossed in the fire. you knew you'd never come out of loving clark kent alive, you just didn't realise hating him had burned you first long ago.
. . .
you try to catch him at work but he's missing for the first two days and you're subjected to the growing whispers and judgemental looks that are shot your way as he proceeds to just plain avoid you. he's never at his desk when you pass by, he's never at the break room, when he gets an inkling you're in his vicinity he takes off completely in the opposite direction and you can't even feel him, but you can hear the thoughts about him.
"i knew she never liked him,"
"she's actually gotta be deranged to make a whole document- imagine who else she's got written in that death note."
"i don't know babe, clark wasn't exactly the nicest to her."
"didn't they try dating?"
jimmy takes a seat beside you after the great shift where he's noticed you avoiding every single person in sight, including him and it hurts. you try your best to smile at him in greeting, force the ends in an upwards curve that it falls embarrassingly flat.
he sighs, leaving your newly filled coffee cup at your side and rests his head on yours affectionately, a little bump of support to let you know that he's always been on your side and always will.
"people are talking," you mumble, "i get it if you want to take some space," you nod tightly and he scoffs.
"we're not going anywhere," his voice is firm, "i don't care about what they say, you're my best friend and i am here for you." and you breathe out a thanks of appreciation, begging yourself not to cry again as he wraps you in a hug.
"you okay?" he murmurs into your hair and can feel you shake it against him and he sighs once more.
"he'll come around," when he pulls back.
"how can you be so sure?" you whisper, broken.
"because he's clark, he's never been one to stay away from you," he grins but your heart drops. not this time, you think. maybe not ever again.
but still you try, you pull tricks out of his own book in a pathetic grovel of sorts- but you just have to show clark that you're here, you're waiting and you'll do whatever it takes to show him.
so for the next few days you start to get to the office earlier, you make him a fresh cup of coffee and lay it at his desk, you write little pointers of encouragement on post it notes (given the fact that you have no idea of what he's writing to return him the advice he used to give you), but when the end of the day comes and you've tried not to make it obvious the way you stalk his big build that exits through the lifts and takes your heart with him, you make your way to his desk. the coffee sits untouched and cold, filled to the brim but the notes? they've disappeared. the blinding yellow fluroscent isn't pumped at the bottom of his bin with other scraps of paper he's scrunched up. you're embarrassed to admit that you half emptied it to check, they- like clark, himself- have just disappeared and you're left to deal with the radio silence in the aftermath. which somehow hurts more when it leaves everything unsaid and then some.
and like the days that have come before and all of your life before you gave clark kent a try at this thing called love, you walk home alone and lonely, all the same.
. . .
you finally meet superman on your commute home.
its the end of the week, you're final day before you're due to take some time off and you've left the office later than usual, giving clark ample time to avoid you and leave without having to actively dodge you, and then you had to speed up your writing because you've fallen behind on schedule and with everything in your life going to shit, you just needed one thing to be constant and be completely yours.
it's actually good enough to beat clark this time, you think after perry had complimented the first draft earlier. but he's made it clear that this rivalry the two of you were enamored in is no longer something he's interested and the win feels bittersweet, pointless even you could argue, it's just not the same and you hate it.
there's a hum of billy joel "piano man" that dramatically belts through your earphones as you turn the corner of the next block and if it weren't for the extra pair of feet tappering behind your shadow you probably wouldn't have noticed the strange man following you from behind. you take a random turn, panicking and afraid of leading this stalker to your doorstep that you don't recognise the alley you've turned into.
the evening air darkens with the absence of street lamps and you shake your head softly, "please," you quietly plead and at the flash of yellow teeth you throw the first punch. it's lazily and poorly directed that you miss and he grabs at your waist. you elbow him, hit him and then plain knee his nuts as soon as he drops you to the ground. the panic turns to rage and you feel the weight of the week just climb into each punch you land that you don't even feel the body turning eerily limp below you or the flash of blue and red that lowers into the alleyway.
"miss?" a deeper, ruff voice calls out, it catches sight of your side profile and softens, "hey, hey, hey," and arms that feel oddly familiar wrap around your waist and peel you off the weird man who heaves at the floor, "you're safe now,"
"no thanks to you," you almost scream the words, "for fucking superman you sure are slow!" and the agitation turns to straight tears as you just sob, "oh my god, what the fuck even is this week?" you breathe out shakily, "it's just shit after shit and i can't catch a break? i can't even get saved by superman?" and superman (clark) part of him wants to laugh at how strange both this situation and you are right now.
he wished he could've gotten to you quicker, it took him a flash of a second to recognise your scream but of course your rage was faster and you did all the heavy work, the least he could do was lend you a listening ear, even if hearing you open up so vulnerable to him broke his heart even further.
"how are you feeling?" he tries; part of him is easier to be superman like this, he stands at a distance, giving him space between the two of you because he knows he'd just crumble. he wanted to at the first sob he heard that night? the first cup of coffee he noticed, the first yellow post it note that now makes itself home in the top drawer of his desk- he couldn't bring himself to throw your little attempts at love notes away. he pats the ground next to him, offering his cape as a little blanket which you sit gingerly on, sniffles sitting in the centimetres that separate you respectably.
"i don't know if i can tell you," you mumble and his body freezes, surely you wouldn't have caught on to his identity- "you're like clark's buddy aren't you," you scoff and he blinks slowly.
"clark?" he asks, ignoring the huge weight lumbered off his chest and lets himself breathe again.
"6'4, 240lbs of pure muscle mass and glossy onyx curls, god he's just so," you groan, "he's so perfect and i as always," you start to fear the wave of sadness take over and you lower your head between your knees, focusing on how the ground feels underneath you, how the gravel looks a lot more sharper up close, "i ruined everything," and its a heartbreaking admission.
superman doesn't say anything, he stares at you, brows raised waiting for you to continue your story, "clark and i- it was strange. we weren't exactly friends, i mean we work together but it was always different. we used to compete for the spot for the first page privilege and thanks to you," you scoff and he sends you a wince of guilt, "he would come out on top most times- but he always used to push me to just be a better writer. it was petty i know, and for the longest time i just thought thats what we were. we were enemies, we hated each other- he brought out the worst in me," you chuckle,
"and yet he always stayed, he never expected anything from me in return, he was just there, you know and one night, we got together and i didn't think i was ready but i was going to try you know, he asked me for a chance and i gave it to him. i owed it to us, to the special relationship we had, to the way he made me feel like nobody on earth ever has. and you know, i've been in relationships and they've ended terrible- i'm not the best person i know but clark made it feel like it was easy to love me like he saw the worst and loved me despite it- most people would run away but clark he," and you cry, "he was my person."
you feel a hand land on your shoulder, his thumb soothing you in a backwards and forewards motion and through the tears you can't even see superman anymore. "so what happened?" he asks, though he already knows this first hand.
"when i first started the job, clark kent liked everyone but me and it felt personal, it hurt," you gasp, shrugging your shoulders as you relive the memory, "he made fun of me, and before i learned to understand and match the digs, before i found the routine and loved it with him, it honestly felt targeted so i made a word document- this was months ago, you have to believe me," you plead, "i was childish, i started listing these nasty things about him that i hated like god his smile, his laugh, just him- i had to get out all this negative energy somehow and i'm a writer, i fucking took it out on a word document, sue me," you bitterly laugh, "i don't know how it got out but it did, because the world hates me and i'm undeserving of the good things and now, i'm undeserving of clark,"
"he's incredible and i've never felt this way about someone before, but he doesn't believe so with that stupid document and me not showing up in the ways he has when we got together, he thinks that i hate him," you get out, shaking with the thick of emotion.
"and do you?"
you press your lips together in thought, maybe to repress them, if you don't speak it it won't be real, it won't be true, it won't hurt so much. but you're a journalist and your whole career has taught you that the truth is powerful, especially when it can hurt, so you be brave for once and face superman through the tears, "i'm in love with him."
the words don't come, clark feels his heart break through his chest and he wishes, oh he damn wishes that he wasn't superman- that superman doesn't even exist, he wishes he could be clark. your clark in this moment and hold you and tell you that he wants to fix this, that we can fix this and it will be alright again, he's in love with you too, he has to let you know this.
but he can't. because being superman is bigger than being clark kent. so he murmurs some useless advice at how things take time, you'll heal and clark will come back to you if he's the person you've fallen in love with- clark kent is honest and truthful and determined, if he's right for you then he will return.
superman does nothing but let his heart plummet further as you slide a faded white, slightly crumpled ticket his way and his blood freezes at the sight of shakespeare printed in small, "if you see clark, could you give him this? i wanted to take him, make it a regular thing- show him i'm committed to this and having time for it and i know we're not talking and he hates me more than anything but, i think he'll like it."
"then i will make sure he receives it, you have my word," and the world burns when you sniffle, send him a soft smile and get up to stand. to leave your problems in the hands of superman and in the darks of the alley, there's nothing more you can do and honestly you're tired of this all. you've tried and all you can do now is play the waiting game.
"i see why clark likes you, and you owe me an interview soon big guy," you nod and he sends a tight smile back, saluting you with a wave and ignoring the way his bones want to snap at how weak he feels right now. "have a good night, superman," and he waves again.
when he sees your form disappear and his tears fall onto the worn out ticket, still warm from your sweating hands, he whispers an oath, "see you soon, neutron."
. . .
"some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them," the voice of malvolio echoes throughout the hall and you watch intently.
there's an ache as you try not to look beside you, at the empty seat- the clark sized hole that mirrors the vacant area in your heart as you train your eyes forward. the theatre has always been your favourite place to just let go and relax, have someone else feel the emotions for once and bring them to life but it feels lacking tonight, you can't distract yourself enough and suddenly the air weighs down on you and crushes you at a great intensity.
you silently grab your purse, sneak out the back row and head out of the doors. it's time to call it a night, go home and probably call your mom- maybe it's time to go home home, ground yourself with people who do love you and have never treated you any different, to be in an area that just doesn't remind you so heavily of clark, maybe it'd make the healing process a lot easier and you can actually start it.
you wave into oncoming traffic, drawing the attention of a taxi and rocking yourself as you wait for it to pull up near to you. the bag on your shoulder lightly dips as you step off the curb and into the taxi door before an arm pulls you back and youre thrust back into his orbit.
"clark," you breathe as his ocean blue orbs sink and drown you in. you've seen him in the week but this is different; this is upclose and vulnerable, this is intimate and before the world exploded on you.
"where you going?" his drawl lands breathless in lieu of an actual greeting.
"home?" you question and a small curl of his lip extends to the sky, the faint smile lines resting at peace.
"i said where you going, baby?" he repeats, earnest laced in his voice as his hold on you tightens against him, you're breaths are uneven as you intake his breath as your own air and you blink.
"come on man!" the exasperation of a third stranger breaks your trance and clark pops his head into the cab window at your side, lands a fifty note in his hand and grins.
"i'll take this one, thanks, have a good one," he wraps his fist in a gentle tap to the back of the car to signal its departure and the cab driver wolf whistles in return, counting the money and shooting clark a thumbs up for good luck, steering off into the distance.
"clark i-" and he presses his finger to your lips, silencing your tired fight immediately.
"so where you going, hon?" and the frustration builds up inside of you. you don't think you can do this tonight, you need energy, defense, bite and a plan to escape out of this untouched but its the sudden intensity he stares down at you, boyish and determined as he clears his throat, not offering anything else but patiently waiting for you to reply and then it hits you.
oh. home.
he is home.
"clark, i'm sorry," you whisper, "i'm sorry how this started and how it ended but it just goes to show we don't work," you get out, the words betray your voice in a tight strain and you shake your head softly, trying to detach yourself from his hold but he reaches for your hand and interlocks it, kissing your knuckles like its the very first time and then holds it to his chest.
"i don't believe that," he breathes, like its some secret joke only his soul can memorise. "you said you hated the way i laugh- it's too loud," and the words are a sharp stab, even as they spill from his lips.
"it is too loud," you confess, "i can hear it after you've stopped, it rings in my ears like an echo and i start wishing i knew how to make you laugh like that, how to keep hearing that sound again and again," the words start spilling before you can stop them and he softens completely.
"you hate the way i look at you, i'm a coward," he breathes.
"because you look at me like i'm the only one who ever matters and i didn't know what to do with all of that. its heavy, its all on me and i get nervous, clark," you scoff, hitting him lightly, tiny fists against his chest, "its worse when you look at me like you want to say something more but you don't because then i spend all day torturing myself with the what if's and its brutal," you stretch, resting your head on his chest in defeat and his heart sings beneath the touch.
"you hate the way i sneak up on you," he narrows his brows, "i take up too much space," he echoes and you glare at him.
"i know what i said clark," you seethe, annoyance bubbling up inside of you all over, "and you are big, you're fucking massive and you surround me, you consume me and steal all the air like its your birthright and i feel so damn helpless i hate it," you spit, taking a step away from him in hopes the chill of the evening hair will cool the fire that steams from your skin. "i can't even think when you're near and you're the only person who can throw me so hard off my game that i can't even remember my name some days and you do it so easily," you heave.
"do you hate that almost as much as you hate the way i make you feel?"
"oh thats worse, you make me feel like i'm not in control," and you take a step closer to him, "and i've never not been in control, you make second best to you feel like first place- like i'm still a winner because i get that cool look swung my way and i giggle like i'm back in school and i hate it- it's like you take all the years of hard work and practise just like nothing- you took my heart like it was nothing," and the tears are free to fall now, you don't even lift your arm to wipe them away you let him look at you, really look at you and let him feel the extent of the damage he's done- how he's caused you to come so undone.
"you hate me," he laughs, and its the same damn laugh you hate, you hate that you love it so damn much that you want to bottle it and get drunk on it every single night you spend in his absence.
"i do," you giggle and it feels like the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, you blink through the tears and he cups your jaw with his large hands that again, he's here consuming you all over. he presses a soft kiss to your lips and its not as hungry, as devouring and deep as the first drunken kiss you shared on that night two weeks ago. its slow, earnest, filled with the pinings and regrets of never knowing the right way to show your love. its wrapped in apologies and forgiveness and a promise to be brave and loud in how you feel.
"but here's a new one for you," you pause, "i really do hate the way that i broke your heart," you mutter ashamed, lowering your gaze but he catches it instantly with a shake to his head.
"do with it what you will; it was only ever yours to have because i'm in love with you," he smiles when he pulls away and its so loud and large your heart soars, "and you're in love with me," he presses his forehead into yours, uniting your broken hearts.
"i am," you swear, "i don't know when i fell but i know that i'm here in the deep end with you and i'm scared but i'm here clark, i promise," and he wipes away your stray tears.
the bustle of the crowds exiting the theatre breaks you free from his hold and he laughs once more, and then quieter for your ears to burn into memory only, "it's okay," he murmurs into your hair, ogling at the stars swimming in your eyes, "we have next week to make up for it," and you stare at the theatre doors and then at your lover. you lean up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips once again.
"we have forever to make up for this, so take me home, baby," you whisper.
and he does.
he does it for a lifetime and more.
riya saying hi: there's a lot to say but first hello! first clark fic after a few days off 🥺🥺 i poured my whole heart and soul into this one hence how long it is, how angsty it is - this is clark hurt comfort final boss. this by far has to be the best ive written and my most favourite love confession to date. ugh ! i really do hope you like it, i fear it did take a large portion of my energy so i will be focusing on requests for the next few days something easier and slower paced compared this monster.
i do want to reiterate that thank you so much for 1k followers! it means the world, beyond that how much this all feels and god im the luckiest person on earth. its such a gift to be able to create something, put myself in some words on a page and have it liked, and enjoyed my god i am gonna cry- but to celebrate this and you (!) because this in no way shape or form wouldve been possible without you, i am taking in clark requests and will try my hardest to get them out asap so send in whatever ! literally whatever ! (just not smut soz) but again thank you !!!!
and finally, this fic would not have been possible without the incredible, the STUNNING @hangmanwrites - anna i owe you a serious portion of my heart (not that you didn't already have it) for letting me work through this with you, helping steer it in the right direction and bring it to life. youre an incredible writing partner and your support has forever altered my brain chemistry- thank you my love, i appreciate and love you so damn much !!! 🥺💘
and again, to you readers, let me know what you think! my ask box is always open if you ever want to talk (and inbox too if youd prefer a longer conversation) thanks for being here and reaffirming kindness on this blog- love you !
"okay," fuck you, okay.” read this with so much sass. lmao it’s so me. why can’t you read my mind and know i don’t want to do something haha
also some of clark’s comments and shenanigans had me like “what the hey dude”
"and i would do it sober” i screamed!!! i would do it every which way 24/7 🙂↕️
spoilers!
"i really do hate the way that i broke your heart” this line broke me. the whole scene with her talking to superman broke me too. full on sobbing with her bc i would lose it if i lost clark too let’s be real
this was so good! i’m glad i finally got the chance to read it. the angst was amazing and the make up 🙌🏻 so happy
Summary: After the mission, reader is working on the report until late at night. Claire texted about Friday night which reader agreed to go. She thought it was over for the day until a certain broody "friend" of hers came around.
Contains: a bit of fluff, friends to lovers, some swearing, maybe a little bit of OOC(or very very OOC but I tried to keep them as them qwq 👍 )
A/n: Hi ya'll! This is a two part series of one shot. It's kind of challenging for me to write this one but I hope ya'll enjoyed it. Currently working on the second part can't guarantee when I can upload it but it should be posted soon. Thanks for taking the time and enjoy!
~~~~~~~~
It is a regular Tuesday in the DSO office. Lots of coworkers chattering, paper rustling around and flying, printers groaning for another dreadful set of copies needed to submit within the day's deadline and there she was. Sitting in front of the blue screen that's so harsh for the eyes that even her glasses couldn't filter them out, her shoulders hunched forward and her face leaning closer to the monitor as she wrote down her reports from her mission which she just came back a few hours ago.
She should have holed up and stayed inside, never leaving her solace again. Yet the reports invited themselves inside her mind, plaguing every nerve firing in her brain. So with her greater need for initiative and wanting to get things done quickly, she just had to finish it. Ignoring her body's cry for rest because the reports cannot wait for no one.
It is currently 11:48 pm and she's been working on the report ever since she has arrived. But it is alright, all this needs is a little tweak and some sentences need to construct well between the words for it to make sense and fall accurately of her actions from the mission leaving no loose ties behind. Alas of what felt like forever she has finished and she can finally take a breather.
Which she already did, she leaned her back onto the swivel chair with a sigh, her glasses removed tucked inside her case, and her eyes burned from staring at the screen for too long she had to blink them and leave them closed. She rubbed her neck, feeling it stiff and crack when she moved them. Despite the pain and soreness, she feels a sense of success that she has completed one task at a time. Now all she needed to do is print this out, submit it to her supervisor tomorrow morning and—
Buzz, buzz, buzz
Her phone lights up on her table. She grabbed it and winced at the brightness on her screen. Then she opened it to see it was a text from Claire.
Claire: Hey! You free this Friday night?
Friday night, huh? She looks at her calendar to check. Noting nothing as of schedule on her Friday night.
You: Yeah, I'm available. What's up?
Claire: I'm inviting you to join us in KTV. Knowing everyone's gonna be rough as hell by the end of the week so go figure
You: That's really nice but the singing? No.
Claire: Oh c'mon ya know you want to.
You: No. I refuse to. I'd rather to keep my dignity than to sing
Claire: But you have a great voice thoo it'll be funnn
You: Claire
Claire: FINE you can just not sing but join in for the drinks at least?
You: Hmmm.. Who else is coming?
Claire: Just Jill, Sherry, Rebecca, Carlos, Chris, and Leon ;>
You: Oh, fantastic
Claire: Oho yes indeed. You know you will be there ;>
You: You're lucky I love you cuz suddenly I wanted to crush someone's mouth rn
Claire: Will that be someone with LSK initials in particular? ;>
You: Shaddap
Claire: Love ya ;>
She sighed, feeling redness that threatened to come across her face. Of course he will be there. Though she does quite expect that he will be. She has known Leon ever since Racoon City, has been by his side, has seen the same monsters as he did, has experienced similar terrors and the near death experiences from Spain. She has been down the road with him for a long time and he's been the bestest friend that she has ever got besides Claire of course.
But if by definition of friend, do they ever get flustered when they look each other in the eyes? Or when their heart did those stupid unnecessary backflips whenever they touch or even a graze of skin? Or that her mind will constantly go back to him even in the most random moment because it reminds her of him?
No, right?
Well in this case, that's what she felt towards Leon. Yes, you got that right.
She fell in love with her best friend and she knows—oh she knows alright—of where she stood in his life. She knows that there is a line that she can never cross, especially ever since their little reunion with Ada Wong back in Spain; she knew exactly where she stood because seeing the interaction between Ada and Leon, she knew that he doesn't look at her that way like he did with Ada. She's painfully aware of his complex feelings towards Ada even before in Racoon City. But what else can she do about it? She couldn't do anything with a man who's in love with a mysterious woman. Who may have saved them both a few times from their inevitable deaths.
So on her part, what can she do? She did what she always does, quietly keeping her distance and hoping that her feelings will be gone before she goes in real deep. Except it wasn't and it just gets bigger the more she pushes them down. As painful as it is to admit the reality of their relationship, there's no way that Leon would look at her like she did with him.
And after rescuing Ashley and getting her back home, the time they both had by seeing each other or to hang around gets lesser and lesser each day without a warning. Though they still exchanged greetings and acknowledged looks sometimes but that's all there is to it.
She sometimes wishes that he has seen her, really sees her. Really see who's been there for him all along and waiting for the moment for that realization to hit him. Yet it's still wishful thinking.
She scoffed and shook her head lightly, "God I'm really stupid..". She smiles sadly before shutting off her monitor, her reflection looking back at her. She stood up, collecting her belongings before she got off her cubicle, going down to the elevator and pressing the button that leads down to the basement. She leaned her back onto the wall and crossed her arms, shutting her eyes feeling all the melancholy settling in. This is basically what you describe her,
A silent solitude.
Then a hand stops suddenly between the elevator doors from closing. Her eyes half open to see who's intruding her peaceful space. When the elevator reveals who the intruder was: a man taller than her with blonde hair that covered his azure eye, his shoulders that's hunched forward a little showing evidence of exhaustion, his tie loosened a little with his top button left open and his black blazer was hanged over his left arm that was flexed a little seeing his muscle defining through them.
"Leon..", she was astonished, looking at the man before her.
"Hey... Mind if I go down with you?" Leon asked and he seemed to be out of breath. Wait, why is he out of breath? Did he run all the way out here? Ah, it doesn't matter. She feels bad for the poor guy and she should cut him some slack. Painfully aware that it will be the longest week for them all.
"Be my guest", she gestured to her left side as Leon came in with a muttered 'thank you'. Then he presses the button to shut the door, he leans his back to the wall beside her, his eyes shut and he lets out a heavy sigh.
Her eyes are focused in front of her although she is hyper aware of his presence beside her. While she's processing this unpredictable event, she notices how close he is to her. So close that their arms could be touching if one of them moved. She silently scolded her own fast beating heart to calm down or else she'll embarrass herself if it gets any louder than it needs to be. "Rough day?", she noted based on the features that's written all over his face in the reflection.
"You could say that. My table is filled with paperworks needed to sign and reports filling up out of nowhere. Then I suddenly got an email that I need to get some reports submitted tonight and then there's this early briefing tomorrow", he shared with every word spouted, he grimaces of the work he had to endure. It has been a while since they last had a conversation like this, she felt like it has been a long time since they last connected like this.
"Ouch, sorry to hear that. And did you already submit them?", she asked, shyly looking down at his foot, still not having the courage to look at him directly yet.
"Yeah, at least that stuff ticks out. The rest will be for tomorrow's problem", he grumbled. "What about you? You look more tired than I am. Didn't you just come back from the mission?"
Wait, he knows that? Nobody acknowledged it until now.. It's nice, awfully nice that someone notices.
"Yeah, I just came back from Germany and I should've stayed in", she complained lightly with her lower lip out a little. "But this damn report keeps grabbing my attention like it's needy so I have no choice but to finish ‘em up".
"You got it rough, huh", he reacted albeit feeling empathetic with his head turned at her. "Yep. Just print that one out tomorrow morning and tomorrow ‘me’ will handle whatever comes tomorrow" she said begrudgingly as she anticipated the increased workload the next day.
Leon chuckled at her begrudged state for the future. "You can handle it. You're tougher than you look".
"Gee, I'm gonna grow a thick skin if this continues on which we both know it will be forever", she remarked sarcastically and with a chuckle. She misses being this close and open with him. She earned a huff in amusement from Leon, "I can already imagine what you look like in literal sense"
"Oh yeah? Like what?", she asked out of curiosity with her eyebrows raised and she did a side eye at him.
"Something like... Armadillo"
Silence.
She blinked her eyes. Come again?
"... Armadillo?"
"Yep. Armadillo."
"... Of all things, why specifically armadillo?"
"I mean..They have thick skin. Their shells are literally made of armor to fend themselves against predators. And they're tough too. "
She lightly snorted at his answer, "How very random of you"
Then Leon mumbled something else but she did catch one word from that that made her look at him directly to his eyes.
"What?"
"What?", he questioned looking at her with his eyebrow raised. She felt that her cheeks are tinged with redness already because there is no way that Leon said something about that word.
"You said something that Armadillos are...?" she trailed off, having second thoughts of asking that out loud. Then Leon shrugged it off as he looks beyond the elevator doors before him, " I said armadillos are cute, like you"
Oh. My. God.
Please tell me he did not just say that so casually, she thought. She looks down at the floor that's seemingly interesting with a desperate effort to cover up her strawberry-like face from him. What is up with this elevator and why is it going down so slowly?
And by mercy from the heavens above, she heard a 'ding' from the elevator. She walked out first trying her best to calm herself down. She goes the opposite direction from Leon as she walks down with her keys out and ready to get herself out of there before she makes a fool out of herself.
Then she heard her name called.
She stopped and turned to see Leon from a distance, he stood before her with his hand in a pocket and other gripping onto his blazer. "Are you coming this Friday?"
"Oh uh.. Yeah, yeah, I'm going. Are you?"
What kind of stupid question is that?
"Same", he answered back. Then silence befalls between them once more. She tries her hardest not to look awkward before him but what else is she gonna do? What else can she say in situations like this?
Leon who seems to reach a resolution about something. He walked towards her, "Let me walk you to your car", he offered. She was a little taken back but she knew that this is what Leon does all the time. He always has been a gentleman towards her and with no doubt maybe he has been to everyone as well. That's just him being nice. So what's the difference now?
"I'm fine, Leon. You should go on first I mean.. Aren’t you tired?"
" I am but I insist. Let me.", he offered again with a hint of begging. She sighed knowing she cannot budge this relentless man. So she did. They walked side by side towards her car that was parked almost at the back of the basement. She clicks her keys and the car chirps like greeting their owner. She paused in front of the door before she turned to Leon who was waiting for her to get in.
"Thanks for walking me out here", she said shyly, her hand that's free from belongings rubs her forearm up and down. "It's not a problem. I just want to make sure you get back in"
She nodded, looking at her best friend closely. Taking in his slightly dishevelled yet attractive features this man has. Kinda unfair don't you think? Compared to her, she looks like she went through hell. Dark circles under her eyes, skin complexion going pale from work and a bit hollowed from missed meals. An epitome of dead exhaustion is standing there, who's awkwardly looking at her crush for the longest time.
"I'll see you Friday then?", he asked coolly.
"Yeah, see you then", she opens her door and gets in but she feels a presence behind her and the hand above her head that's protecting her from the roof of her car. She looks up seeing his rugged palm and back at Leon who's dangerously close to her. Her breath hitches at the distance between them. Leon, who notices the distance, steps back to give her space. "Sorry, don't want you to hurt your head", he rubs his neck and gazes downward to the interesting ground.
She nodded, not trusting whatever comes out of her mouth as she got in. She started the car, strapped herself in and she rolled her window down. "Thanks again.. Drive safe, yeah?"
Leon looked up to her once more, "I will. Be safe as well".
She gives him a smile, "Always. See you Friday".
Then she drives off, with Leon watching her vehicle go before she's gone from his sight. She feels utterly embarrassed of what happened but at the same time, the giddiness gets in the mixture. She couldn't believe that really happened and how close they both have gotten. And she kept thinking of that particular mammal that Leon compares her to.
Cute. That word kept pondering in her mind and she shook her head. Then thinking about Friday and potentially seeing him again out of work, brought her new kind of excitement. However in the corner, there’s the dreary part of herself, thinking about her feelings that grows enormously again.
Simon came home from yet another deployment in the middle of the night, expecting to find you asleep in your shared bed. But instead, he found you sitting on the couch, waiting for him.
You ran to him, seeking the comfort you'd been longing for, wrapping your arms around him and peppering his face with kisses.
"Why aren't you sleeping, love?"
"I couldn't sleep without knowing you were okay."
Something inside him snapped. That's when he realized that every time he left, he left you hurting and worrying. And he couldn't do that to you anymore. You were his wife, not some side chick. You were supposed to have him with you.
Over the following weeks, Simon began noticing things he'd never paid attention to before.
The way you checked your phone whenever it rang. The way you barely slept during deployments. The way you clung to him whenever he came home. As if you were making sure he was really there.
He was distracted. He couldn't stop thinking about what would happen next. Soap noticed it too.
"You're distracted."
"No, I'm not."
"You've been staring at your phone for twenty minutes."
He was looking at a picture of you. Studying your features. Not wanting to forget your face. He was tired of this feeling. He wasn't supposed to look at a picture just so he wouldn't forget what you looked like. He was supposed to see you every day.
He spent weeks contemplating his decision, pacing around the house and going back and forth in his mind, wondering whether what he was about to do was right. He hid it from you. Still acting casual every time he was around you.Still pretending everything was fine. He tried convincing himself he was being ridiculous. He'd survived worse. So had you. But the thought never left.
He was scared. Scared of talking to Price. Scared of asking for what he'd been wanting for so long.
The night before speaking to Price, he decided to make love to you slowly. It wasn't the usual for the two of you. But he'd been so stressed and anxious these past few weeks that all he wanted was to feel you close. He wasn't looking for a release this time. He held you a little tighter that night. Like if he let go, you'd disappear. Usually, he was the one comforting you after a deployment. This time, he was the one seeking comfort.
The next day, Simon knocked on Price's door.
Price opened it, immediately assuming Simon wanted to discuss the next mission, like he usually did.
But he didn't.
"I'm stepping back."
Simon already expected the worst.
"You're what?"
"Look, Price. I can't keep going on deployments anymore."
Price stayed silent.
"I have a life now. I have a wife. And I can't keep putting her through that every time I leave. I don't want to leave the 141. I don't want to leave the military either. But I'm done with field work. You can fire me if you want. But I'm hoping you'll understand."
Price studied him for a moment.
"You know what you're giving up?"
"Yeah."
"And you're alright with that?"
Simon thought about you. Waiting on that couch. Falling asleep with your phone still in your hand. Worrying every single time he left.
"Yeah."
To his surprise, Price smiled. Not mockingly. Proudly.
"Took you long enough."
Simon frowned.
"What?"
"To realize you've got something worth coming home to."
Simon returned home that afternoon, eager to tell you the news.
The moment he stepped through the front door, he wrapped his arms around you, greeting you with kisses and hugs before finally setting you back down. You immediately noticed something was different.
"What's wrong, baby?"
"I talked to Price."
"About what?"
"I'm done with field work."
You stared at him. Certain you'd heard him wrong.
"Simon... why?"
"Because I don't want to leave you anymore."
You tried to gather your thoughts. Was he really doing this because of you?
"No, Simon. I don't want you to do this for me. I know how much you love your job."
"I'm still going to work there, love. Just not on active deployments. Maybe paperwork. Maybe training. Something else."
"But is that really what you want?"
Simon looked at you. Trying to understand what was going through your mind. You still didn't get it. The only thing he wanted now was you. He didn't care about deployments anymore. He didn't care about chasing the next mission. He just wanted to come home every night and find you there waiting for him.
"It is."
"You don't have to do that for me."
"I know."
"Then why?"
Simon looked at you for a long moment.
"Because every time I leave, I see what it does to you." His hand gently cupped your cheek. "And I'm tired of being the reason you hurt."
You stared at him for a moment.
"You're an idiot."
Simon snorted.
"Been called worse."
You shook your head and stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. "You know I would've survived, right?"
"Yeah."
"And you still did it."
"Yeah."
"Stubborn."
"Aye."
You couldn't help but smile. "Well, now you're stuck with me every day."
CW: angst, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, references to suicide, injured Simon, eventual smut, military inaccuracies
wc: 7.1k
Masterlist 🦊
When Soap gave you Simon’s address, you thought you’d end up in some dodgy building with flickering lights and the pungent smell of piss.
You expected sleazy neighbours, creaky old doors, and grime-crusted flooring: he is a clean man, sure—pathologically so, you’d like to add, since his barracks back at HQ look like an OR—but he absolutely adores his privacy. You wouldn’t put it past him to move somewhere other people would never go for their safety, even if it meant tiptoeing around pools of unidentified fluids and used condoms.
Instead, as your GPS pings your arrival, you find yourself in front of the loveliest house you’ve ever seen.
Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. There’s a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front door—sturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly aren’t. Thick glass, maybe to isolate sounds—as if it’s needed.
This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.
At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.
Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.
However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that you’ll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.
It’s autumn, so there’s the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, there’s a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.
It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.
If you hadn’t been worried down to the bone marrow, you’d have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.
Alas, you’re not here for sightseeing.
You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees aren’t faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.
With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet.
There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemist’s. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fucking prams the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.
You’re tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldn’t take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.
Because you hadn’t heard from him in days.
Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phone at all. Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the evenings—that he was alive.
He used to tell you.
They don’t get it—Johnny, Kyle, Price. They don’t know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.
Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork.
You’d send him pictures of your pale tea—too much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations you’d hang on the ceiling. He’d send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats he’d find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.
SR: Don’t know why.
LT: they think you’re snow white
LT: because you’re pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes
SR: Wouldn’t say sweet.
LT: in fact i said sweetest :)
SR: Flattery won’t work on your lieutenant.
LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you can’t pull rank on me
SR: I’m your L.T.
SR: You’re my second lieutenant. Under my command.
LT: technicalities
SR: You’re L.T. too
SR: L.Too
SR: L2
L2: oi
SR: Haha
L2: rude
SR: Alright, L2.
They don’t get it.
SR: Sleeping?
L2: are you keeping tabs on me?
SR: You’d be surprised.
L2: won’t ask
SR: Shouldn’t.
L2: Fancy a chat?
And your phone would ring.
“L2,” he’d greet.
“Not funny anymore.” But it was.
“Reckon it’s bloody hilarious.”
“Been too long. It’s losing its charm.”
“Charm?” He’d breathe a laugh. Almost. “Right, then—El.”
Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondays—
His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.
“Good job, L2.”
“Fuck off with that,” you’d laugh. “Spooky fucker.”
“That’s my El.”
They don’t get it.
Or maybe they do.
Price wrinkled his nose, but didn’t stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.
Maybe they saw it—your eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant.
LT and L2. Ghost and El.
On the seventh day of no contact, you couldn’t take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you were—you’d have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simon’s medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.
Now, you find yourself properly hauling your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door.
On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks.
Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. It’s not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes he’d open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.
The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.
Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. There’s no doorbell that you can see.
You knock.
“Lieutenant.”
Nothing.
The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.
“L.T.,” you say, trying to sound chirpy. “Special delivery!”
Silence.
You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.
Knock.
“Lieutenant!” Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. “It’s me! It’s lieutenant—”
You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.
“It’s L2!” You yell instead. “It’s El!”
Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short.
Knock knock.
“Please open the door?” You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. “I’m so fucking—so fucking tired and worried.”
Knock knock knock.
“Where the fuck do you live anyway, uh?” You sniffle. Your nose stings. “Was right, wasn’t I? You are fucking Snow White.”
Nothing.
Loudest silence you’ve ever heard.
You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesn’t manage.
“Lieu—” You gulp. “Simon? Please.”
On the far right, there’s a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing.
So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, it’s wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.
“I brought you food!” You go on, “And if you don’t open the door I’m gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuits—I’m gonna gobble them up in one sitting.”
The milk will go bad if you don’t put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt.
“The bourbon too,” you yell. “Gonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in this—in this fucking fairy grove you live in.”
The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and you’ll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.
“And I’m gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?” Your voice cracks. “And I’m gonna get sick and—and it’ll be your fault, because you didn’t open the bloody door.”
You wonder whether you’d smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.
The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.
Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.
“Simon!” You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. It’s not raining. “You fucking cunt open the fucking door!”
Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. You’re so tired. You don’t even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. You’d gladly sleep in your car—fuck, you’d sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.
All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.
“Please open the fucking door, please open the fucking door—"
Are you strong enough to break it down? You’re special forces, but you’re not a battering ram. You don’t have the tools that would help—you didn’t think you were gonna need them.
Stupid.
Are you brave enough to open the door? To find what’s inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?
The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.
“This fucking idiot—” You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. “I swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fucking not, Simon, I will—”
“Which bourbon?”
Your head snaps.
His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. He’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but there’s a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.
A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal.
Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. He’s paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and he’s so much fucking thinner.
But he’s alive.
His chest rises. His blood runs.
You blink.
A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like it’s the first time you’ve ever done it.
“I-I don’t know,” you stutter. “Don’t drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he just—just tossed it in there.”
“Mh.”
His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags.
“You better like it.” You sniffle and nod at the bags. “Fifty-five quid just for that thing.”
He snorts. Sighs. “Good enough then.”
You exchange looks.
Then, he nods his head inside.
“Help me out?” He drawls.
Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if they’ve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you haven’t eaten in days. The world turns upside down—relief so visceral and thick you feel like it’s drowning you.
You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you don’t, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.
You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.
Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.
You hadn’t seen the aftermath yet.
He’s missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isn’t rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart.
They shake—fiercely, like he’s experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.
You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of pain—like he’s putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.
Control he lost.
When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.
Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.
“The bags are heavy,” you croak.
“Carried worse,” he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.
His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor.
The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.
Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.
You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.
Carried worse, he said.
Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.
Six Months Earlier
Intel’s rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.
Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.
Because in front of you, right now, there’s a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.
A squared box, half as tall as you. It’s raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.
It’s not much different from the ones you’ve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. There’s no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you don’t think this one is timed at all. If you’re fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.
Thank fuck you’re wearing sturdy PPE, then.
With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. There’s a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suit—a big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe.
“Captain,” you call through comms. “You sure it’s off, yeah?”
The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before John’s usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.
“Local bomb squad’s had a look already,” he says. “Said it’s old.”
Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesn’t seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.
“Doesn’t look like they did anything, though,” you offer.
John grunts. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Right.”
His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. “Just passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.”
You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stick—Simon’s convincing like that—though it is the first time John actually uses it.
You let it slide.
“And why’s that?”
“Signed by Konni.”
You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.
“Always nice to see an old friend, isn’t it?”
“Keep us updated, yeah?”
“On it.”
You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.
“Alrigh’?”
Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, you’d wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting.
It’s fucking hot in this thing.
“You shouldn’t be here.” You give him a sidelong glance. He’s not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. “Especially not naked like that.”
“Naked, uh?” He snorts. “Better get a good look, then.”
You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. “Captain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.”
Price’s voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.
“Ghost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuck’s sake. Don’t fancy scraping you off the walls.”
Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. “Rat.”
You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.
“I asked the second lieutenant a question an’ she ain’t answered yet,” he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. “Permission to kick her off the team?”
“You won’t hear a single fuckin’ word she says if you’re ground meat, Simon,” Price’s voice rasps. “Wear the bloody PPE and then we’ll talk.”
Static replaces John’s orders as communication cuts off on his part.
Only then does Simon pitch in.
“I asked you a question.”
You sigh, but it’s neither weary nor exasperated.
“Yeah, I’m alright,” you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. “Why aren’t you wearing the gear?”
“I’m in good hands.”
“Thanks, I’m immensely flattered,” you quip. “Please go wear it now.”
“Thought it was too old to still be active.”
You don’t have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. It’s like spotting an oasis in the desert.
You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.
It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.
There’s no need for you to look his way—his presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own.
“I won’t support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineer—” you point at yourself with the screwdriver, “—and go wear the bloody bomb suit.”
Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.
“Worried ‘bout me, are ya?”
You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. “Plenty.”
“Good heart.”
“Chop chop, Riley.”
“Aye aye, El.”
With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.
You don’t turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. There’s an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. They’re held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.
“Weird,” you mumble to yourself.
“What is?” John pitches in.
You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.
“Uhm, uh—” You shake your head to recollect yourself. “The bomb—it looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.”
John hums. “Could be one of Konni’s earliest works. Disposal said it’s old, innit?”
“Yeah,” you huff. “I don’t trust a single word those fuckers said.”
“Right,” he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. “Do what you can with it. Keep me updated.”
“Roger that, captain.”
Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables.
You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldn’t.
However, you can’t quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.
This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isn’t isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.
This is amateurish.
And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isn’t. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldn’t DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.
Unless—
“El? You with us?”
Simon’s voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if he’s speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.
Relief floods through you.
You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.
Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.
Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.
“Yeah,” you huff. “They should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. It’s fucking sweltering in here.”
Price’s voice crackles once more. “We’ll hire a fashion designer.”
Simon snorts.
“Look at you, captain,” you croon. “Providing jobs for the youth.”
You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes. “Do yours or you’ll lose it.”
But you know it’s an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.
“Aye aye.”
And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. There’s the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off.
And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.
It’s entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones you’ve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.
You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.
“It’s dead.”
John huffs through comms. “Thank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.”
But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.
Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet it’s hard to have a good view of his face.
He’s taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes aren’t poised on the bomb, though; they’re on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesn’t reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.
“Hang on, Price,” he rumbles.
You stall for a moment.
It’s only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. You’re special forces, an engineer—sixth sense isn’t enough to support evidence.
But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer.
“El?” He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.
Your stomach lurches.
“I mean—” You gesture vaguely at the device. “It looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than me—"
John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too.
“Get to the point.”
You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesn’t take an engineer like you to recognise that it’s long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you don’t know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looks too long gone.
You smack your lips. “Something’s wrong. It feels—”
“Don’t care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?”
“Listen, John, I’m not here to fucking play—"
“Need to have another look at it, boss,” Simon cuts in. “Give us a minute, will ya?”
“Roger.”
You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts.
“I hate him with passion each time he acts like—”
“He can still hear ya.”
“Good.”
If John can actually still hear you, he doesn’t voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.
You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. It’s composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. You’d need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if it’s live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that you’ve opened with unexpected ease.
Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isn’t.
A hunch isn’t enough to negate evidence, that is true, but it’s there, and you won’t allow it to gnaw at your guts.
Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.
“Pass me the snake cam.”
You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance.
Your ears pick up on sounds even if you’re entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.
“Get it in,” he says. “I’ll hook it up.”
In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.
Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board.
“Got anything?” You ask Simon.
“Too dark.”
“Turn on the flash.”
The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board.
Simon hums.
“Got something.”
You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.
“Fuck. Let’s switch.”
Simon shifts until he’s kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers.
“Got it.”
Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.
As he said, there’s something. The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesn’t allow you to make out much more of it.
Only one thing stands out.
A light.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Thought so,” he spits. “Fucking Makarov.”
You don’t have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.
“John.”
Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. “Send over.”
“We got something.”
“Details.”
“In a sec. Stay on.”
You look at Simon. He’s perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as you’d expected. He’d make an incredible demo specialist, though you know he’s an even better sniper.
“Gentle, Simon,” you murmur. “Need you to go south.”
He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.
“Gentle,” you repeat. “Slower.”
And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.
Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. It’s not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red again—beating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness.
Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.
“C4.”
Simon clicks his tongue. “Christ.”
“John, tell the local authorities to clear out the area now,” you order steadily. “Add that they’re a bunch of lazy cunts, too.”
“Will do.” Then, quietly, “good work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.”
“Roger.”
The static on the radio goes dead. There’s only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.
Red, green. Red, green.
Simon’s voice reaches out to you. “See a blasting cap?”
“Yeah.” You tongue your cheek. “South. Then move to the right.”
He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but you’re starting to have a general idea of what you’re working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.
Red, green. Red, green.
While you can’t make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
You blink.
“Stop.”
Simon falls still.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.
“Right. Go to the right. Quick.”
Simon doesn’t put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.
It ticks, ticks, ticks.
“Shit—Simon, drop it!”
And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.
“Drop that shit and run!”
Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadn’t accounted for that. Fuck, you hadn’t accounted for any of this.
You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He would’ve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadn’t insisted, if you’d let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.
“Fuck—” You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.
“It’s timed, John!” You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. “We’re leaving—no time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!”
An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS would’ve thought of venturing further inside the device.
Makarov knew it.
He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.
He wanted John’s team there.
He knew those bastards wouldn’t be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.
Call the big guns and then call it a day.
“Run. Don’t look back and run, both of you.”
He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You’re already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suit—not protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees don’t bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears.
Simon’s ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But he’s faster, stronger—able to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if it’s only a mere annoyance to him.
Though he must hear you—or rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side.
He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.
“Fuck—faster, El!”
“I know!” You’d like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.
“Go!” Your voice cracks. “Fucking run, Riley!”
Though he’s been standing still for so long that you’re now by his side.
You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with you—though that’s one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.
“We got one minute at most—run ahead for fuck’s sake!”
It’s like you can hear it, now—each ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault—
Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simon’s hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.
The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.
Though when you turn, it’s your stomach that touches it.
Simon’s already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket.
“What—”
The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, he’s impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with ease—chest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.
Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage.
“Are you fucking mad?!”
But he’s taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel you’re stuck in.
“Simon what the fuck!”
“Come ‘ere an’ shut yer mouth.”
He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.
You don’t have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs.
Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand.
He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.
“Simon—”
“Keep still.”
And then, he runs.
There’s a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but you’re unsure of what is real and what isn’t.
He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.
“I’m slowing you down!” You yell, hoping the chaos won’t mask your voice too much. “Put me down! I—I have the bomb suit on, I’m going to be fine!”
Though that’s a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back.
But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.
A chance he doesn’t have, not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.
However, Simon doesn’t answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. It’s close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.
A black hole hidden underground.
You don’t know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.
“Please Simon, please!”
His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight he’s carrying—yours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesn’t deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.
He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain he’s putting on his body.
Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.
Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.
At the same time, the tunnel’s darkness turns blinding white.
first thing i’ve written in 2 years hope you all like it !
| f!reader | simon riley | my masterlist <3
imagine the 141 visiting ghost at his apt as a team bonding activity and on their way out they run into reader in the hallway because she’s on her phone and wasn’t paying attention and she gets knocked to the ground and drops her phone. but when they help her up and pick up her phone they notice her lockscreen is of her and a very familiar face of their anti social teammate who would rather be sent to the desert on a mission for a year than ever interact with the general public, who also just got done telling them that no matter what they think he is not seeing anyone. yes he really did pick those flowers on his kitchen counter cause they’re a nice pop of color. not to mention how he rarely smiles but he’s grinning ear to ear and cheek to cheek with this woman. yeah he’s definitely not seeing anyone.
and don’t worry simon gave the reader an earful about not paying attention to her surroundings when price, gaz, and soap questioned him about why this random woman has a picture of him as her lockscreen on their next deployment
I headcanon that Simon—who grew up under irresponsible and intoxicated parents—never got birthday cakes growing up. Like, he’d gone to other people’s birthday parties and saw what they had, but knew he could never expect it for himself because his mom and dad were either too drunk or too careless to ever get him one.
You’ve been dating for a year and his birthday rolls around. When he walks in on you carefully icing a big, beautiful chocolate cake, it’s immediately like someone just poured a bucket of ice water over his head.
-
“Love, have you seen my—“ he barges into the kitchen looking for his car keys, but freezes in his step when he sees you leaning over the counter, a look of supreme concentration on your face as you pipe a few chocolate roses.
“Hm? What’d you say, babe?” Your delayed reply eventually comes, almost too absorbed in the task to even hear him.
A few beats of silence.
“I asked if you’d seen my car keys. What—what are you doing?” He asks, voice quieting.
You merely scoff, “What do you mean ‘what am I doing?’ I’m making your birthday cake, dummy! What else would I be doing?”
You giggle, as if he were silly for even asking the question in the first place. Meanwhile, Simon’s entire world is shaking on its foundations.
“Oh—chocolate cake is still your favorite, right?” You hurriedly jump back from the cake, “I went to the store and I thought about making confetti cake, but then I remembered how much you liked that lava cake we got at the cafe…and then I saw they had that fancy dark chocolate on sale! Y’know, the one that’s too expensive to justify, and since it’s your birthday, I just knew it would be perfect! But if you want a different flavor then—“
“No, no,” he meekly interrupts your passionate explanation, “It’s perfect, love.”
For a second, he watches your face curl into a pleased smile, before you grab him by his tattooed wrist and drag him closer to the cake.
“Look—Look, I even found little star sprinkles to go on the edges! They’re super cute, right?”
You blink at him—entirely clueless to the way his heart is currently beating out of his chest, and through the force of the pain in his throat, he manages to speak.
“It’s beautiful. You’ve done a great job,” his voice sounds like a robot, tense and to-the-point. He’s so stuck in his head he literally flinches when you jump excitedly into a hug.
“Gosh, I’m so glad you like it! I was so worried, y’know, cause the frosting melted a little bit, and then the sprinkles left stains on the top, and then—“ like always, you ramble nonsensically, voice muffled from where you squish your face into his t-shirt.
All the while, he simply stares down at the little cake, wobbly and imperfect, struggling to breathe.
“—but it was all worth it in the end,” you breathe a deep sigh of relief, before suddenly snapping out of your reverie, “Oh, what did you want again? Sorry, I was distracted.”
He cluelessly blinks a few times, “Uh—asked for m’car keys.”
“Oh, I think I saw them by the couch. Try there,” you reply, before you step out of his arms and go back to your task, smiling all the while. You pick up the frosting bag once more.
He merely watches on, breathing too loud, something hard and immovable collecting in his chest. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice is garbled and soft, “I’m—I’m goin’ to the grocery.”
“Sounds good, babe,” you hum, “Oh! Pick up some milk while you’re there, too.”
“Will do.”
With that, he SPEED WALKS out of the kitchen, ducking aimlessly into the bathroom. For a moment, he stands, looking at himself in the mirror. The tightness in his chest chokes him to the point where his breaths come out in small, silent pushes. And when he glances at his face, the tears in his eyes finally spill over.
He cries silently to himself for the first time in years, shaking arms leant up against the bathroom counter while he muffles the sobs into the crook of his elbow. In the background, he can hear the sound of your phone blaring pop music, can hear the noise of your sneakers as you dance to the beat. Somewhere between the overflowing love bursting from his chest, and the sugary sweet air of his now peaceful home, he crumbles.
When he finally manages to pull himself back together, he takes a moment to steel himself in the mirror, unable to contain the smile that tugs at his lips. He looks deranged almost, eyes bright red from crying yet grinning like a maniac. It’s only when he goes to turn the faucet on that he sees it: a little spot of buttercream frosting amidst the blue-black ink of his tattoos.
Slowly, he lifts his wrist to his mouth, feeling the sugar melt on his tongue. If anything, his smile only widens.
When he finally gets into the drivers seat of his car, it’s not the grocery store that he ends up navigating to. Rather, it’s the jewelry store.
You needed milk. But, hell, he’d been meaning to buy an engagement ring soon anyway.
forbidden romance, brothers best friend! and friends (that hook up a little bit) to lovers tropes. this is not a dark romance. reader and rhett are of similar ages, and of age in this story.
this fic explores religious guilt and sexual desire. smutty heartbreak! read at your own risk.
𓊆 ❀ ⁎⁺₊ ཐི♰ཋྀ ₊⁺⁎ ❀ 𓊇 “because if it feels good
then how can it be bad?”
chapter one - house guest.
⤷ the first time you see rhett in years has your body stirring, it doesn’t help he has to stay over.
chapter two - cry baby cry.
⤷ after a harsh comment by a churchgoer hurts you, rhett’s there to comfort you. you realize that your (sexual) feelings for rhett aren’t just mutual, they’re all powerful.
chapter three - wicked game.
chapter four - intertwined
epilogue - a promise
note: as this series is still being written all chapter names, and chapter count is subject to change ❤️
summary: bob's room is your safe space.
word count: 0.6k
tags: gn!reader; light hurt/comfort; mutual pining.
a/n: random dove fact: i was a big time conan gray fan back in the day so this was fun lol!! conan pls make youtube videos again soon.
this is part of my 2k celebration! read the rules here <3
The sight of Bob’s ceiling has become a familiar one.
On most days, you tend to be out with the rest of the Thunderbolts, doing press or pointless missions or cleaning Valentina’s car because “you do it the best” (her words, not yours). Like everyone else, you didn’t sign up for the superhero life, nor do you think you’re particularly noble. The jobs you carry out are typically menial ones. Busy work. Unfulfilling fluff. More often than not, it’s enough to frustrate you to tears.
At the end of the day, though, you can always return to headquarters knowing there’s a safe place to land.
You swing open Bob’s door and flop onto his bed like you own the place. In a way, you have claimed a sense of ownership over his space; you spend more time in his room than yours nowadays.
His shower is clearly occupied. The vent is buzzing, and faint music plays somewhere from within — off of his phone, most likely. You wait patiently, making up constellations from the specks on Bob’s ceiling until he eventually appears in his usual loungewear.
“Oh. Hey,” he greets. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Your only response is a tired grunt. Bob huffs out a laugh, and he approaches to sit on the edge of his own bed. His hair is dripping wet as he takes a seat beside you, thumbing at his phone to turn his music off. With a frown, you poke his back, causing him to jolt.
“Keep it on,” you mumble, your face smushed against his pillow.
Bob lifts his brows, vaguely amused, and nods. He turns his music back on, letting it shuffle through his playlist as he leans back against his headboard. He already knows your day must have been rough, given the way you sink into his sheets like they’re the last thing you’ll ever touch.
“Wanna talk about it?” He asks, resting a hand on the back of your shoulder. It’s tender. Unwavering. He’s getting better at leaning on others, and in turn, letting others lean on him. Affection used to feel strange, but not so much anymore. It’s easier these days.
You shake your head, lulled away by the music and the weight of his hand on your shoulder. “Not right now. Later, maybe.” A heavy, content sigh drifts out of your mouth. “Thanks.”
Bob nods, giving your shoulder a light pat. “Yeah. Anytime.”
He lets you rest for a few minutes, paying no mind to his damp hair even as it drips water down his shoulders. He only gets more comfortable in lieu of your current mood; Bob shuffles around to lean against the headboard, and his hand drifts up the back of your neck to massage your scalp.
You’re half asleep and fading fast, but the music continues at low volume, feeling oddly poignant as you catch a few words:
I’m too shy to tell you the words on my mind / I hope you can see if you read through these lines
When you manage to peek your eyes open, you look up to find that Bob is already staring down at you. He smiles shyly, a look you’ve seen so many times yet never read into. That familiar feeling in your chest rises up as it always does around Bob — the warmth that you’ve always associated with simple comfort suddenly feels heavier than usual. It hits you all at once, leaving you tongue-tied but far too exhausted to address the truth just yet. Instead, you close your eyes again, shifting closer to him until your head butts against his thigh.
You might be too shy to say what’s on your mind, but when his hand remains on the back of your head, the truth doesn’t feel so intimidating.
You know that I love you / Is it dumb believing you might love me too?
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.
C's Corner: I had to pause Fault Lines for a little bit to create this fic, which was a request from @j3susforlif3 and honestly, John Walker being loved loudly by someone who refuses to let the world keep kicking him? Yeah, that got me. 🥺
There’s something about writing him as this man who is so used to being hated that kindness completely knocks the wind out of him. Like, sir, please accept the affection. Stop trying to return it at the customer service desk.
I really hope you like this one, and thank you again for the request! And of course, thank you to everyone else who reads, comments, reblogs, or just quietly enjoys my little John Walker spiral. I appreciate you all so much. 🫶🏽✨
✍🏽 WC: 6.8K+
SUMMARY:
The world still sees John Walker as a villain no matter how many times he tries to do the right thing. After he rescues you during a hostage mission, you see firsthand how much hate he quietly endures, and you decide you’ve had enough.
What starts as you defending him from the cruelty of strangers slowly turns into something softer, closer, and impossible to ignore. John may not believe he’s someone worth loving, but you’re determined to show him that he already is someone good.
The first thing you notice about John Walker is that he doesn't hesitate.
Not when the ceiling above you cracks like thunder. Not when everyone around you screams. Not when the lights in the building flicker red and the smoke gets thick enough to turn breathing into a chore.
He moves through chaos like he has already accepted it as part of his body.
You're on the floor behind an overturned reception desk, one hand pressed over the shoulder of a teenage boy you don't know, trying to keep him from looking at the blood on his sleeve. There are at least twelve of you trapped in the lobby, maybe more. It's hard to count when your ears are ringing and every breath tastes like plaster dust and panic.
A woman is crying somewhere behind you. Someone keeps praying.
Then the wall explodes inward.
You flinch so hard your teeth click together.
A metal arm punches through smoke first then a man follows it.
Bucky Barnes looks exactly like the news makes him look, severe, focused, dangerous in a way that is almost quiet. He takes out the first armed man before you even fully process he's there.
A shadow slips in behind him, bending light around herself like the world is simply deciding not to notice her.
Ava Starr, Ghost.
She moves through gunfire as if she's made of static and vengeance, disarming two men in less time than it takes you to blink.
Then someone comes through the broken opening like a thrown shield made flesh.
John Walker.
He hits the ground hard, shield raised, shoulders broad enough to make the space behind him feel safer by sheer stubborn physics.
"Everybody down!" he barks.
You're already down, but you duck lower anyway.
Gunfire cracks through the lobby. John plants himself between the hostages and the attackers without a second thought. Bullets strike his shield, sharp metallic pops that make several people cry out. He doesm't move back, not an inch.
Bucky is a blur of black and vibranium.
Ava flickers in and out like a ghost story with fists.
John takes the center.
That's what you notice.
Bucky and Ava move around the room, precise and terrifying. John stays in front of you. In front of all of you.
He absorbs the danger like he believes there's no other reasonable place for it to go.
"Exit's clear!" Bucky calls.
John glances back, just once, eyes sweeping over the group.
His gaze catches on you.
You don't know what he sees. Dust on your face, blood on your sleeve that isn't yours, fear you are failing miserably to hide.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head. "Not mine."
His eyes dip to the boy beside you.
"Can he walk?"
"I can," the boy says, voice shaking.
John nods once. "Good. Stay behind me."
It's ridiculous, really, the way your body believes him.
The lobby is still burning in places. There's glass everywhere. The alarm is shrieking overhead. But John says it like an order to the universe itself, and some traitorous little part of you thinks, 'Okay. Behind him. That is where safe is.'
He gets you out. All of you.
One by one through the smoke, past rubble, over broken marble and twisted metal. He carries an older man when his legs give out. He shields a mother and her daughter when part of the ceiling caves. He snaps at a paramedic to check the boy's arm first, then acts annoyed when someone tries to look at the cut running down his own temple.
"I'm fine," John says, with the exhausted tone of someone who has said those two words so often they have become less of an answer and more of a locked door.
Bucky gives him a look.
Ava, standing nearby with arms crossed, says, "You are bleeding on your boot."
John looks down.
There is, in fact, blood dripping onto his boot.
He grimaces. "Not a lot."
Bucky sighs like a man praying for patience.
You're sitting on the back of an ambulance with a thermal blanket around your shoulders when the crowd starts to gather.
At first, it's just phones.
People filming. People whispering.
The New Avengers are here. The Thunderbolts. Whatever the world has decided to call them this week.
You've seen this before on TV. The way people look at them like they are either saviors or weapons, and nothing in between.
John stands a few feet away, one hand on his hip, the other wiping blood from his eyebrow with a strip of gauze someone finally convinced him to hold. Bucky is talking to an officer. Ava is lingering near a pillar, pretending she is not watching everyone at once.
John looks tired.
Not physically, though he should. He looks tired in the soul. Worn down in places no bandage can reach.
Then a man steps out of the crowd. He is middle aged, expensive coat, expensive watch, holding his phone up like it gives him courage.
"Well, look at that," he says loudly. "They'll let anybody play hero now."
John goes still. It's fast, so fast you almost miss it. His shoulders tighten. His jaw shifts. His chin lifts half an inch. The posture of a man putting armor over a bruise.
The man grins, encouraged by the attention. "Tell me, Walker," he continues, "how many people have to die before they stop giving you a shield?"
The air changes.
Bucky turns his head.
Ava's eyes narrow.
John doesn't move.
He smiles, it's awful. Not cruel, not smug, just empty. A practiced, hollow thing dragged onto his face because the alternative would be letting everyone see it land.
"Sir, you need to step back," John says polite and controlled.
The man scoffs. "What, gonna bash my head in too?"
Something hot and furious opens in your chest.
You don't know John Walker. Not really.
You know what the news says. You know what people say. You know the headlines and the arguments and the endless footage clipped and replayed until every human being involved becomes a symbol for strangers to throw stones at.
But you also know what you just saw.
You saw him stand between bullets and terrified people. You saw him carry a stranger out of smoke. You saw his hand shake for half a second after he set that little girl down, then disappear into a fist before anyone else could notice.
You saw him save your life.
And this man, this smug, polished little mosquito in a wool coat, thinks he gets to turn that into entertainment.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you slide off the ambulance. The thermal blanket falls from your shoulders.
"Hey," the paramedic says, startled. "You should sit down."
You don't.
John notices you moving and immediately looks over.
"Ma'am, stay back," he says.
Of course he calls you ma'am while bleeding and being verbally crucified in a parking lot.
You ignore him.
The man barely glances at you. "This doesn't concern you."
You step between him and John. "It does, actually."
John freezes behind you.
The man blinks like the concept of interruption has never personally happened to him before.
You point toward the smoking building. "I was in there."
His mouth opens.
You keep going.
"So were a dozen other people. Some of them were children. And while you were out here doing whatever this is," you flick a hand at his phone, "he was inside getting shot at so we could live long enough for you to perform your little sidewalk sermon."
The crowd goes quiet.
A phone lowers.
The man's face reddens. "You don't know what he's done."
"No," you say. "I don't know everything he's done."
John makes a soft sound behind you. Not quite a breath.
You glance back just enough to see him looking at you like you have sprouted wings, antlers, and possibly an axe.
Then you face the man again.
"But I know what he did today. Today, he saved people. Today, he saved me. And I am so tired of watching people act like a person's worst moment is the only thing they are ever allowed to be."
The words come out sharper than you expect.
You are not a loud person. You don't enjoy confrontation. You believe in kindness so stubbornly that friends have accused you of being built out of open windows and bad survival instincts.
But kindness is not the same as softness. Sometimes kindness has teeth.
The man's grip tightens around his phone. "He's dangerous."
"So are half the people you call heroes when it's convenient," you snap. "The difference is you've decided he deserves to keep bleeding for your comfort."
Bucky's eyebrows lift.
Ava looks, very briefly, delighted.
John says nothing.
You can feel him behind you, broad and silent, like he doesn't know what to do with the strange and fragile thing you have just placed in his hands.
Defense... from you. A stranger with dust in your hair and fury in your lungs.
The man looks around, maybe searching for someone to agree with him.
No one speaks.
You step closer, lowering your voice.
"You want accountability? Fine. You want consequences? Fine. But if a man can put his body between hostages and bullets and still not earn one decent breath before you start throwing stones, then this stopped being justice a long time ago."
His face twists. "You're naïve."
You smile then, small and humorless. "Maybe. But at least I'm not cruel and calling it wisdom."
Ava makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh. Bucky coughs into his fist.
The man's mouth shuts. For one deeply satisfying second, he has nothing.
Then a police officer gently but firmly guides him back, muttering something about clearing the area.
The crowd begins to loosen. People look away. Phones drop. The spell breaks.
You exhale. Your hands are shaking, you hate that. You turn around, and John Walker is staring at you.
Not casually, not politely. Staring.
His eyes are blue, startlingly so through the grime and blood on his face. There is disbelief there. Suspicion too, maybe. A man waiting for the punchline because life has taught him every kindness comes with a hook buried in it somewhere.
"You didn't have to do that," he says. His voice is lower now, rougher.
You shrug, suddenly aware that you're standing barefoot on gravel because somewhere between the building and the ambulance you lost one shoe.
"Yes, I did."
John looks down at your feet.
His brow furrows. "Where's your shoe?"
You blink. "That's what you're focusing on?"
"You're standing on glass."
"I just publicly yelled at a man for you."
"I noticed."
"And your response is foot safety?"
His mouth twitches, it's barely there. Almost nothing.
But it is the first real expression you have seen on him that doesn't look assembled out of discipline and old bruises.
"Seems important," he says.
You glance down.
There is, indeed, broken glass near your foot.
"Oh."
John steps forward, then stops himself, like he is not sure he is allowed to come closer.
That does something strange to your chest. He just walked into gunfire without hesitation, but he hesitates over offering you a hand.
So you make the choice for him. You hold out your hand.
John looks at it then at you.
Behind him, Bucky suddenly becomes very interested in the sky. Ava turns away with the faintest smirk pulling at her mouth.
John takes your hand carefully.
His palm is warm, calloused, larger than yours by enough to make your brain briefly forget its normal duties.
He guides you away from the glass and back toward the ambulance.
"You should sit down," he says.
"You should let someone look at your head."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on your boot."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Ava told you that?"
"She announced it to the general public."
Ava calls from several feet away, "And I was correct."
Bucky adds, "Usually is."
John sighs through his nose, but this time the sound is almost human, almost amused.
You sit back on the ambulance, and the paramedic immediately returns with a look that says she is deciding whether you are brave or deeply inconvenient.
John lets go of your hand slowly. Like he forgets for half a second that he's supposed to.
Then he clears his throat and steps back. "Thank you," he says.
You look up at him, at the blood drying near his temple, at the armor, at the shield, at the man underneath all of it who seems genuinely baffled that anyone would stand between him and a blow.
"You're welcome, John."
His name changes something. You see it happen.
His face goes very still again, but not like before. Not armor this time. Something softer. Caught off guard.
"You know my name," he says.
You raise an eyebrow. "You're on the news a lot."
The hollow smile threatens to come back.
You stop it before it can.
"But that's not why," you add.
He waits.
You tilt your head toward the building. "Bucky yelled it when the ceiling started coming down."
John blinks.
Then, to your surprise, he laughs. It's short, quiet. Rusty at the edges.
A laugh unused to daylight.
"Right," he says. "Yeah. That tracks."
The paramedic starts checking your pulse. You let her.
John lingers.
Not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that the space beside the ambulance feels different. Safer... warmer. As though some part of him has been assigned there and refuses to clock out.
Bucky walks past behind him and murmurs, "You're welcome, by the way."
John doesn't look away from you. "For what?"
"For not recording that."
Ava appears on his other side. "I considered it."
John's ears go faintly pink.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too much.
His teammates like him.
That's obvious now.
In the way Bucky needles without malice. In the way Ava watches the crowd like she's ready to haunt anyone who tries something. In the way John rolls his eyes but doesn't tell them to leave.
The world may hate him but they don't, and for some reason, that matters to you.
Maybe because you know what it is to be misunderstood in smaller, quieter ways. Maybe because you have always hated watching a mob mistake cruelty for righteousness. Maybe because he looked so alone for one split second before he remembered how to pretend he was not.
John shifts his weight. "You really okay?" he asks.
There is no performance in it now. No Captain voice, no soldier edge. Just concern.
You nod. "I think so."
"Good."
A beat passes.
Then you say, "Are you?"
His expression closes by instinct. "I'm fine."
You give him a look.
He gives you one back.
It's absurd, the two of you sitting there in the middle of smoke and sirens, having a silent argument with your eyebrows.
Finally, you say, "That answer needs better writers."
Bucky snorts.
Ava fully smiles.
John looks betrayed by both of them.
Then he looks back at you, and something in his face gives. "I will be," he says.
It's not the truth, not completely. But it's not a lie either.
So you accept it for now.
The first time you met John Walker, he looked at you like kindness was a trap.
You remember that now, almost a year later, standing in the quiet of your apartment while he looks at you with that same stunned, careful expression.
Like you are something precious. Like you are something impossible. Like any second now, the world will laugh and tell him he misunderstood.
It's funny, in a strange, aching way, how clearly you remember that night. The smoke, the sirens, the blood on his boot. His hand in yours as he helped you away from the broken glass, hesitant despite the fact that he had thrown himself through gunfire without blinking.
"You didn't have to do that," he had told you then.
And you had told him, "Yes, I did."
You hadn't known it at the time, but that had been the beginning.
Not the dramatic kind, no music swelling, no lightning striking the pavement. No universe tilting on its axis with enough theatrical flair for Yelena to make fun of later.
It had simply been John Walker staring at you as if you had defended him in a language he didn't speak.
And maybe, somewhere deep in your chest, something had answered.
I can learn.
After that, you started seeing the team more often.
At first, it was accidental. That was what you told yourself, anyway.
You ran into Bucky at a coffee shop near the Avengers Tower, and he invited you to stop by because apparently "the others have been asking about the woman who yelled at a civilian with the energy of a tiny angry courthouse."
You had stared at him.
Bucky had sipped his coffee. "That was Ava's description," he added.
Ava denied it when you brought it up, but not convincingly.
Then one visit became two. Then two became you showing up with pastries and coffee because Alexei once said the compound coffee tasted like "sad water from government shoe."
Then you somehow became part of the rhythm of them.
You learned that Bob liked quiet corners and old cartoons.
You learned that Ava pretended not to care about dessert, then always took the last piece of whatever you brought.
You learned that Bucky had the emotional range of a locked drawer until someone trusted him enough to sit beside him in silence.
You learned that Yelena was, in fact, the human equivalent of a knife wearing lip gloss and a suspiciously soft heart under too many layers of sarcasm.
You learned that Alexei had no indoor voice, no conversational brakes, and once referred to you as "the civilian mascot of our morally complicated circus."
And John.
John became your favorite accident.
He was the one who waited by the elevator when you were leaving late. The one who remembered how you took your coffee after you mentioned it once. The one who stood closer to street side traffic when walking beside you, pretending it was just the natural direction his body had chosen.
The one who texted you after missions with the most painfully neutral messages imaginable.
Made it back.
Don't worry.
Team's fine.
And once, after three hours of radio silence that had made your stomach twist itself into a sailor's knot:
I am also fine. Since you asked Ava. And Bucky. And Bob.
You had typed back:
Maybe answer your phone next time, Walker.
He had replied:
Yes ma'am.
You had stared at those two words far too long.
Everyone noticed, of course they noticed.
You weren't subtle. You tried to be, but whatever dignity you possessed apparently packed a suitcase and fled the country whenever John walked into a room.
You smiled too quickly when he showed up. You watched him too closely when he thought no one was looking. You laughed at his terrible, dry jokes, even the ones that deserved no mercy.
Once, during dinner at the compound, John reached across the table to take the pepper shaker, and your entire brain went briefly silent when his sleeve pulled tight around his forearm.
Yelena, sitting across from you, had slowly lowered her fork.
"You are looking very respectfully," she said.
You choked on your water.
John blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," you said too quickly.
Yelena smiled with every tooth. "Yes. Nothing. The air is full of nothing. So much nothing staring at your arms."
Bucky coughed into his napkin.
Ava looked at the ceiling like she was begging it for strength.
John, somehow, looked down at his own arm in genuine confusion. "What's wrong with my arm?"
Yelena stared at him, then at you, then back at him. "My God," she said softly. "He is not pretending."
You kicked her under the table.
She kicked you back harder.
John only frowned. "Who?"
"No one," you said.
Yelena leaned toward him. "You are very brave in combat and very stupid in romance."
John's face went blank.
You nearly died on the spot.
"What romance?" he asked.
Yelena sat back, delighted and horrified. "This is going to be terrible. I love it."
And still, he didn't see it.
That was the part that hurt the most.
Not because John was careless. He wasn't. He noticed everything about you. If you were tired, he knew. If you were upset, he found a reason to linger. If you were quiet, he sat with you until quiet stopped feeling lonely.
But the idea that you could want him? That you could look at him and not see a warning sign?
That seemed to exist outside the borders of what John Walker allowed himself to imagine.
So you told yourself friendship was enough. You told yourself it was better that way. You told yourself you could survive being close to him without wanting to touch the soft, guarded place beneath all that armor.
It worked... mostly.
Until tonight.
Tonight, you had stayed late at the compound after what was supposed to be a quick visit. Yelena had dragged you into helping her taste test three different brands of frozen pierogi because she claimed "national security depends on knowing which one is least depressing."
Bob had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through a movie. Alexei had started telling a story about fighting a bear that changed details every seven minutes. Ava had vanished and reappeared twice, each time stealing more snacks.
John had sat beside you the whole night.
Not too close, never too close. But close enough that your knees brushed once, and he apologized like he had accidentally set fire to your coat.
By the time you finally stood to leave, the windows had gone black with late night rain.
"I'll walk you home," John said immediately.
You gave him a look. "John."
He was already reaching for his jacket. "It's late."
"I live three blocks away."
"Then it'll be a short walk."
"I have pepper spray."
"I've been pepper sprayed before."
"Why does that not surprise me?"
"It was training."
"Again. Not surprised."
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious.
So you let him, you always let him.
The city was slick and shining under the streetlights, rain turning the pavement into black glass. John walked beside you with his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He looked almost normal like this. No helmet, no shield. Just a man in a dark jacket walking you home because he worried.
For a few minutes, everything was peaceful.
Then a voice cut through the rain.
"Hey."
You felt John stiffen before you even looked.
A man stood near the entrance to your building, smoking beneath the awning. You recognized him vaguely. He lived somewhere on the second floor and had once complained to the super because someone's delivery boxes were "ruining the aesthetic of the lobby."
His eyes moved from you to John, then narrowed. "You okay?" he asked you.
The question itself might have been fine, the tone was not.
John's posture changed instantly. His shoulders squared. His expression flattened. His chin lifted in that awful, familiar way. The armor came back on.
"I'm fine," you said.
The man did not move. "You sure? You know who that is, right?"
John's jaw tightened.
You felt your temper rise. "He's my friend."
The man scoffed, eyes still fixed on John. "That's one word for it."
John's voice was measured when he spoke. "We're just heading inside."
"Oh, I bet you are."
Your stomach turned.
John took half a step back.
That hurt more than the man's words.
That tiny retreat. That silent decision that he would rather make himself smaller than give anyone another reason to hate him.
"Don't," you said.
John glanced at you. "It's fine."
It was always fine. He was always fine. Bleeding on his boot. Bruised under his ribs. Smiling like the knife did not go in.
Fine, fine, fine.
You were sick of that word.
The man snorted. "People like him don't change. You should be careful."
Something in you snapped clean in two.
"No," you said.
Both men looked at you.
You stepped closer to your neighbor, rain dripping down your hair, anger hot enough to burn through the chill.
"No, you don't get to do that."
His eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
"You don't get to stand outside my apartment and talk about him like he's some stray weapon I brought home by mistake."
John said your name softly. A warning... a plea.
You ignored it.
"You don't know him."
"I know enough."
"No, you know headlines. You know clips. You know whatever version of him lets you feel morally superior while you smoke under an awning and harass people at midnight."
The man's face flushed. "I'm making sure you're safe."
"No, you're not," you snapped. "You're making sure he knows there's nowhere he can go without someone reminding him they hate him."
John's hand brushed your arm. "Hey. It's okay."
You turned on him, furious now because he meant it. He really meant it. He had swallowed so much cruelty that he thought choking was normal.
"It is not okay."
John went silent.
The man gave a humorless laugh. "You're defending him pretty hard."
"Yes," you said. "I am."
"Why?"
The answer rose so fast it almost escaped whole.
"Because I lo…"
You stopped.
John froze.
The rain seemed to pause with him.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Because you had almost said it right there in the street. In front of a cruel man and wet concrete and John Walker's shattered disbelief.
Because I love him, you absolute idiot.
You swallowed hard.
"Because I care about him," you finished, voice shaking.
John stared at you.
The man looked between you both, suddenly less certain.
You stepped toward your building door and pulled out your keys with trembling hands.
"Move."
This time, he did.
John followed you inside without a word.
The lobby was too bright, too quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while rain tapped against the glass doors behind you.
You did not speak in the elevator. Neither did John.
But you could feel him beside you, tense and rattled, whatever careful distance he always kept between you both now charged with something dangerous and tender.
By the time you reached your apartment, your hands were shaking so badly you dropped your keys.
John bent down before you could, picked them up, and handed them back.
His fingers brushed yours.
You both stilled.
Then you unlocked the door and stepped inside.
John followed only as far as the entryway, of course he did.
Always careful. Always giving you room. Always standing at the edge like he had already decided he did not deserve a place inside.
You turned on a lamp, flooding the room in soft golden light. Your apartment looked painfully normal. A blanket half folded on the couch, a mug in the sink, a stack of books on the side table. The ordinary shape of your life, suddenly holding a confession by the throat.
John stood near the door, rain darkening his hair, his hands flexing once at his sides.
"You didn't have to do that," he said.
You almost laughed. It came out broken.
"There it is again."
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"The same thing you said the night we met."
His face shifted. He remembered, of course he remembered.
"You didn't," he said quietly.
You looked at him for a long moment.
At the exhaustion in his eyes. At the tension in his shoulders. At the man who could face down monsters, governments, gunfire, and gods, but could not survive being cared for without trying to apologize.
"I'm so tired of it," you whispered.
John's expression tightened. "Of what?"
"Everyone hating you."
His gaze dropped.
You stepped closer.
"And you letting them."
His eyes snapped back to yours. "I don't let them."
"Yes, you do."
His jaw worked. "You don't understand."
"I understand enough."
"No," he said, voice roughening. "You don't. You see what you want to see."
You stepped closer again.
"I see you."
He shook his head once, sharp and pained. "You see pieces."
"I see enough pieces to know they're not rot."
That made him go still.
His face went quiet in a way that made your chest ache. Then he laughed once, without humor. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why?"
"Because you're kind."
You blinked.
John looked away like the words cost him.
"You're kind," he repeated, quieter. "And you think that means there's something worth saving in everyone."
"There usually is."
"Not everyone."
"Yes, John. Everyone."
He swallowed hard, then looked at you with something raw in his eyes. "You don't know what it's like to be someone people are right to hate."
The room went silent.
Your anger softened. Softened into something fiercer.
You crossed the remaining space between you and grabbed both his hands.
John looked down, startled.
His hands were cold from the rain. Larger than yours. Rough with old calluses and fresh scrapes. You held them tightly before he could pull away.
"Look at me," you said.
He doesn't.
"John."
His eyes lifted.
There he was.
Not the soldier. Not the headline. Not the shield. Not the public wound everyone kept pressing their thumbs into.
Just John.
Terrified of wanting. Terrified of being wanted back.
You took a shaky breath.
"I need you to listen to me."
His voice was barely there. "Okay."
"I didn't fall for an idea of you."
His fingers twitched in your hands.
You kept going before fear could eat the words.
"I didn't fall for the version of you people argue about online. I didn't fall for the shield or the uniform or whatever the world decided you were supposed to represent."
His breathing changed.
"I fell for the man who waits until I'm inside before he leaves. The man who remembers how I take my coffee. The man who lets Bob have the last pastry even though he thinks no one notices. The man who checks Ava's corners without making her feel watched. The man who argues with Bucky like it's breathing but still trusts him with his life. The man who acts annoyed when Yelena teases him, but always listens when she gets quiet."
John looked wrecked. Beautifully, terribly wrecked.
"And I fell for the man who saved me almost a year ago and then looked shocked when I said thank you."
Your throat tightened.
"Somewhere along the way, I fell for you."
He stared at you. Not breathing, not moving.
You wondered, wildly, if you had broken him.
Then he whispered, "No."
It hit like a slap.
But before you could pull back, his hands tightened around yours.
"No," he said again, and this time you heard it.
Not rejection... fear.
His eyes shone with it.
"No, you don't."
Your mouth parted.
John shook his head, almost frantic now. "You don't. You can't. Not you."
"John."
"You're good," he said, voice cracking at the edges. "You're good in a way I don't even know how to stand near half the time."
Your heart twisted.
He tried to pull his hands away, but you held on.
"You look at me like I'm..." He stopped, throat working. "Like I'm not what I am."
"And what are you?"
His expression hardened, but only because it was the last shield he had left.
"Rot."
The word dropped between you. Ugly and heavy.
Something he had carved into himself long before tonight.
You stared at him.
Then your grip tightened.
"Shut up."
John blinked.
You stepped closer, almost chest to chest now.
"I mean it. Shut up."
His eyes widened slightly.
You could feel his breath against your face.
"You don't get to talk about the man I love that way."
The words were out. This time, you didn't stop them.
John's entire face changed. A crack through stone. A door blown open. A man standing in the ruins of his own disbelief.
"The man you..." he breathed.
"Yes," you said, voice trembling but clear. "The man I love. And he is stubborn and infuriating and has the self preservation instincts of a brick thrown at a tank, but he is not rot."
John's hands turned under yours, slowly, until his fingers curled around yours properly.
Like he needed to hold onto something. Like he needed proof you were still there.
"You don't have to fix me," he whispered.
"I'm not trying to fix you."
"Then what are you doing?"
You looked at his mouth.
Then back to his eyes.
"I'm going to kiss you now."
John went perfectly still. The silence that followed was not empty. It was alive, a wire pulled tight between you.
His voice came out low and shaken. "You don't have to."
You nearly smiled. "There you go again."
His mouth parted, maybe to apologize, maybe to argue, maybe to give you one last exit he clearly did not want you to take.
You didn't let him. You rose onto your toes and kissed him.
For one impossible second, he didn't move.
His lips were warm and still under yours, his whole body held in that careful, aching restraint he used around anything he thought he could damage.
Then he made a sound. Small, broken, wondering. And kissed you back.
Not hard at first.
Tender.
So tender it nearly undid you.
His hands loosened from yours only so he could touch you with careful reverence, one palm finding your waist, the other hovering near your face before his knuckles brushed your cheek. Like he was asking permission with every breath. Like he was afraid the wrong move would wake him.
You answered by leaning into him.
That was all it took.
John's restraint fractured.
He stepped closer, backing you gently into the wall beside the entryway, one hand sliding to the side of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. The kiss deepened, slow and hungry and aching with everything neither of you had been brave enough to say.
Months of almosts bloomed at once.
Almost touching his hand during movies. Almost leaning into his shoulder during late-night rides. Almost telling him to stay when he walked you home. Almost saying I love you in the rain.
Now there was no almost.
There was John's mouth moving against yours like he had been starving quietly for so long he forgot hunger could end.
There was your hand fisting in the front of his jacket, pulling him closer because space suddenly felt insulting.
There was the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin, the warmth of him pressing you into the wall, the trembling inhale he took when your fingers slid into his damp hair.
He kissed you like he was trying to be careful. He kissed you like careful was losing.
Your other hand found his chest, right over the frantic beat of his heart.
John broke the kiss first, but barely.
His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was uneven. His hand still cradled your face as if he had forgotten how to let go.
"I'm scared," he admitted.
The honesty of it was almost more intimate than the kiss.
You opened your eyes.
"So am I."
His thumb moved once against your cheek.
"You shouldn't be with someone like me."
You kissed him again.
Shorter this time, but no less fierce.
When you pulled back, his eyes were closed.
"Stop deciding what I should want," you whispered.
His lashes lifted.
You held his gaze.
"I know who I love."
John looked at you for a long time.
Then something in him gave, not breaking, not collapsing, just surrendering the fight he had been losing anyway.
He leaned down and kissed you again.
This time, he didn't hesitate. This time, he let himself want.
And you felt it in the way his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close enough that your feet nearly left the floor. You felt it in the way he exhaled against your mouth, like your name was trapped somewhere inside his chest. You felt it in the way he kissed you with tenderness sharpened by need, with disbelief slowly melting into something warmer.
Something dangerous.
Something alive.
When you finally part, the rain is still tapping at the windows.
The city still hates him. The world still has its teeth out.
But John Walker stands in your apartment with his hands on your waist and wonder in his eyes, and for the first time since you have known him, he looks like he might actually believe he's allowed to keep something good.
You brush your thumb along his jaw.
"Hi," you whisper, because apparently your brain has abandoned you completely.
John lets out a quiet, breathless laugh.
"Hi."
Then his smile fades into something softer. Something almost too fragile to look at directly. His hand comes up slowly, knuckles grazing your cheek. He touches you like he is still checking that you are real.
"You really love me?" he asks.
Your chest aches.
You kiss the corner of his mouth.
"Yes."
His eyes close.
The word lands somewhere deep in him. You can see it in the way his throat works. The way his shoulders drop by the smallest fraction, like he has been carrying a weight so long he forgot what it felt like to loosen his grip.
Then he pulls you into his arms. Careful and shaking, holding you like he is afraid to believe too loudly.
You wrap your arms around him without hesitation, pressing your cheek against his chest. His heart is beating fast under your ear, wild and human and painfully alive.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Then John lowers his face to your hair.
"I don't know how to do this," he admits, voice rough.
You close your eyes. "Do what?"
"This." His arms tighten around you. "Be loved by you."
Your breath catches.
John pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's no armor left in his face now. No practiced smile, no hollow bravado. Just him, raw and terrified and trying so hard not to run from the thing he wants most.
"But I'll try," he says. "Every day. I swear to God, I'll work every day to be the man you deserve."
Something inside you breaks open from the ache of him still thinking love is a finish line he has to bleed toward.
You lift both hands to his face, holding him there before he can look away.
"John."
His eyes search yours.
You shake your head, gentle but firm.
"You already are."
He goes still.
You feel the words reach him slowly, like sunlight finding a locked room.
His lips part, but nothing comes out.
So you say it again.
"You already are the man I deserve."
His face twists for half a second, overwhelmed by it, by you, by the impossible mercy of being chosen without having to beg the world for permission first.
Then he kisses you again. Tender and deep, full of the kind of want that has stopped apologizing for existing. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, and you rise into him easily, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
He kisses you like he is learning a new language.
Like your mouth is teaching him the word stay. Like maybe, just maybe, he can.
John holds you in the soft light of your apartment, breathing like someone who has finally reached shore.
And when he presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, voice barely above a whisper, he says, "I don't deserve you."
You smile against his mouth.
"Yes, you do."
This time, he doesn't argue, he only pulls you closer. Like a promise. Like the first safe place he had not had to earn.
